It Still Hurts
[📘 Content Warning:
This story contains Boys’ Love (BL) themes. Reader discretion is advised. Please read the disclaimers mentioned in the Instagram post.]
It took almost an hour to reach Yibo’s place, the rain falling in steady sheets against the taxi windows, painting the outside world in wavering streaks of city lights and shadow.
The taxi pulled up in a quiet lane beside the garage, headlights cutting through the mist before dimming.
Zhan stepped out carefully, Zeyu still sleeping soundly in his arms—his head resting against Zhan’s shoulder, breath soft and warm against the side of his neck.
The boy was light, but Zhan’s arms ached from the long hold; still, he wouldn’t let go.
Yibo rushed ahead, umbrella in one hand, keys in the other.
He jogged up to a modest two-bedroom house nestled quietly beside the main garage lot.
The exterior was plain.
White walls dulled by the weather, a single potted plant on the doorstep, but it felt safe.
Yibo unlocked the door, then turned back, voice low and inviting.
“Ge… please come in.”
Zhan stepped inside after removing his shoes, the smell of faint lavender detergent and warm wood welcoming him in.
The lights were soft, casting a gentle glow over the clean floors and simple furnishings.
There was a small three seater couch, a coffee table already stacked with the hospital files and medicine bags, and a pair of slippers neatly placed beside the shelf.
Yibo placed the umbrella down and gestured toward the hallway.
“The bedroom’s there. You can make Zeyu sleep.”
Zhan nodded, his voice silent but his eyes expressing quiet gratitude.
He made his way to the room and gently laid the boy down on the bed.
The room was simple.
Plain walls, a shelf with a few books, and a wooden chair in the corner.
A cupboard stood near the door, its mirror catching a faint glint of light.
A half-open door to the side led to the small attached bathroom.
The bed was freshly made, the sheets smelling faintly of citrus detergent.
Gently, Zhan laid Zeyu down.
The child stirred faintly, brow crinkling at the movement.
He unfastened his tiny sneakers and set them neatly at the foot of the bed.
With practiced tenderness, pulled the blanket up, and brushed his cheek once, his fingers lingering.
Zeyu mumbled softly in his sleep, then settled again, his breathing deep and steady.
In the doorway, Yibo stood still, watching.
There was something quiet in his gaze, some ache he didn’t dare name.
The way Zhan hovered over Zeyu, shielding him even in sleep.
That fierce, gentle love.
That instinct to protect at all costs… one Yibo knew too well.
He had once been held in it, wrapped in Zhan’s quiet tenderness, the same soft, protective love that now belonged to someone else.
The thought made his chest twist.
Without a word, Yibo turned and left them alone.
A few minutes later, Zhan came out of the room, his steps slower now, the exhaustion finally catching up to him.
His eyes scanned the living room briefly and landed on the corner to his duffle bag, Zeyu’s small toy bag, the familiar snack box and water bottle resting beside it.
All there. Safe.
He lowered himself onto the couch with a quiet sigh, removed his glasses, and rubbed his eyes tiredly, then slipped them back on.
The rain still tapped against the windows, soothing and ceaseless.
Yibo looked up from where he was sitting.
“Make yourself comfortable, ge.”
He said gently.
“If you want to freshen up, the bathroom’s just there.”
He paused, then added.
“I’ll make something for dinner.”
He nodded faintly.
“Thanks.”
After a moment, Zhan said.
“I think I’ll shower first… I’m just—”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
He didn’t need to.
Standing up, Yibo gave a small smile and walked to the kitchen.
“By the time you’re out of the shower, I’ll have something ready. Is Zeyu picky about food?”
Zhan shook his head gently.
“No… he’s not choosy. He eats anything.”
Yibo gave a soft hum of acknowledgment and disappeared into the kitchen.
Zhan sat there for a moment longer, the warmth of the room slowly soaking into his skin.
His eyes lingered on the duffle bag — he always carried it, a quiet habit born of necessity.
