weightless | idol producer

Chapter 7

Linong's eyes were soft as they met Yanjun's intense ones, Yanjun's chest against Linong's and Linong's back against the wall. At first, his hands were light as they grabbed Yanjun's wrists, hovering with confusion. It didn't take him long to realize Yanjun wasn't just playing around; his hands were too tight in clutching Linong's sweater, his eyes too unforgiving as they bore straight through him.

"Dude, what are you doing?" Linong asked, his hands forgetting their previous hesitation and attempting to unlatch Yanjun's hold on him. The younger boy, though he looked weak, exerted a force that made Yanjun grit his teeth and tighten his hold, pushing forward. Linong's back hit the wall again.

"Yanjun!" He felt a push to his side and didn't need to glance over to know it was Zhangjing. His voice was interlaced with a worry that only hardened Yanjun's resolve; he marveled at how he could be so sympathetic for the boy who could so casually pressure him into not eating. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Stay out of this," he muttered to the side without breaking eye contact with the boy in front of him. "Take that back," he seethed, bringing his face close to Linong's in intimidation.

"Take what back? And get off me!" The fabric covering Yanjun's chest twisted as Linong grabbed him in response. Linong's eyes steeled, the sunshine boy succumbing to a rare anger at the violence. "When Zhangjing called you temperamental, I didn't realize you'd react so stupidly to jealousy."

There was a pregnant pause, heavy as Linong bit his lip in regret immediately, as an almost imperceptible gasp escaped through Zhangjing's lips.

The pause was broken, shattered by brute force by a boy, so overextended and so insecure. Yanjun was a brewing storm, fueled by guilt and jealousy and, yes, fueled by love to an extent. Linong's words were like lightning and he followed it naturally with thunder.

A sound resounded as Yanjun's fist, acting without thought, made contact with Linong's jaw. The aftereffects of his actions, fragile in foundation but destructive in manifestation, froze him to the spot as he watched Linong stumble to the side, clutching his face. It was a blur as he saw Ziyi, called over by Zhangjing's shouts for assistance, help him up and out of sight, already explaining how he had the appropriate ointment to apply.

He wasn't sure how he ended up with Zhangjing as his only company in an empty practice room, though it was filled to the brim with a certain senseless electricity emanating from the older of the two. Yanjun stared blankly at his fist, white at the knuckles from refusing to unfurl. He stared at the hand around his wrist, holding him so tightly he could feel the imprints of Zhangjing's blunt nails, as if Zhangjing was trying to channel all of his emotions into a single circumference of contact, and concluded that must have been how they ended up in one place together. He stared as the hand let go of him (though he had already concluded that a painful touch was preferred over no touch at all and direly wished the hand would return to anchor him down in a body that felt like it was currently floating away), stared at the red crescents running the side of his forearm, and looked up to stare at Zhangjing.

He wished he hadn't.

Yanjun had already expected the disappointment and anger he found staring back at him. He definitely didn't expect concern, furrowed into the grooves etched into his face, tangible in a single tear that rebelliously fell from red eyes. Zhangjing looked down quickly, wiping it away, as if a tear that left no trace never happened at all.

His heart stuttered and, for the umpteenth time that day, Yanjun's brain continued on autopilot.

"If you wanted to get me alone in a room with you, all you had to do was ask," his mouth blabbered without permission. Yanjun internally groaned, and externally slapped himself on the forehead. "I didn't mean that."