In The Eyes Of Madness

Thiên Dục stood in the kitchen, a knife in hand, the soft rhythm of slicing vegetables blending with the gentle bubbling of soup on the stove. The warm glow of the overhead light stretched his shadow across the spotless tiled floor. Steam rose from the pot, fogging the glass panel of the stove with a thin, hazy film.

In the living room, Huyết Minh reclined on the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, his eyes fixed on his phone. Occasionally, the glow from the screen lit up his face, giving him an air of calm detachment that somehow felt at home.

Thiên Dục turned his head slightly, his voice quiet but tinged with reproach:

"Huyết Minh, you've been here for days now. Aren't you going home?"

Huyết Minh looked up, a flicker of surprise glinting in his blue eyes before a faint smile returned:

"Of course. But your place is more comfortable."

Thiên Dục frowned slightly. Ever since Huyết Minh arrived, the once-silent house had been filled with noise and motion. He remembered Huyết Minh's own apartment clearly — a space he himself had helped decorate, all sleek lines, polished, comfortable, and complete. There was no way it could be less comfortable than this. Setting the knife down, he asked curtly:

"Comfortable? What do you mean by that?"

Propping his chin on one hand, Huyết Minh's gaze curved playfully, as though deliberately teasing:

"Here, I've got you, good food, and a warm bed. What else could I possibly need?"

Thiên Dục let out a quiet sigh, his tone edged with dry humor:

"You make it sound like I'm your housekeeper or something."

Lowering his phone, Huyết Minh tilted his head, meeting Thiên Dục's eyes directly. His voice softened, deliberately emphasizing each word:

"Not a housekeeper. More like… a 'lovable host.' Or maybe even… 'the home where my lover lives.'"

The tips of Thiên Dục's ears flushed scarlet. He quickly turned his head away, forcing his voice to remain even:

"Don't say ridiculous things."

Huyết Minh only smiled, saying nothing more.

---

Dinner was laid out. They sat across from each other, the soft clinking of bowls and chopsticks punctuating the quiet. For a while, only the sound of their meal filled the room. Eventually, Thiên Dục set his chopsticks down, his voice steady but serious:

"I mean it, Huyết Minh. You should go home. You can't just stay here forever."

Feigning contemplation, Huyết Minh rested his chin on his hand, watching Thiên Dục intently — from the subtle flick of his eyes to the measured movements of his hands. Seeing Thiên Dục keep his head down, avoiding his gaze, a faint smile tugged at Huyết Minh's lips. His tone, a mix of jest and sincerity, followed:

"But if I leave… who's going to cook for me? Who's going to tell me to sleep early?"

Thiên Dục's chopsticks froze, tapping lightly against his bowl. His eyes shifted toward Huyết Minh, sharp:

"You're not a kid. Handle it yourself."

Huyết Minh didn't reply, simply picking up a bite of food, chewing leisurely as if nothing had just been said. He closed his eyes briefly, savoring the taste, and let out a quiet chuckle. His voice softened, carrying an unexpected warmth:

"But I like it… when you take care of me."

Thiên Dục fell silent for a few moments, his gaze resting on Huyết Minh with something between exasperation and resignation. He had denied being a housekeeper, yet now felt more like a caretaker tending to an oversized child.

Then, Huyết Minh's expression shifted. His eyes lowered, lashes dipping low, the curve of his lips easing into something quieter, almost uncertain. Setting his chopsticks gently on his bowl, he asked in a low tone:

"So… you're really planning to kick me out?"

The weight in his voice caught Thiên Dục off guard. He stumbled over his words:

"No, it's just…"

The sentence trailed off. Even he didn't know how to explain it. His life had always revolved around work and the quiet solitude of his empty home — no voices, no breathing but his own.

But ever since Huyết Minh came, everything had shifted. In just a week, the laughter, the teasing, the audacity — they had seeped into his mind, into the spaces he once thought he needed empty. He couldn't deny it anymore: Huyết Minh had found a place in his thoughts.

Huyết Minh raised a brow, the gentle smile returning as if he already knew.

"Then… just let me stay, won't you?"

Thiên Dục bit his lip lightly, avoiding that unwavering gaze. His voice dropped to a murmur:

"You're… such a nuisance."

Huyết Minh winked, his grin bright as sunlight:

"But you don't hate me, do you?"

That smile left Thiên Dục unable to argue, no matter how many reasons he had to send Huyết Minh away.

---

The night grew late. The only sound in the house was the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock, echoing steadily through the stillness. The faint light from the porch lamp slipped through the window, casting shifting shadows across the ceiling as the wind stirred outside.

Thiên Dục lay on his side, back turned to the person beside him, eyes wide open as they traced the dim patterns above. His body was taut, tension coiled despite the day's exhaustion. Sleep eluded him, hovering but never landing.

Beside him, Huyết Minh's even, warm breaths filled the quiet. A rhythm that should have soothed instead only heightened Thiên Dục's restlessness. He shut his eyes, only to open them again, tossing and turning from one side to the other.

The thin blanket, tugged up and down in his fidgeting, was a tangled mess. The heat radiating from the body so close made Thiên Dục's heart pound harder, as though it were betraying him.

