Yichen stared down at him.
Mo Fei sat on the staircase, one hand gripping the fabric of Yichen's trousers. His face was flushed from alcohol, and his eyes shone with drunken sincerity as he looked up at him.
Yichen inhaled slowly.
He had been going home.
The party had become exhausting. Su Feiyu clinging to him, the false smiles, the cameras, the polite conversations that said nothing while meaning everything... all of it had begun to irritate him.
He had wanted air and a smoke.
Instead, he had found Mo Fei sitting on the stairs like an abandoned cat in expensive clothing.
Yichen closed his eyes for half a second. He should have just kept walking.
"Call your manager," he said coldly.
"I did." Mo Fei weakly lifted his phone. "He abandoned me."
Yichen looked at the phone.
Mo Fei sniffed, then looked up at him with wounded accusation, as if Yichen himself had personally kidnapped Louis and hidden him away.
Yichen's jaw tightened.
This was ridiculous.He should leave.
He had no obligation to help Mo Fei. None.
They were not friends. They were not close. They had shared a runway because Zhen had temporarily lost his mind and called it art. That was all.
Mo Fei was not his responsibility.
How could one person even get this drunk at a gala?
To Yichen, Mo Fei was not worth the stress. He pulled his trouser leg free from Mo Fei's grip and continued walking.
Mo Fei lowered his head again, as if already preparing to sleep on the staircase.
Yichen stopped.
A tired sigh escaped him.
He stood still for a moment, his back turned, his expression cold and unreadable. Then he turned around.
"Get up," he said.
Mo Fei, who had already been half-ready to sleep, opened his eyes.
He stood immediately.
Too quickly that the world tilted and his legs gave out almost at once, but before he could fall, a hand reached out and caught him by the arm, steadying him.
Mo Fei smelled faintly of champagne, expensive cologne, and something softer beneath it. His hair brushed lightly against Yichen's jaw before he managed to steady himself.
Yichen's fingers tightened around his arm.
Mo Fei was pressed close to his chest, close enough to feel the heat radiating from Yichen's body.
The night was cold.
But right there, pressed against Zhang Yichen, Mo Fei felt strangely at ease.
"Let go," Mo Fei mumbled drunkenly.
"If I do, you'll fall," Yichen said. "You'll get hurt."
"What do you care?" Mo Fei pulled back and pushed him away.
Yichen raised a brow.
He did not understand why Mo Fei was suddenly acting like this. "Do you want to go home or not?"
Mo Fei straightened himself as much as he could, then pouted.
"You're a mean person. You've never said one good thing to me. Why should I trust you to take me home?"
Yichen looked him over.
Soon, people would begin coming out of the gala. He could either leave Mo Fei here and walk away, or he could drag this drunk nuisance with him.
Unfortunately, the latter seemed less troublesome in the long run. Yichen grabbed Mo Fei's hand and continued down the stairs. Mo Fei followed slowly, one hand sliding along the railing for support.
Yichen looked ahead, his expression unreadable.
Behind him, Mo Fei mumbled under his breath about cold hands, abandoned managers, shiny people, and the general cruelty of high society.
When they reached the lower entrance, the night air brushed against them.
A few cars were still waiting outside. Security guards stood nearby, and several drivers lingered around, speaking quietly. The main red-carpet crowd had already thinned, but there were still enough people around for Yichen to be careful.
He glanced at Mo Fei.
Mo Fei was blinking too slowly.
His face was still flushed. His carefully styled hair had loosened slightly, a few strands falling near his eyes. The polished red-carpet image from earlier had softened into something messy and unguarded.
Yichen looked away.
Troublesome.
They reached his car, and Yichen pulled the door open. "Get in," he said.
Mo Fei stood still. "I'm not going with you."
Yichen stared at him. "You literally asked me to take you home."
"I changed my mind." Mo Fei waved his hand weakly. "Besides, why do you care? I'll just sit here and wait for my manager."
Mo Fei was beginning to piss him off. Why had he even bothered trying to help?
Yichen took one step closer.
"Besides," Mo Fei continued, looking at him with drunken suspicion, "it's clear you hate me. Why would you help me?"
Yichen's eyes narrowed. "While I admire your infuriating ability to recall our last conversation," he said slowly, "first, get in the fucking car."
Mo Fei stared at him.
Then, without saying anything more, he climbed into the car with all the grace of a tired cat entering a box.
Yichen watched him nearly hit his head on the roof of the car.
Before Mo Fei could, Yichen reached out and placed a hand over the edge.
Mo Fei's head bumped softly against his palm instead.
Mo Fei froze.
Then he looked up.
Yichen withdrew his hand as if nothing had happened. "Sit properly."
Mo Fei smiled. "You're secretly kind."
"I'm not."
Yichen shut the door, walked around to the other side, and got in. He started the car.
"You are…" Mo Fei drawled.
"Say that again and I'll leave you here." Yichen turned to him with a wicked grin.
Mo Fei immediately turned away.
What a brute.
For a while, there was silence.
Mo Fei sat beside Yichen as he drove, eyes closed, head resting against the seat. The city lights moved across his face in soft flashes, painting him in gold and shadow.
Yichen glanced at him briefly.
Then he looked away.
A few minutes later, Mo Fei shifted.
His head tilted.
Slowly, dangerously, it began falling toward Yichen's shoulder.
Yichen saw it coming.
He could have moved. He did not.
Mo Fei's head landed lightly against his shoulder.
Yichen froze.
This drunken fool.
Why, in the nine hells, had he gone out of his way to drive him home?
Mo Fei sighed softly in his sleep, as if he had found the most comfortable pillow in existence. Then he pressed lightly against Yichen's arm, as though testing whether it was soft enough.
Apparently satisfied, he settled against him again.
Yichen stared ahead.
His shoulder felt warm. He did not know what to call this.
He was driving. He could easily push Mo Fei away. In fact, he should push him away.
But for some reason, he allowed it.
Seeing Mo Fei like this was both amusing and infuriating.
Just how much had he drunk to lose himself this way?
Yichen lifted a hand, intending to push Mo Fei away so he could drive more comfortably.
Then Mo Fei murmured something.
Yichen paused. "What?"
Mo Fei's brows drew together faintly.
"I'm not…" he mumbled.
Yichen looked down at him.
Mo Fei's voice was barely audible. "I'm not him…"
Yichen's fingers stilled.
For a moment, the quiet inside the car deepened.
Mo Fei's breathing evened out again, and he said nothing more.
Yichen stared at him.
Not him? What did that mean?
Slowly, Yichen lowered his hand.
He did not push Mo Fei away. Outside, the city lights blurred past as the Lamborghini sped along the highway.
The same person who had fallen from grace, smiled beneath cameras, walked Zhen's runway like he owned the stage, and grabbed Yichen's trousers on the stairs was now asleep on his shoulder, mumbling nonsense that felt strangely heavy.
To Yichen, Mo Fei was not a misunderstood comeback story yet.
He was still someone who had abandoned responsibility and left others to clean up his mess. And yet, Yichen had not been able to abandon him on that staircase.
Something about Mo Fei stirred him.
Yichen's expression remained cold. But his eyes darkened slightly.
Troublesome.
Mo Fei was truly troublesome.