It held a change of clothes for Zeyu, a spare two pair of spare clothes for himself, maybe some wipes and a few essentials tucked in the side pockets.
He never left the house without it, because Zeyu could turn a peaceful afternoon into a muddy, messy chaos in a heartbeat.
And Zhan, over the years, had learned to stay ready for anything.
He rose, picked up the duffle bag, and made his way back into the bedroom where his son slept peacefully, still wrapped in a storm of dreams and medication.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, Zhan allowed himself to exhale.
————————————–
By the time Zhan stepped out of the bathroom, steam still clinging faintly to his skin, he felt the tension in his shoulders loosen, just a little.
The towel was wrapped around his waist and another small towel he had used still hung around his neck.
His damp hair gently curling at the ends, falling across his forehead.
The scent of fresh soap clung faintly to his skin.
He dressed in a loose, slate-blue cotton button-down with matching pants from his duffle bag.
Just a few feet away, Zeyu lay curled up on the bed, tucked beneath a light blanket, breathing slow and even.
One tiny hand peeked out, loosely gripping the corner of the blanket near his mouth.
A small square of gauze was taped gently to his temple, where he’d hit his head.
The sight of it still made Zhan’s heart clench.
His long lashes rested against his cheeks, and his chest rose and fell in the rhythm of deep sleep, oblivious to the worry that lingered like a storm behind his father’s eyes.
Zhan’s heart softened instantly.
His lips curved into a quiet smile as he crossed the room, leaned down, and gently brushed Zeyu’s hair back from his face.
He pressed a soft kiss to his forehead and whispered.
“Sleep well, baobei.”
He leaned over, brushing Zeyu’s hair from his forehead before kissing him lightly.
A part of him would never fully relax until his son opened his eyes and called out, “Baba!”
He lingered a moment longer, just watching.
Then Zhan slipped out of the bedroom, pulling the door nearly shut behind him.
When he stepped out of the bedroom, a savory warmth wrapped around him like a hug.
The scent of soy sauce, ginger, and a hint of garlic filled the air.
It made his stomach grumble.
He followed the smell to the kitchen.
Yibo stood by the stove, carefully stirring a small pot of noodles with his good hand while the other, still wrapped in a fresh bandage, hung close to his side.
He had already set the table with two bowls and a small side of stir-fried vegetables.
Simple, but thoughtful.
His hair was still slightly messy, a few strands falling into his eyes as he focused on the pan.
Zhan leaned against the doorway silently, just watching him.
There was something different about Yibo now… he wasn’t the scruffy, reckless boy who used to turn up unannounced, trailing dirt and laughter, always too restless to stay in one place.
He looked… grounded now.
A little older.
A little worn… not just by time, but by the kind of solitude that left its mark in the quiet way he carried himself.
The wild edges had smoothed out, the reckless spark dimmed.
What remained was steadiness, yes, but also a weight in his eyes that spoke of nights weathered alone, of growing older through pain rather than peace.
Zhan’s gaze softened.
Yibo noticed him and looked over, offering a faint smile.
“Ge…”
He said gently.
“It’s almost done. You wanna eat now?”
Zhan nodded once.
“Yeah.”
They sat across from each other at the small dining table.
The rain provided a steady backdrop, the occasional rumble of distant thunder weaving through the silence.
Neither of them spoke at first.
Just the soft clinking of chopsticks and the sound of quiet chewing.
The noodles were warm and comforting, the kind of food that settled deep in your belly and made you feel a little less alone.
Yibo’s chopsticks paused halfway to his mouth, his eyes lifting slowly.
“Ge…”
Zhan looked up, eyebrow lifting slightly as if to say, What is it?
Yibo hesitated, his eyes flicking away before he finally asked, voice careful.
“Zeyu’s mother…?”
The question landed like a stone between them.
Zhan froze mid-chew.
Slowly, he lowered his chopsticks.
His gaze dropped to the table, distant for a moment.
Then he looked back up at Yibo, his voice quiet but firm.
“He doesn’t have a mother.”