In the dark, Huyết Minh's voice surfaced, soft and low like a whispering breeze:

"Thiên Dục… can't sleep?"

Thiên Dục startled slightly, turning to meet that gaze — even in the dim room, Huyết Minh's eyes seemed to glimmer with something at once mischievous and tender, impossible to pull away from.

He swallowed, forcing down the stirring in his chest, and muttered a half-hearted complaint:

"It's your fault. You're taking up all the space."

Huyết Minh's brow arched, the corner of his lips curling into a faint, amused smile:

"I'm not. Your bed's just too small."

The casual tone only deepened Thiên Dục's irritation. His brows knitted, each word deliberate:

"Small? I sleep perfectly fine on it alone."

Huyết Minh didn't answer right away. A pause stretched, deliberate, before he let out a quiet laugh:

"That's because you sleep alone. Now that I'm here, of course it feels cramped."

Thiên Dục turned away, taking a slow, measured breath, his voice clipped:

"Then go sleep on the sofa."

Silence followed. The wind rustled the curtains, carrying in a cool draft. Then, Huyết Minh's voice came again, drawn out and lazily:

"Sofas are too hard."

Thiên Dục shot back, his tone sharper than necessary, as though to mask something else entirely:

"Then go sleep at your place."

He expected to hear Huyết Minh's sigh, a shift of annoyance, maybe even a grumble. Instead, a quiet laugh floated through the dark — soft, not loud, but enough to warm the stillness. Huyết Minh's voice followed, softer than usual, tinged with a rare trace of vulnerability:

"No. I'd rather stay here. I like being next to you."

Thiên Dục's head turned on instinct. Those familiar eyes — the ones he always avoided — were fixed on him. This time, there was no playful spark, only a sincerity tinged with something harder to name.

His chest tightened, each heartbeat stirred by those words. It took effort to force out his response, his voice rough with restraint:

"You… really don't know shame."

Without hesitation, Huyết Minh answered. His eyes brightened, curving as though teasing, yet deep within them, a faint glimmer of seriousness:

"For you, I'll give up all shame."

Thiên Dục inhaled deeply, his gaze locked on that face. The dim light traced the high bridge of Huyết Minh's nose, the soft curve of his lips, the expressive eyes that seemed to speak without words.

He didn't know how to respond. Instead, a soft huff left him — half annoyed, half amused — as he murmured:

"Ha… as if you ever had any shame to begin with."

Huyết Minh didn't reply, only shifted slightly closer, close enough for Thiên Dục to feel the warmth of his breath. No touch passed between them, but the closeness was enough for both to feel the quickened thrum of their hearts.

Thiên Dục closed his eyes, partly out of weariness, partly because he feared he'd lose his composure if he kept meeting that gaze. But just as his eyelids lowered, Huyết Minh's voice brushed his ear, low and quiet:

"Sleep. I won't take your space anymore… unless you push me away."

Thiên Dục let out a faint, tired but genuine smile. He didn't answer, only pulled the blanket higher, hiding half his face. Beside him, Huyết Minh stayed silent, his breathing steady. Neither of them knew who drifted off first. Only the sound of wind at the window, the muted rhythm of their hearts, and a strange, shared stillness lingered through the night.

---

The next morning.

Thiên Dục awoke to the scent of eggs and toasted bread, the aroma filling the air with a gentle warmth. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he shuffled out of the bedroom, hair tousled, eyes narrowed slightly against the pale morning light.

In the kitchen, Huyết Minh stood with an apron tied neatly around his waist, turning the pan with practiced ease. He looked entirely at home, as though this wasn't his first time here.

Thiên Dục paused, his brow furrowing:

"What… are you doing?"

Huyết Minh glanced over his shoulder, smiling faintly, his voice unhurried:

"Making breakfast for you. I am a guest, after all. Can't just freeload forever, right?"

Thiên Dục crossed his arms, pulling out a chair to sit at the table, his tone cautious:

"Fine. But… you're going home after we eat."

Huyết Minh said nothing at first, only set the plate before Thiên Dục with careful ease. His voice followed, light but edged with something quietly defiant:

"If you really want me gone… all you have to do is say one sentence: 'I don't need you anymore.'"

Thiên Dục stared at the steaming food, his breath catching faintly. Lifting his eyes, he met that unwavering gaze. His lips parted:

"I…"

Huyết Minh tilted his head, his mouth curving into a smile that was impossible to read:

"See? You can't say it."

Thiên Dục's brows drew together, his look carrying both frustration and resignation. His voice, however, had softened:

"Don't get too smug."

Huyết Minh sat opposite, propping his chin on one hand, his eyes tracing every small movement Thiên Dục made:

"It's not smugness. I just… know."

Thiên Dục sighed, picking up a piece of toast, chewing slowly. His voice dropped, tinged with quiet exhaustion and something else:

"I'll never understand you."

Huyết Minh answered at once, his tone airy, as if carried on a breeze:

"You don't have to. Just… get used to me being here."

The words settled heavily between them. Thiên Dục lowered his gaze, his eyes softening as he murmured — so quietly it might've been only for himself:

"Maybe… I already have."

Huyết Minh watched him, a gentle smile curving his lips. He didn't say anything more, but in his eyes, something deeper flickered — calm yet expectant, waiting for something neither of them had yet named.