In the days after, their closeness shifted — quietly, like rain seeping into dry earth.
Xiao still teased, still smirked, still let his robe collar fall a little too low.
But Yujin stopped flinching.
He let his gaze linger — on the bruises Xiao tried to hide, on the quick rise of his breath.
Sometimes, at night, they sat side by side on worn floor mats.
No words; Xiao's shoulder brushing Yujin's sleeve, heartbeat wild but silent.
One evening, Xiao spoke:
"I know what you want to ask."
"What?"
"If I enjoy it. Being… what I am here."
Yujin stayed silent, but his breath caught — yes.
"Sometimes," Xiao said, voice almost bitter, almost soft.
"When I can choose. When they beg, and I decide if I grant it.
But most nights… no."
Yujin's hand lifted, then stopped in the air.
"If you pity me, don't," Xiao murmured, chin tilted stubbornly.
"Desire me, or hate me. But don't pity me."
"I don't," Yujin whispered.
"I… wish I could take you away."
Xiao laughed, but it cracked at the edge.
"And do what? Keep me? Like a pet? Like a caged bird again?"
"No," Yujin answered.
"Let you fly."