APR 17

Zhong Su and Chen Huan had established three rules: they would only provide mutual comfort, and if either felt uncomfortable, they would stop immediately.

But this agreement held no real meaning for them.

At first, Zhong Su exercised some restraint, rejecting Chen Huan’s advances several times. When Chen Huan approached him during the day with warm breath and a teasing smile asking, “Want to do it now?” Zhong Su would immediately turn away and say, “We’ll do it at night.” When Chen Huan’s fingers deliberately brushed against his back, he would shrink his shoulders as if scalded and evade the touch.

Yet the room was too small, so small that turning around would bring them into contact, so small that every breath carried the other’s scent, the faint fragrance of laundry detergent, a hint of sweat, and something deeper, more restless.

Both in their twenties, desire overwhelmed everything. When constantly aware of each other’s warmth and presence in such close quarters, maintaining rationality became a luxury.

Whenever their eyes met, even a simple lick of the lips or the touch of fingertips was enough to stir passion and lead to another entanglement.

Like beasts finally released from iron cages, they became addicted to the taste and began mingling almost indiscriminately, regardless of time or place.

Through this process, Zhong Su gradually grew familiar with Chen Huan’s touch. Even in pitch-black nights, he could discern the strength of Chen Huan’s grip on his waist and the thin calluses on his fingertips.

He felt himself being silently changed by Chen Huan, desire not subsiding but instead growing like a thirsty person drinking seawater: the more he drank, the thirstier he became.

Every time he looked at Chen Huan, he couldn’t help but recall the other’s breath against his ear, those deep, gleaming feline-like eyes, and the hoarse whispers of “Su Er,” causing an itch that seeped deep into his bones.

It was as if he, too, had become fascinated by Chen Huan’s touch.

—This was a feeling that shouldn’t exist, but he didn’t want to dwell on how absurd it was.

Peaceful days passed quickly, and soon it was September. During the transition between summer and autumn, rainstorms came one after another, often lasting the entire day.

The excessive rainfall not only hindered Zhong Su and Chen Huan from going out for supplies but also interfered with the television signal.

Today was another heavy rainstorm. Though it was still afternoon, the thick layers of dark clouds blocked all sunlight, making the sky as dark as dusk.

None of the TV dramas Zhong Su had been following would play; the screen showed only flickering static.

“As soon as it rains, the signal gets this bad. Changing the antenna doesn’t help at all,” Zhong Su grumbled irritably, tossing the remote aside and giving up on changing channels.

He pulled out the videotapes rented from the video store the previous week, crouched in front of the VCR, and asked, “Chen Huan, we have two movies we haven’t seen, ‘Air Rescue’ and ‘The Hacker.’ Which one do you want to watch?”

“Either is fine, I’m not picky. Just put one in and come sit down,” Chen Huan replied, having no particular preference for movies and viewing them merely as a way to pass the time.

“Being idle is too boring; might as well watch something exciting,” Zhong Su muttered to himself. He flipped the two tapes over and read the summaries on the back.

Choosing the one labeled “intense gunfights”—’Air Rescue’—he shoved it into the VCR.

Zhong Su returned to Chen Huan’s side and sat down, saying enthusiastically, “Alright, I hope this one will be more interesting than the last one we watched. Otherwise, it’ll be another two hours wasted.”

The tape in the VCR began to spin, the television’s static flickered briefly, and the screen cleared: first appearing was a snow-white passenger plane, its massive fuselage slowly descending onto the airport. Immediately after, the tough-guy male lead, carrying a suitcase, strode boldly up the boarding bridge. He removed his sunglasses, revealing a handsome and charming Western face, took a few steps toward the flight attendant, and seemingly casually handed over his ticket while inquiring about flight information. Under this pretext, he struck up a conversation with the radiantly beautiful flight attendant in just a few words.

Zhong Su watched the movie with rapt attention, and as he did, he unconsciously relaxed backward, his shoulder lightly brushing against Chen Huan’s arm.

Chen Huan felt it, lowered his gaze, glanced over the crown of Zhong Su’s head, but said nothing.

The two watched the screen quietly, the living room momentarily filled only with the dull thud of raindrops hitting the roof and the occasional sounds of fighting from the television.

The story of Air Rescue was simple: it revolved around a group of terrorists who planted a bomb on a passenger plane, attempting to hijack it to threaten the government into releasing their organization’s leader.

But coincidentally, the protagonist, a former FBI agent, happened to be on that very flight. After a series of thrilling intellectual battles, hand-to-hand combat, and even piloting the plane at the end, the male lead successfully subdued all the terrorists, made an emergency landing, ensured everyone survived, and as a hero, got the girl, finding love with one of the flight attendants.

As the crowd in the film cheered and applauded the male lead’s successful bomb disposal, Zhong Su, who had been sitting stiffly, stretched lazily and commented with a hint of lingering interest, “The movie was alright, but the ending felt too rushed, they didn’t even blow up the plane in a big spectacle. What a waste of my anticipation.”

Chen Huan, propping his chin on his hand, looked at him and asked, “Su Er, you enjoy watching those kinds of disaster scenes?”

“Yeah, I find them pretty interesting,” Zhong Su replied offhandedly.

He watched as the blond, blue-eyed male and female leads on screen, having survived the ordeal, clung tightly to each other and kissed passionately. Suddenly, he shuddered as Chen Huan had slipped his hand under his T-shirt.