(BL) I'll Let The World Burn For You

Zhenyu woke to the smell of rain and cigarettes.

The neon sign outside his window flickered pink and blue over Yu Bai's coat draped on the couch. The custody folder lay half-open on the table — the ink still smudged where his hands had shaken while signing. His phone was dead, the screen cracked at the corner where he'd thrown it hours ago.

He pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead. No sleep. No calm.

Only the sound of rain hitting the window, steady as a heartbeat he didn't trust.

A soft click at the door. The smell of Yu Bai's cologne — faint but invasive — slid in before the man himself did.

"You should rest," Yu Bai said. His voice was quiet. Always quiet. Quieter when he was angry.

Zhenyu laughed, raw and cracked. "I'll sleep when you crawl out of my skull."

Yu Bai hummed as if considering that. He stepped closer — black shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled just enough to show the sharp line of veins in his forearms. He'd always looked too clean for someone who never stayed clean.

He perched on the edge of the table, one boot nudging the folder out of the way. "You're thinking too much."

Zhenyu scoffed. "Isn't that what you want? For me to know exactly what you've made me?"

Yu Bai leaned down, close enough that Zhenyu caught the ghost of tobacco and rain on his breath. "I didn't make you," he said. "You made me."

---

FLASHBACK

Fifteen and eight.

Zhenyu remembers the winter the heat went out for a week. Their building smelled of mold and boiled cabbage from the neighbors upstairs. His mother was passed out on the couch with a bottle in her hand. His father hadn't come home in days.

He'd heard the noises outside the stairwell — fists on flesh, a boy's muffled cry, the older kids' mocking laughter. When he cracked the door open, he saw the same scrawny kid who always lurked behind the garbage bins: Yu Bai, knees scraped raw, fists up but small. The older boys taunted him about his mother. About his father. About how he smelled like an alley stray.

Zhenyu didn't think. He'd stormed down the steps, fists swinging — older by seven years but still too scrawny himself. He'd caught the leader by the ear and slammed his face into the stair railing, once, twice, until his own knuckles split.

When the older boys scattered, Yu Bai just stood there, breathing through his nose, eyes huge and black in the dark. He looked like he might bolt — or bite.

Zhenyu had tugged him toward the stairwell door. "Come inside before you freeze to death."

Yu Bai didn't say a word — just followed. He ate half a stale bun, eyes darting like a cornered cat, then curled on the fraying rug by the radiator.

Zhenyu remembers watching that bony back, the way Yu Bai's spine stuck out like a stray dog's.

"Next time, don't fight them alone."

Yu Bai had cracked one eye open. "Next time, they won't touch me."

He'd said it like a promise. Or a threat.

---

PRESENT

Zhenyu snapped back to the now with Yu Bai's fingers tracing his wrist — the same wrist that used to pass him scraps of bread behind that rotting radiator.

"You remember?" Yu Bai asked, voice low.

Zhenyu flinched. "Get out of my head."

Yu Bai tilted his head. He ran a thumb over the bruise blooming near Zhenyu's pulse. "I'd rather live there."

---

They didn't speak for a long minute. The rain filled the silence, steady and cold.

Zhenyu pulled his hand back, hugging it to his chest. "You think you own me because I gave you stale bread when you were eight?"

Yu Bai's mouth twitched. Not a smile — something darker. "No. I own you because you never stopped."

Zhenyu's laugh was bitter. "What does that even mean?"

Yu Bai leaned forward, breath warm against Zhenyu's ear. "You feed a stray once, you get a friend. You feed him every day, you make a wolf who never leaves your side."

Zhenyu shoved at his shoulder — not hard enough to matter. "I didn't make you do any of this."

"You didn't have to." Yu Bai caught his wrist again, pressing his thumb into the bruise. "Look how easy it is for you to let me touch you."

Zhenyu's chest heaved. "I'm not— This isn't—"

The knock at the door saved him from finishing that lie. Chen, again — pale, impeccable, eyes flicking to the floor as if the carpet stains offended him.

"Mr. Yu," Chen murmured, tone respectful. "The ex-wife's lawyers folded on the emergency injunction."

Zhenyu's head snapped up. "What did you do?"

Yu Bai didn't look away from him. "I reminded them who they're playing with."

Zhenyu tried to pull free. Yu Bai's grip just tightened, bruising now — exactly like the bruises Zhenyu used to take for him when he was eight.

"You can't threaten people like that," Zhenyu hissed. "She'll go to the police—"

Yu Bai's thumb slid to Zhenyu's lips, silencing him. "She won't. She's a snake, but she's not stupid."

Chen cleared his throat. "The child will stay with her for now — supervised contact is your best option until we finish erasing the rest of this mess."

Zhenyu sagged back into the couch. The child. Not his son. Just a line in a contract, a pawn in someone else's game.

---

Yu Bai stood, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve. He nodded to Chen, who slipped out without another word.

"You're shaking," Yu Bai murmured.

Zhenyu scoffed. "I'm not scared of you."

Yu Bai laughed — a sound with no real mirth. He crouched again, level with Zhenyu's hunched shoulders. "That's your problem. You should be."

Zhenyu's mouth opened — but the words curdled on his tongue when Yu Bai leaned forward, pressing his lips to the corner of Zhenyu's jaw. Not quite a kiss. Not quite anything else.

"Next week, the lawyer will file for full custody," Yu Bai said against his skin. "You'll come live at the new flat. The legal address. You'll show the courts you're stable."

Zhenyu shuddered. "And if I don't?"

Yu Bai pulled back enough to meet his eyes — the same eyes that used to watch him unwrap stale buns behind that radiator.

"I'll burn down everything she touches," Yu Bai said, soft as a lullaby. "And you'll be the only thing left she can't touch."

Zhenyu hated how his ribs loosened at those words — how the monster felt like a shield when the world outside was worse.

---

Later, when the rain turned to mist, Zhenyu found himself drifting back.

He curled under Yu Bai's coat, the neon sign painting him in red and blue like a bruise.

Sleep came in ragged bursts, carrying him back to that stairwell — the boy with the split lip and the wolf at his heels.

"Don't fight alone next time," he'd whispered.

Now he knew better.

You don't fight alone — you get owned.

When the coat slipped down, Yu Bai was there behind him, arm draped over his waist. Fingers tracing the bruise on his wrist like a brand he'd earned long ago.

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