Midnight Chaos
[📘 Content Warning:
This story contains Boys’ Love (BL) themes. Reader discretion is advised. Please read the disclaimers mentioned in the Instagram post.]
Getting Zhan out of the small bar was a mission in itself.
The moment they stepped outside, Yibo realized just how out of it Zhan really was.
The man could barely stand straight—he was wobbling like a kid trying to walk on a trampoline.
Yibo slung Zhan’s backpack over his shoulder and let out a resigned sigh.
Zhan had wandered a few feet ahead, walking in a crooked line along the pavement, humming some odd tune that didn’t seem to have any melody.
He paused every now and then to point at a streetlight or mumble something about how shiny the buildings were.
Yibo followed a few steps behind, both hands shoved into his pockets, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
The night was warm, the kind that wrapped around you like a loose blanket.
The pavement glistened slightly from an earlier drizzle, reflecting the orange streetlights and flickering neon signs of noodle shops and corner stores.
Zhan suddenly spun around, nearly tripping over his own foot.
“Yibo.”
He said, voice slurred and dramatic
“You didn’t tell me it’s your birthday.”
He pouted.
“I feel so bad. I didn’t even get you a gift.”
Yibo blinked and then chuckled.
“It’s okay, Zhan-ge. Really.”
But Zhan wasn’t done.
He staggered up to him and suddenly threw his arms around Yibo in a tight hug.
“Happy Birthday Yibo…”
He mumbled into his shoulder.
Yibo froze.
Since the day they started talking, they hadn’t even gotten close to a hug.
A handshake, sure.
A playful nudge here and there.
But this? This was new.
And intense.
Yibo’s arms hovered in the air for a second before he gently returned the hug, patting Zhan’s back softly.
Zhan pulled back, only slightly, and started talking about everything and nothing—
How good the streetlight looked, how smooth his own voice sounded, how he once thought about shaving his head in high school.
Yibo stayed close, watching him with a mixture of amusement and concern.
Every time Zhan stumbled, Yibo caught him by the elbow or grabbed his hand to steady him.
“Careful ge…”
Yibo murmured as Zhan nearly tripped on a crack in the pavement.
Zhan turned and grinned, eyes glassy.
“Why should I be scared of falling when you’re here?”
Yibo blinked.
The words hit him harder than they should have.
He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but Zhan had already gone back to talking to a lamp post.
Zhan made a very serious face and pointed at it.
“Excuse me, miss…”
He said solemnly, swaying a little.
“You shouldn’t be standing out here like this in the middle of the night. It’s not safe. Do you need help getting home?”
Yibo stared, then slowly dragged a hand down his face.
He walked up, took Zhan’s arm, and muttered.
“Zhan-ge… it’s a lamp post. Not a girl.”
Zhan blinked, then looked again.
“…Oh. Ohhh. Sorry. I’m so sorry, miss… I mean, pole. I mean… light lady…”
He bowed awkwardly.
“My bad.”
Yibo shook his head, lips twitching.
“I’m gonna need backup for this night.”
A few blocks later, disaster struck.
They passed a small roadside flower vendor who was spraying down the pavement with a hose.
A sudden twist of the hose sent a rogue stream of water straight into Zhan’s side.
Zhan yelped.
“Whoa—cold!”
He cried out, spinning around in confusion as the water soaked his shirt and trickled down his back.
His white t-shirt clung to him immediately, going translucent under his open over-shirt.
“Yibo! I’ve been attacked, help… help…!”
Yibo groaned and slapped a hand over his face.
“Seriously?!”
The flower vendor muttered a quick apology, but Zhan just stood there dramatically, arms out like a soggy scarecrow.
Yibo walked up and grabbed his arm.
“Alright, my soaked scarecrow, let’s get you home before you try to swim in a puddle.”
Zhan winked and giggled.
“You’re so bossy when I’m wet.”
“I swear ge, if you remember this line tomorrow, I’m blocking your number!”
Yibo muttered.
With some effort, he managed to drag Zhan to his apartment building.
Unlocking the door with one hand while holding onto a dripping, wobbling Zhan was no small task.
But he managed.
Inside, the place was quiet, dimly lit by the small entry light.