He said.
“He only has me. I’m the one who tucks him in, feeds him, carries him through fevers. I’m everything he has.”
There was no hesitation, no falter.
Just truth, carved into him by years of carrying it alone.
Yibo nodded, not pushing further.
His gaze dropped to the steam rising from the bowl, fingers brushing absently against the rim.
Then he lifted his eyes again, hesitant but searching, as if trying to find a thread of conversation that Zhan might accept.
“How’s your job? Your life?”
Zhan scoffed lightly, but it wasn’t humorous.
“It’s funny that you are asking about my life.”
He leaned back, his eyes narrowing, voice low and sharp at the edges.
“Seriously, Yibo? Since when do you care enough to ask?”
His gaze caught Yibo’s, glinting — controlled, but cutting.
“Did you leave me with anything at all… anything good, that I could still call a life? Huh?”
His words hung in the air… sharp, painful, naked.
Yibo didn’t look up.
His jaw tightened, eyes flickering shut for a moment, as though Zhan’s words had struck somewhere he couldn’t shield.
Zhan’s expression softened slightly as his gaze fell to his injured hand.
When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost tender.
“But since the day Zeyu came into my life… I’ve felt happy again. Hope again.”
He paused.
“Because of him… I’m okay. My life is going good.”
Yibo looked up then.
A small smile curled at the corners of his lips.
“He doesn’t know how lucky he is…”
He said quietly.
“… to have you. But I do.”
Zhan blinked hard, his jaw tightening.
He looked away, the silence between them edged like a blade.
They didn’t talk much after that.
Zhan kept glancing at Yibo across the table, watching how he chewed quietly, how his movements were gentler than before, as if trying not to break the fragile quiet they had built.
There was an odd calm between them.
Not peace, but not war either.
After dinner, Zhan got up without being asked.
Together, they washed the dishes, their shoulders occasionally brushing in the narrow kitchen.
Yibo handed him a towel, Zhan dried the plates.
It felt… normal.
In the strangest, most aching way.
Later, Yibo took a shower and changed into loose black joggers and a faded white T-shirt.
When he stepped back into the living room, the scent of mint shampoo followed him.
He ran a hand through his damp hair and found Zhan already on the couch, scrolling through his phone quietly.
Zhan’s posture was relaxed but not at ease.
He looked tired, deeply tired… but some of the sharp worry on his face had softened.
The lines between his brows had eased now.
There was something in him that looked… settled.
Even if just for a little while.
Yibo sat beside him, saying nothing at first.
The silence between them was heavy, but it wasn’t suffocating.
It just existed… thick with memory, loss, and things left unsaid.
It was nearing eleven at night.
Eventually, Zhan stood and slipped his phone into his pocket.
“Okay then…”
He murmured.
“I’ll go check on Zeyu… and rest for a while.”
He had only taken a step when Yibo’s voice broke through.
“Zhan-ge…”
Yibo said quietly.
“Please… sit. I want to talk.”
Zhan paused.
His heart stuttered once.
He turned back, slowly, and met Yibo’s eyes.
———————————-
Zhan looked at Yibo and slowly sat back down on the couch.
The cushions gave slightly beneath him, soft and worn.
Across from him, Yibo sat hunched, elbows on his knees, head bowed slightly.
The silence pulled tight between them as if waiting for him to decide where, or how, to start.
Then Yibo looked up, voice low.
“Ge… I know you’re angry with me. You have every right to be.”
He drew a shaky breath.
“But please, don’t think I betrayed you. I never did. Not then. Not even for a second.”
Zhan’s gaze faltered.
He looked away, jaw clenched.
Yibo swallowed.
“You remember how things were back then. My house was a battlefield. My family was falling apart. Everything was chaos. And then… your parents came to me.”
Zhan’s eyes flicked back to him.
“He was begging me, ge. Literally begging. To let you go. To spare your life and your future. He said if I really cared about you… I’d walk away.”
