Cruel, because he hadn’t even noticed back then. Cruel, because Xu Jinli had wanted, desperately, stupidly even, in every glance and every late-night laugh, but Li Zhen chose to belong to someone else. Cruel, because he never rejected the bond extended towards him, even knowing it could never be returned.

And yet, after all these years, Li Zhen looked at him with that same steady gaze, as if nothing had happened, as if Xu Jinli’s wanting had never carved scars into his ribs. And of course, the forum post. He’d read the entire thing despite himself, lines of anonymous speculation that made his chest twist. He could almost hear the whispers again: Omega troublemaker… scandal waiting to happen… drag someone else down again. Xu Jinli's jaw tightened, his guilt coiling sharply. If he wasn’t careful, Li Zhen would get pulled into it, the way he had before.

His hand drifted to the collar at his throat, fingers twitching like he could press the ache back down.

If Li Zhen asked what was wrong again, Xu Jinli thought, he would laugh. He would smirk even. He would bury it. Because putting on a mask was easier than letting the ache show.

Cruel… but not malicious.

Just careless.

And that was the worst part.

The spotlight swung back, and Li Zhen’s gaze was as steady as ever, untouched by the storm unraveling beneath the surface. However, some words were still caught in his chest, unspoken. Something hovered between them, delicate as spun glass. If he reached for it, it would shatter, but if he ignored it, it might vanish forever. He noticed the tremor, the way Xu Jinli’s grip seemed almost protective of that collar around his neck, but to him, it looked like fatigue, or maybe nerves.

Maybe even illness.

He wanted to ask, Senior, why are you so pale? Really, what's wrong with your pheromones? Why is your hand lingering on that collar like it's a shield?

But the questions stuck in his throat. He didn’t know how to ask, nor did he even know what he wanted to hear. Li Zhen opened his mouth a couple of times, but the words just wouldn’t line up, stumbling before they reached his tongue. He thought to ask something else, something, anything really, even if it was just: "Do you still drink that awful licorice tea?", or "Why are you looking at me like that?"

But each possible question collapsed under its own weight, leaving him silent.

Xu Jinli smiled faintly, as if he’d already read the unspoken questions and chosen to let them die. The quiet wrapped tighter. It might have deepened, or it might have opened into something neither of them was ready to admit, but before they could speak, the door banged open. A pair of underclassmen stuck their heads in, chattering about rehearsal schedules and whether “Teacher Xu” could look over their performance.

And just like that, the spell broke.

Xu Jinli was back on his feet in a blink. The shift was almost violent as his shoulders squared, his voice lifting into that light cadence that turned everything into a joke, smile back in place as if nothing had been peeled away at all. “Of course,” he said, velvet smooth, already turning toward them, every trace of vulnerability folded away.

"Heavens," he continued, "you two won't let me rest even on the weekend, wouldn't you? Show me what you’ve done before I scold you for crimes against the stage.”

The students giggled, flustered and delighted by his easy charm. One of them scrambled into position at the center of the room, the other tossing out lines with exaggerated gestures. Xu Jinli circled them like a conductor, snapping his fingers, adjusting their stances, laughing when they stumbled. His voice filled every corner of the space, warm and intoxicating, as if the quiet of before had been nothing but a dream.

But Li Zhen didn’t move.

He stood in the shadow by the door, watching the transformation with a heaviness that pressed low in his chest. A moment ago, he’d seen a man stripped bare, trembling on the edge of something fragile. Now, all of that had vanished, smothered beneath the glow of his skin and the laughter on his lips, the flawless mask he wore as easily as breathing back in place.

The students couldn’t see the crack because there was no crack to be seen. Xu Jinli was too good at it. His smirk was precise, his eyes painted with light even when the windows had gone dim. It should have been reassuring. Instead, it unsettled Li Zhen more than the silence ever had.

The man in front of him was brilliant, magnetic, and untouchable, everything the world adored.

But Li Zhen couldn’t forget the faint twitch of fingers at his collar, or the way his voice had cracked when he laughed alone. So he lingered a beat longer, unable to shake the sense that he was watching someone sink deeper and deeper, with a smile on their lips.

And when Xu Jinli glanced up mid-instruction, their gazes crossed. Just for a heartbeat, just long enough for Li Zhen to wonder if he’d imagined everything before.