Yibo guided Zhan straight to his bedroom, ignoring the fact that the man was leaving a trail of wet footprints and humming the theme song of some 90s cartoon.
“Bed. Now.”
Yibo said firmly, trying not to laugh.
Zhan flopped onto the bed like a dramatic actor in a low-budget movie.
“Yiboooo”
He whispered, lying face-up with his arms stretched like a starfish.
“You’re my hero.”
Yibo rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, yeah. Try saying that when you’re sober.”
He grabbed a towel and tossed it onto Zhan’s chest.
“At least dry off before you ruin my bed.”
Zhan made no effort.
He just giggled and muttered something about clouds and destiny.
Yibo sat down at the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair and watching the soggy mess that was currently Zhan.
Zhan blinked lazily at Yibo through half-lidded eyes, his wet hair flopping onto his forehead.
“Yibo…”
He mumbled, swaying a little on the bed.
“You know I like you so much, right?”
Yibo paused, halfway through pulling off his own damp hoodie, and glanced at him.
“…That’s the alcohol talking, Zhan-ge.”
But Zhan shook his head, his eyes suddenly a little too sincere, a little too clear.
“No, it’s not. I mean… maybe it helped. But I swear, I didn’t feel like this for anyone else.”
He leaned forward, voice soft, almost childlike.
“If I don’t see you for a day, or talk to you, I feel really bad. Like something’s missing. Terribly.”
Yibo stilled.
His breath caught for half a second.
That hit too close.
Zhan’s words were stumbling, slurred, but they were real.
Unfiltered.
A glimpse straight into his heart, whether he realized it or not.
Yibo’s lips curved into the gentlest smile.
“I know, Zhan-ge.”
He said quietly.
“I feel the same.”
But Zhan had already lost track of the conversation.
He was now humming under his breath again, eyes drooping.
Yibo gave a low chuckle, ruffling his own hair.
“Whom am I even talking to right now?”
“Your shirt and tee are soaked, ge. You’re gonna catch a fever if you sleep like this.”
Yibo crouched beside the bed, eyeing the soggy fabric clinging to Zhan’s torso.
“I’m gonna help you change, okay? I’ll get you something dry.”
Zhan just gave a sleepy thumbs-up, then tried to salute and nearly poked himself in the eye.
Yibo got up and walked to the wardrobe, pulling out an oversized gray T-shirt.
Then—he heard it.
A faint, familiar gagging sound behind him.
He froze, eyes wide, then whipped around.
“Oh crap—!”
Zhan was hunched forward, mouth open, eyes squinted in discomfort.
Yibo bolted to his desk, grabbed the dustbin, and rushed to him, kneeling in front like a pro.
“Here—quick!”
But Zhan just dry-heaved once… and stopped.
“…You’re kidding me.”
Yibo muttered, chest heaving from the panic.
Zhan blinked at him slowly and giggled.
“False alarm.”
Yibo tilted his head, looked up at him, and let out a short, exasperated laugh.
“Seriously? Zhan-ge, just sleep.”
He set the bin aside and, with practiced patience, started peeling off Zhan’s soaked button-up shirt, then the clingy tee beneath.
The cotton stuck to his skin, and for a moment, Yibo was too focused on not tearing the fabric.
But then—he saw it.
Zhan’s chest.
His eyes paused at the lines of Zhan’s sculpted collarbones, the curve of his shoulders, the faint trail leading down from his chest.
His biceps flexed slightly as he adjusted his posture.
Damp skin, still flushed from the alcohol, glistened faintly under the bedroom light.
Yibo stared.
Just for a second too long.
Then blinked hard, shook his head, and muttered to himself.
“Nope. No, no.”
He tossed the wet clothes on the chair and turned to grab the dry tee—
Only to find Zhan had already slumped sideways onto the bed, half-asleep and completely shirtless, one arm draped over his eyes.
“God.”
Yibo mumbled, unable to stop the fond smile curling at his lips.
He walked over, gently lifted Zhan’s legs and swung them properly onto the bed, then covered him with a soft blanket.
Zhan mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “yibooo…” and snuggled into the pillow.
Yibo stood there for a second, just watching him.
His chest finally loosened with a sigh.
“…Finally.”
The chaos was over.
For now.