Yibo’s voice cracked slightly, hands flexed restlessly, as though trying to hold on to something that had long since slipped through.
“And I… God, I didn’t know what else to do.”
Zhan remained silent.
But his expression had shifted, still hard, but listening.
“I thought… okay. If I say no to them, if I ignore their request, then it might turn worse for you. Maybe your parents would turn against you the same way mine turned against me. And I couldn’t let that happen. My family was already shattered… but at least I could keep yours from crumbling. Maybe that would make it all worth something.”
He dragged a hand over his face, his voice shaking.
“I can’t explain what I felt in that moment, when your father almost fell at my feet, begging me to leave you, ge. I… I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t know how to fight that.”
His chest rose and fell unevenly, guilt etched in every word.
“I know I should’ve told you the truth. I should’ve stood by you. But all I could see was how it would end? How no one, not even your own parents, was willing to stand with us. Nobody was ready to accept us. And I was already drowning in my own chaos, breaking apart inside… I couldn’t bear the thought of dragging you into that same hell. Not even a little.”
His voice cracked, raw with anguish.
“So I thought if I told you properly, if I let you see my fear, you’d never agree. You’d fight. You’d come after me. And I was terrified, ge… terrified that it would destroy you completely.”
His voice broke lower, eyes clouding.
“So I shut everything off. I turned myself cold.”
Zhan’s eyes sharpened, the calm in his voice making it cut deeper than any shout.
“And do you really think you made the right decision, Bo? By choosing to fulfill what my father asked? By abandoning me completely? By leaving me with nothing?”
The words struck like a blade, and Yibo flinched as if they had torn into him.
His breath stuttered, chest heaving before he forced himself to speak.
“No…”
He rasped, voice raw.
“I knew even then it was the wrong choice. I knew I was making the biggest mistake of my life, and I knew I’d regret it for the rest of my days. And I have. Every damn second since.”
His gaze dropped, shame hollowing his expression as his fists curled tight on his lap, knuckles whitening with the effort to hold himself together.
“There were nights I wished you’d just hate me, ge. Truly hate me. Because at least then I could tell myself I deserved it.”
His voice cracked, breaking on the edges of a sob.
“I know… I was a coward. And you paid the price for it.”
The lamplight beside the couch cast long shadows across his face, his bandaged palm resting heavy and useless at his side.
“But I thought, maybe… if I isolated myself… if I just disappeared… it would numb the guilt. The pain…”
He broke off, shaking his head as his shoulders trembled.
“But it didn’t… it never did.”
His voice collapsed into a sob, raw and sudden.
“I couldn’t move on, ge… I told myself I could. But I never really wanted to. Because leaving you wasn’t my choice… it was my helplessness. It was sacrifice. And I didn’t think it would hurt this much.”
Yibo’s chest heaved, his fists pressed tight against his knees as he forced himself to keep going, eyes shining, voice unraveling.
“I knew exactly what I did to you. I knew I was tearing your heart apart, shattering everything we built. And every single day since, I’ve lived with that. With the sound of your voice in my head, with the memory of the promises I crushed with my own hands.”
He looked up then, eyes raw, pleading, but also terrified.
“I stayed silent all these years because I thought… you’d hate me. And, ge… the thought of your eyes looking at me with nothing but hatred… I didn’t have the courage to face that. I could bear my own pain, but not your hatred. Not your eyes looking at me like I was nothing. That—”
His voice cracked, breaking into another sob.
“That would have destroyed me completely.”
Across from him, Zhan’s expression was carved from stone, but his eyes betrayed him, flickering with hurt and something unnamable.
His fingers twitched against his thigh, jaw clenched tight, as if holding back words that could break them both.
Yibo dropped to his knees in front of Zhan, like the weight of all these years had finally buckled his legs.
He reached for Zhan’s hands, holding them with trembling fingertips, before bowing his head and pressing his face into them as if they were his last lifeline.
“Please, ge…”
His voice cracked, torn by sobs.
“Forgive me. I know… I know I did the most unforgivable thing to you. I ripped us apart… I left you bleeding and alone.”