Then Xu Jinli winked at him, quipped another line towards his students, and the moment was gone.

Li Zhen’s hands flexed at his sides, his jaw tightening. He watched him a beat longer, but the mask was flawless again, with no crack left to find.

So he turned and walked out first, the unspoken questions rotting in his chest.

………………..

That night, the studio lights turned everything gold. Dust swirled in the beams, rising like mist every time the chisel struck. Li Zhen dragged his hand across the marble, leaving streaks of gray against his skin. Finally, he stepped back to look at what he’d made.

Half a face. Half a body. Half something he didn’t dare name.

When his grip slipped, the old cut at the base of his thumb tore open again, a bright smear of red staining the pale dust. It marked the marble like a wound, as if his own body insisted on merging itself into the piece. However, he pressed harder, his jaw tight, but every strike only deepened lines that curved toward a shape he wasn’t ready to see...

...The curve of a lip, the bend of a throat, the beginnings of a posture that was neither the mask nor the truth, but something in between. The stone stood unfinished, yet unbearably present, as though waiting for him to admit what he was shaping.

Once again, he told himself it was only a slab of stone.

Only dust.

But the longer he stared, the more it looked like Xu Jinli: caught between performance and vulnerability, just a question carved into marble that had no answer.

And for the first time in years, Li Zhen didn’t know whether he wanted to finish the piece… or smash it to dust completely. Not just the familiar features that found their way into his stone uninvited, but the entire thing, as if he never picked up the chisel to begin with. At one point, he even lifted the hammer too high, the instinct to bring it down with force coiling tight in his muscles. It would’ve been so easy, just one blow, and the half-formed face would scatter into unrecognizable fragments.

But his arm refused to strike.

Instead, the chisel trembled, then dropped uselessly to his side, thudding against the stone floor. His chest heaved once, sharp and uneven, as dust rose in a soft cloud, coating the air. And in it, he almost thought he saw a silhouette, flimsy and laughing, slipping through his fingers once more.

The silence rushed back in as soon as the tool hit the floor. Only his own breath filled the room, ragged and too loud against the steady hush of the campus night. Li Zhen's shoulders ached, his palms throbbed, and his thumb pulsed with every heartbeat, a reminder that even his body was ready to betray him. He could no longer remember how many times he had swiped his blood absently on the work apron, but it smeared, leaving a dull stain against the gray dust. In the end, the streak almost looked deliberate, like it belonged to a spoiled muse asking for a sacrifice.

Li Zhen could only lean his forehead against the cool stone surface of the workbench, the grit pressing faintly into his skin. Up this close, the unfinished figure seemed to breathe alongside him, its half-formed lips whispering back every thought he couldn’t voice. Once more, he told himself it was an illusion, that it was only his own reflection in the polished ridges, only his exhaustion talking.

But still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the stone was watching him in return, quietly waiting, demanding he admit what he had carved into it.

Startled, Li Zhen pulled back sharply, dragging in a mouthful of cold air. However, the outline of the throat and shoulder still caught his eye. Not Li Zhen’s, not the marble’s, but someone else’s.

Someone who laughed too loudly, who painted his eyes like he was going to war, who sat at pianos without playing, who smiled even when his hands trembled.

The hammer felt heavy again in his palm as his breath hitched. One strike would erase it, free him from the question he didn’t want to answer. And yet, his grip loosened until the hammer also slid from his hand entirely, rolling across the dusty floor with a hollow clatter.

And just like that, the half-finished face remained, pale and unyielding, suspended between mask and truth.

Li Zhen buried himself in the chair in front of it, dust rising around him like cigarette smoke. He rubbed at his temples, but the vision stayed: Xu Jinli, unguarded, fleeting, pressed into the marble whether he wanted it or not. With a sudden, restless movement, he rose and yanked the sheet back over the sculpture, as if smothering it could erase what his hands had already admitted. The white fabric clung to the shape beneath, softening it into anonymity, though Li Zhen could still see the faint curve of a smile pressing against the cloth. He turned away quickly, jaw set, as if refusing to acknowledge even that, but the curtain finally dropped in his chest. All that lingered was stone, dust, and a name he wouldn’t admit.

In the end, Li Zhen whispered only once, the word lost even to the echo of his studio:

“Cruel.”

Outside, the campus had gone still. It was as if the spotlight had gone dark after the first act, leaving only silence in its wake.