Yibo turned without another word, grabbed his towel from the chair, and walked into the bathroom to freshen up and change.
————————————–
Yibo jolted awake with a low gasp, chest rising sharply as if he’d surfaced from a bad dream.
His heart thudded against his ribs for a few long seconds as he stared up at the slow, rhythmic spin of the ceiling fan above.
The hum of it filled the room in a soft whir, and gradually, the tension in his shoulders eased.
He turned his head.
Zhan was still asleep—face buried into the pillow, one arm dangling off the edge, the blanket kicked halfway down his back.
He was lying on his stomach, snoring faintly, the early morning light from the window casting soft shadows across his bare shoulder blades.
Peaceful. Oblivious.
Yibo stared at him for a long, unmoving moment.
His expression unreadable—something between fondness and disbelief.
Then he exhaled silently, sat up slowly, careful not to disturb him, and reached for his phone.
6:15 a.m.
“Shit!”
He muttered under his breath.
If they didn’t leave soon, they’d both miss their usual metro to Deqing.
Grabbing a towel from the back of the chair, he disappeared into the bathroom.
Fifteen minutes later, he stepped out again, steam billowing behind him.
Hair damp and clinging to his forehead, skin flushed warm from the shower, and a towel lazily knotted around his waist.
He ran a hand through his wet hair, flicking some water to the floor as he looked at the clock.
6:30 a.m.
Zhan hadn’t moved an inch.
Yibo walked over to the bed and knelt down next to it.
He reached out and gently shook Zhan’s arm.
“Zhan-ge… hey. Wake up. You’re gonna be late.”
No response.
“Zhan-ge…”
He said again, this time giving his shoulder a little push.
“C’mon, man.”
Zhan groaned and blinked, looking vaguely toward Yibo, pupils sluggish with sleep and confusion.
His hair was a fluffy disaster, sticking up at weird angles, and his voice was thick when he mumbled,
“Mm… morning?”
“Good morning.”
Yibo said with a small smirk, already walking back to the wardrobe to grab clothes.
“Still hungover?”
Zhan squinted, slowly pushing himself up.
The moment he sat upright, his hand flew to his temple.
“Oh god. My head’s gonna explode.”
Then—he looked down.
His eyes widened.
“Wait—wait what the—why am I shirtless?! Where the hell is my shirt?! What happened?!”
Yibo turned once, looked at Zhan for a brief second, then turned back again.
“Calm down, drama queen.”
He said, pulling out a T-shirt and jeans.
“You got wet last night, remember? I took off your soaked shirt before I could give you a new one—you passed out like a log. I wasn’t about to wrestle a tee onto a dead man.”
Zhan looked around, spotted his T-shirt hanging from the back of the chair, and practically dove for it.
“Shit. I probably looked insane.”
“Correction: you were insane.”
Yibo said, finally turning to face him with a smug look.
“But also kinda adorable. In a chaotic, unhinged sort of way.”
Zhan yanked on the T-shirt.
“Don’t. Just… don’t.”
Yibo raised an eyebrow, grinning.
“Do you remember anything from last night?”
Zhan groaned and rubbed his temples again.
“No man… just bits and pieces. What did I do? Tell me the truth. Did I… break any traffic rules? Did I punch someone? God—did I try to fight a vending machine?!”
Yibo chuckled, slipping on his jeans.
“You didn’t fight anything. You were a good boy.”
Zhan narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not. You just talked a lot. Like, really a lot.”
Zhan flopped back onto the bed, arm over his eyes.
“Ugh. Ma is gonna kill me. What time is it?”
“Almost 7. You want me to drop you home?”
Zhan sat back up, groaning.
“No, you go to college. I’ll take the metro. Let’s see—if I survive this hangover, maybe I’ll come back in the afternoon and open the bookstore.”
Yibo threw on a clean black tee and ruffled his wet hair with a towel.
“I told you not to try things you’re not used to.”
He said, mock-scolding.
Zhan shuffled to the bathroom, mumbled.
“I hate you.”
And washed his face with cold water.
When he came back out, a towel hanging around his neck, he looked marginally more human.
“I’m going home before my mom files a missing person report.”
Yibo grabbed his bag.
“Come on. Let’s go together.”
