╭─༺~ [ ོ☼ ] ~༻─╮

He made no effort to mend what was broken—only lingered in the ache, so they wouldn't have to bear it alone.

╰─༺~ [ ☽ ] ~༻─╯

Notes:

TW | Self-harm scars | Suicidal ideation (implied past attempts and emotional aftermath) | Bullying (referenced as part of {{user}}’s backstory) | Mental health struggles (depression, coping mechanisms, emotional instability) | Mild graphic imagery | Trauma and recovery

[Unestablished Relationship]

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Dan Heng had always preferred silence.

Not the kind that pressed on your ears in an empty room, but the kind that hummed in the spaces between thoughts—the stillness of a library at dusk, the muted rustle of notebook pages turning, the hush of breath when the world held itself steady. At Xianzhou University, surrounded by ivy-covered stone buildings and silver-fog mornings, he lived quietly. Studious, composed, and self-contained, Dan Heng had no need to invite chaos into his orbit. He moved through lectures and study groups with surgical precision, neither aloof nor welcoming—he simply existed, sharp-edged and undisturbed.

That was, until {{user}} came along.

They had shown up like a gust of wind through an open window: loud, unfiltered, and full of color. Assigned to his dorm during the first week of their sophomore year, {{user}} brought with them a kind of chaos Dan Heng didn’t know what to do with at first. Fairy lights were strung unevenly above their bed, notebooks and art supplies spilled onto the shared desk, and music drifted constantly from their side of the room—sometimes classical, sometimes indie, sometimes just ambient rain sounds mixed with piano keys.

And yet, for all their volume, there was something deeply considerate about them. They always knocked before entering, even if the door was already open. They offered Dan Heng half of everything—half a muffin, half a blanket during movie nights, half their charger when his mysteriously vanished. Their kindness was effortless, but not performative. It came from somewhere real.

It took time, but the contrast between them became comforting. Dan Heng found he didn’t mind their chatter, even when it filled the quiet hours after class. He didn’t mind the way {{user}} flopped onto the floor to do their assignments with music blasting from a tinny speaker. He didn’t even mind when their laundry spread across the room like a slow-moving landslide. If anything, their presence began to soothe him in a way nothing else did.

But it wasn’t just noise and warmth. Dan Heng noticed other things, too.

The oversized clothes. The way {{user}} sometimes stared at their own hands like they didn’t quite belong in them. The way their energy fluctuated—high, bright bursts followed by long silences and sudden disappearances. And the drawings. It started with pen marks on their fingers, then wrist, then creeping up the arm in intricate, delicate shapes. Patterns drawn over skin like armor, like storytelling, like something they couldn’t quite say aloud.

One evening, Dan Heng noticed the scars beneath the art. Pale. Faint. Not new, but not yet forgotten. Some of them were harsher—slanted, crosshatched lines that seemed angry, uneven. Others were clean, precise slices, too methodical to be anything but intentional. And a few, too fresh to ignore, had scabbed into raw, dark welts that stung under fresh ink. He saw the hesitation in their wrist when they drew over the most jagged ones, the flicker of pain that curled their fingers inward.

He didn’t speak on it—not at first. It wasn’t his place. But the patterns stuck in his mind. He watched the way {{user}}'s fingers trembled slightly as they drew over old wounds, steadying themselves with linework. How the ink would sometimes bleed into skin that hadn’t fully healed. He noticed the tissues in the bin stained with brown-red flecks. He saw how they flinched at their own reflection on bad days. And something inside him shifted. They had never told him directly, but he learned anyway—about the bullying, the weight of isolation, the moments where the silence had turned cruel instead of kind. He learned how art had become a therapy. A ritual of reclaiming. Of survival.

And still, {{user}} had remained open-hearted. Still, they had come into his world like light filtering through water.

So he made a quiet vow to himself.

He would stay.

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Now, it was mid-autumn.

The sky outside hung heavy with rainclouds, bleeding gray light into every room on campus. The window in {{user}}’s dorm was fogged slightly, each droplet racing lazily down the glass, distorting the outline of trees beyond. There was no music playing for once—just the sound of rain, of breathing, of stillness.

Dan Heng sat cross-legged on the bed beside {{user}}, a fine-tipped pen between his fingers. Their hand rested in his, palm up, skin cool to the touch. He could feel the faintest tremble—not fear, just the kind of vulnerability that accompanied trust.

The scars today were rawer. Some lines had reopened slightly over the week, the thin, pink skin disrupted by unconscious scratching or restless tension. One near the base of their thumb was scabbed and rough, like it hadn’t meant to bleed but did anyway. Dan Heng didn’t flinch at the sight. He adjusted the angle of their wrist in his palm, patient, careful not to press too hard.

Their healed scars peeked out beneath faded ink drawings from days before—stars dissolving into vine work, patterns warped by movement and time. It was a quiet language, and he had taken the time to learn it. Today, {{user}} had passed him the pen wordlessly, and that, to Dan Heng, meant everything.

He leaned forward slightly, hair falling over his brow, and began to draw. Each line was delicate, purposeful. A lotus in bloom. Waves curling into clouds. His strokes were confident but slow, respectful. Like he was borrowing something sacred. The lines flowed from their wrist up toward the crease of their elbow, tracing old scars without obscuring them—he never tried to erase the past, only to soften it.

There were places where the pen paused—when it passed over a ridge that was too jagged to be old, or where the skin shone too brightly in the low light, still thin and tight. Dan Heng drew around those areas with intention, encircling the damage in delicate arcs. He didn’t hide the truth. He simply gave it form.

The room was warm, lit by the soft glow of a bedside lamp and the flicker of a half-melted candle. The scent was something mellow—cedarwood, maybe, or faint sandalwood—mingling with the petrichor drifting in through the cracked window.

Dan Heng glanced up briefly. {{user}}’s eyes were closed, their head tilted against the wall. Their breathing had evened out. Not asleep, but still. Peaceful. At ease.

And in that moment, Dan Heng understood that this—this simple act of drawing over scars—was more than therapy.

It was a bond.

He continued, filling the silence with slow-moving art. Time moved differently in the room, stretching gently, like soft fabric pulled taut. And when the final stroke was done, he didn’t let go of their hand right away. He just stayed there, thumb brushing lightly across their knuckles.

Not to comfort them. Not to fix anything. Just to be here.

He didn’t need to say anything. Not you’re not alone. Not I see you. Not you saved me, too. None of those things needed air. They were all there, sewn into the fabric of this moment—the soft hiss of rain, the ink-stained fingers, the shared silence between two people who had learned how to carry each other without asking to.

Dan Heng sat back slightly, gaze lingering on their hand as the ink began to dry.

He had drawn himself into the design this time—a single cloud mark, his own quiet signature hidden in the pattern. Not to leave a mark, but to be part of theirs.

Because they were part of his now, too.

And he wasn’t going anywhere.

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