His voice broke, shaking.
“But please… know this, ge. I never found peace after that. Not a day, not a night. I hurt you, yes, but I was bleeding too. Every step I took without you cut me open from the inside. I thought leaving would save you, but it only destroyed us both.”
His shoulders shook as tears slipped hot against Zhan’s skin.
“Please tell me you don’t hate me. Tell me you can forgive me… even a little. Just enough to let me breathe again. Please…”
His voice broke, frantic, choked.
“I’m so tired of this pain, of carrying this guilt, of blaming myself every day. I can’t take it anymore, ge. I can’t—”
Zhan stared down at him, breath caught in his throat as he swallowed hard.
Yibo’s tears soaked his palms, hot and trembling with years of regret.
And something in Zhan’s chest cracked.
All the anger, the bitterness, the frustration he had hurled at Yibo seemed to dissolve into that warmth… the fury melting helplessly into sorrow.
With a trembling breath, he lifted Yibo’s face, cupping it in both hands as though he might break if he let go.
Their eyes met… both red, both wet, both drowning in the same grief.
Zhan’s lips parted on a shaky exhale before he leaned in, pressing his forehead to Yibo’s for a long, aching moment.
And then, slowly, he pressed a trembling kiss to Yibo’s brow, his touch fierce and tender all at once.
When he spoke, his voice came out raw, almost breaking.
“I never hated you, Bo. Not even for a moment.”
He murmured.
“How could I…? You were my everything.”
Yibo’s eyes squeezed shut, tears spilling freely as if the words themselves broke him open.
Zhan’s own voice cracked as he pushed on, his chest heaving with the weight of years unspoken.
“I was lost. So damn lost. Confused. Hurt. I kept tearing myself apart, wondering what I did wrong. What was it in me that wasn’t enough? Why you would just vanish… disappear from my life without a word, without a closure…”
Zhan’s thumbs brushing shakily over Yibo’s damp cheeks, holding him as if afraid to let go.
“And when I finally learned the truth…”
His gaze flickered, pained and sharp, locking on Yibo’s tear-streaked face.
“I wasn’t angry, Bo. I was… broken. Disappointed. That you didn’t trust me enough. That you didn’t let me stand beside you. That you made the choice for both of us… and left me behind in the ruins.”
Yibo’s fingers still clung to Zhan’s wrists, desperate, trembling, as if letting go would mean losing him all over again.
Zhan’s gaze softened, his voice breaking low.
“Our love wasn’t something you could just throw away, Bo. It wasn’t some silly teenage fling. You know how deep we went… the dreams we built, the way our souls fit like they were meant to. That doesn’t just vanish.”
Yibo nodded frantically, tears slipping hot down his cheeks, his voice hoarse.
“I know… I know, ge. Every word of it. I’ve carried it with me every day.”
Zhan exhaled, long and shuddering, his chest tight with years of grief.
“That’s why I searched for you. When I finally learned the truth, I couldn’t stay still… I had to find you. Because no matter how many years had passed, I couldn’t let you go. Not then. Not now. Not ever. And it’s not just for me but—”
He broke off, his voice cracking, the weight of unspoken words hanging heavy between them.
Yibo lifted his head, eyes swollen, desperate.
“But what, ge?”
Zhan only gave a trembling smile, his own tears sliding unchecked down his face.
He reached up, brushing Yibo’s damp hair back with a touch that was both tender and aching, as if memorizing him all over again.
“You made a mistake, Bo. A terrible, scarring one. You broke us in ways I thought I’d never recover from.”
His voice shook, but his touch lingered steady against Yibo’s temple.
“But that doesn’t mean I hate you. It doesn’t erase everything we were. And it doesn’t make you unworthy of forgiveness.”
His thumbs brushed over Yibo’s cheeks, holding his face firmly, refusing to let him look away.
“Stop punishing yourself. Please.”
Yibo looked up at him, wide-eyed, and for the first time in years, something shifted in his face… like a breath he’d been holding finally released.
