NÁNHÁI

o w t y t n e w t 2 2

| T W E N T Y T W O |

an actual yuee

Yian had earned himself a number of wounds over the scrape he'd had a few days ago. Unconscious for the most of time, he'd scared the living fetus out of poor Miss Hua, Yian's homeroom teacher, who was not kidding at all, actually three months pregnant.

Thankfully, by the time Xiao Zhan arrived the boy was long awake, if not, there would be not one but two accidents hitting IEW today. Not the worst considering the scale of catastrophe but still not the best.

Problems in his life were much like the rain. First, it'd drip as if there was an absolute least on its vault and later, without a warning, the downpour would flood every bit of his standing self. Drenched and cold, he'd soon be left with nothing but faint droplets and an entire body of wrath to clean after.

Xiao Zhan had a lot on his hands. From Yian himself to all the guilt he'd been barely balancing. He wasn't acting out of humility, between a parent and child, where did that even stand really?

The truth was, for the past few days, Yian had been adamant about sleeping on his own. The boy wouldn't share a word before shrinking right into his cold quilt and to no one's surprise, he hadn't had the best experience.

Furthermore, no matter how many times he'd tried convincing Yian to just carry the god-darn skateboard and run his ass to the park, he wouldn't.

Ahem!

Right, that was quite a hyperbole.

If half-hearted fumbles over the words skate and park amidst the stirring silence of those pitch-black nights could be considered a contribution, he knew he couldn't do any better.

"Papa" This was the first Yian had spoken ever since.

They had just walked out of the nurse's room and thanks to the class hours, the premise screamed of nothing but silence.

However, despite this bolt of stillness, Yian's voice ran miserably faint. He'd gathered quite a bit of courage to call out, he had tried his best but even if Xiao Zhan could hear him, the address still felt low and uncertain.

"Hm.."

Yian rubbed his nose, it burned a little.

His eyes were wide open, refusing to rest, or even to blink, he tried to keep them open for as long as he could but this block of porcelain was sure to break, when taken out the dresser, it was bound to fall.

Lips glued to the warm shoulders, he muttered with great difficulty, "It hurts"

His words shook under his hold. Without a warning, a lone loop fell soundly down his eyes.

He'd thought he could handle himself but a fragile vase least deserved to stay; down to the floor, it couldn't simply ask for a second; a breath was just enough time for it to break and shatter.

When he'd tumbled down the roughly paved court, when his vision had gone blur yet still seemed to trace the traces of red, it hurt so much.

He wanted to speak, to hold his Papa close to himself and tell him how much it hurt but he knew, if he were to open up, not words only sobs would leave. He wanted to be strong but in the end, how could it possibly not hurt?