They walked quietly to the station, the early morning haze stretching across the city.
The streets were still waking up—shop shutters creaking open, vendors setting up, a few scooters buzzing past.
At the platform, they stood on opposite sides—Yibo on the line to Deqing, Zhan on the one heading back toward Hangzhou.
Zhan stood slightly hunched, blinking at the overhead display as if it were mocking his headache.
Yibo kept glancing over at him, watching how he occasionally rubbed his forehead or leaned against the pillar with a groan.
A minute later, Zhan’s train pulled into the station.
The brakes hissed as the doors slid open.
Zhan looked at Yibo and gave him a small wave, followed by a vague thumb-up.
“I’ll call you.”
He mouthed.
Yibo nodded.
Zhan grinned weakly, stepped inside, and disappeared behind the glass.
Yibo watched as the train pulled away, standing there for a long second, eyes fixed on the direction it vanished into.
“He doesn’t remember anything.”
Yibo muttered, half-smiling.
He sighed, long and low.
———————————————
Zhan reached home with dragging feet and a dull throb pulsing behind his eyes.
The house was quiet— Xiao Guoqiang had already left for the office, and Yue was off to college.
Only Liu Fang remained.
The moment he stepped through the door, her voice rang out from the kitchen.
“Zhan! Do you even know what time it is?”
He winced at the sharp tone and squinted one eye, barely lifting his head.
“Ma, please. My head is splitting open, and even my bones feel like they’re protesting. Let me sleep for a bit—you can yell at me all you want later. Just give me an aspirin or something. Please.”
He didn’t wait for a reply.
He stumbled toward his room and flopped onto the bed face-first.
Liu Fang sighed but followed him a minute later with a glass of water and a tablet.
She stood by the bed, arms crossed, watching him groan as he took the medicine.
“Just sleep. I’ll have lunch ready when you wake up.”
She muttered, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead before walking out.
Zhan was asleep within seconds.
When he opened his eyes again, warm sunlight streamed in through the curtain slits.
He squinted at the clock. 12:02 p.m.
His head felt clearer now, the pounding dulled to a faint hum.
He grabbed his phone from the nightstand—two missed calls from Yibo, a couple of messages.
Yibo: Did you reach home okay?
Yibo: Text me when you’re up. Idiot.
Zhan smiled faintly and typed back:
Zhan: Just got up. Feeling better. Will come to the bookstore after lunch.
He rolled out of bed, stretched with a yawn, and headed to the bathroom.
A cold shower later, he was in fresh clothes, tossing his phone and wallet into his backpack.
In the kitchen, Liu Fang was stirring something in the pan when he walked in.
“Ma, lunch ready?”
She turned to look at him.
“You’re up already? Yeah, it’s ready. Sit. I’ll serve.”
Zhan pulled out a chair and sat while she placed a plate of rice, stir-fried vegetables, and braised tofu in front of him.
“You need to stop doing this nonsense.”
She muttered as she ladled soup into a bowl.
Zhan mumbled with his mouth half-full.
“Sorry, Ma.”
She narrowed her eyes but didn’t push further.
After he finished eating, he stood, slung his backpack over one shoulder, and walked to her.
Wrapping one arm around her in a quick side-hug, he murmured.
“Love you, Ma.”
Then slipped into his sneakers and stepped out.
The midday sun was bright but gentle, and the breeze carried the scent of warm pavement and flowering hedges as Zhan walked to the station.
The city buzzed softly around him, more relaxed than the morning rush.
Inside the train, he found a window seat and leaned back.
But something felt… off.
Or maybe different.
A flutter in his chest, maybe.
Or a strange little ache just beneath his ribs.
He pulled out his phone.
Zhan: On the way.
The reply came a moment later:
Yibo: Okay. I’ll see you in the evening.
Zhan read it twice, then tucked the phone back into his bag.
Across the city, Yibo looked at the message, sighed quietly, then zipped up his delivery bag and headed out for his rounds.
By the time the afternoon light began to shift, both of them were already moving—
Zhan toward the bookstore, Yibo into the streets.
Neither of them knew it, but the day had already started shifting something between them.
And in the quiet hum of the city….
Their paths were slowly winding back toward each other.
[To be continued…]
The Red Ribbon 