Like a splinter buried deep had begun to work its way out.
Zhan gently tugged on his arm and made him sit on the couch beside him.
They sat close.
Their shoulders just barely touched.
Zhan’s eyes fell to Yibo’s wrist, to the faint scar etched there. His fingers brushed over it with trembling care before he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss against the mark.
Yibo’s eyes closed, his chest tightening, an ache rushing through him at the sight of Zhan’s tenderness toward a wound born of his despair.
Zhan’s voice broke as he spoke, low but sharp.
“How could you even think about doing that, Bo? Even then… you didn’t think about me? Huh? How was I supposed to live if something had happened to you?”
Yibo couldn’t meet his gaze.
His throat worked, and his words came out hoarse, choked.
“Ge… I can’t even explain what I was feeling at that time. The pain, the guilt… it was unbearable, crushing me with every breath. I thought ending it would be a mercy, a way to stop carrying what I no longer could. And all of it… it was because of you. Because I thought I had destroyed you, and I couldn’t forgive myself for that.”
Zhan’s breath shuddered, his grip tightening around Yibo’s wrist until his knuckles went white.
“And what about me, Bo? Did you think for even a second what that punishment would do to me? You talk about mercy, but all I see is cruelty. Because if you had succeeded… if you had left me… do you have any idea what that would have done to me?!”
His eyes burned, tears streaking down his face as his hands framed Yibo’s jaw, forcing him to look up.
“How could you think I’d survive that? You think I could’ve lived with your blood on my hands, with your absence in my every breath?”
His voice broke into a sob, raw and jagged.
“God, Bo… I couldn’t have survived losing you like that.”
For a long moment, Zhan just held him there, forehead pressed to Yibo’s, his tears falling freely.
The anger drained out of him, leaving nothing but the raw ache he had carried for years, and the love he could never bury no matter how hard he had tried.
His chest shook with the weight of it, his forehead resting briefly against Yibo’s as if the closeness itself could steady him.
“You don’t have to carry this alone anymore, Bo.”
Zhan whispered, his voice breaking, thick with tears.
“You can let it go now…”
Yibo didn’t answer.
He couldn’t.
His throat locked around the words that would not come.
Instead, he clung to Zhan’s hand as if it were the only thing keeping him from falling apart, his grip light but unyielding, steady in its desperation.
The air between them softened, but it trembled too… thick with grief, with love, with everything they had lost and everything they still might salvage.
But just as silence began to settle again… a small, sleepy voice broke through the room.
“Ba…ba…”
Both of them turned sharply toward the hallway.
Zeyu stood in the bedroom doorway, one hand rubbing his eye, his hair a soft, tousled mess from sleep.
His socked feet padded quietly on the floor as he looked at them with drowsy confusion.
“I had a dream… I was falling… my bunny fell down… and my lion caught me… and…”
He mumbled.
“You weren’t there…”
Zhan’s heart gave a sharp twist.
He quickly stood, already moving toward his son.
“I’m here Baobei…”
He whispered, reaching for Zeyu and scooping him up into his arms.
“Baba’s here…”
And in that fragile picture… father and son wrapped together, something inside Yibo stirred, aching and alive, as if hope had finally dared to breathe again.
But as Zhan held his son close, Yibo’s eyes followed them, a hollow ache spreading through his chest.
Maybe Zhan had already moved on, found his future here, with his child.
Maybe the space he once left empty had been filled and sealed shut forever by Zhan’s son.
Maybe the place he once held in Zhan’s life was gone forever.
Maybe the door had already closed.
And maybe… it was too late now.
[To be continued….]
——————————————–
Author’s Note:
Heyyy, you made it to the end of the chapter! 😊
Hope you enjoyed it — and if you did, please don’t forget to like & comment on my Insta post. 💖
Think of it as your way of telling me, “Hey, I’m here, and I loved it!” — it means the world to me and truly keeps me inspired to write more for you! ✨
The Red Ribbon 