Quiet in the Late Hours ｜ 夜が深くなるとき ｜ 夜深人静

The hallway lights of the hospital never fully turn off,
but that last sensor light at the far end had finally gone still.

Inside the ward, silence.

Peach lay on his side, one hand lightly pressed against the bandage at his ribs, the other resting on his chest—fingertips wandering, unsure whether they meant to suppress a feeling or summon it.

He could’ve slept. But not tonight.
It was too quiet.
Quiet enough that the damp heat beneath his sheets felt too vivid.
Quiet enough that his brother's voice—“I won’t forgive you”—still echoed behind his ears.

He thought of those eyes.

Eyes that had never looked so close.
Eyes that had never looked with so little restraint.

That gaze had burned—not violently, but like a blade grazing skin. It never cut, only lingered. But he couldn’t ignore it.

His fingers drifted from his ribs, pausing briefly at the tender pain, and then slid lower.
It wasn’t for release.
It was to confirm:
This body—
had been held like that.
Had been seen like that.

Heat pooled under his palm.

Eyes still closed, Peach drew in a shaky breath.
As if someone from his memory had stepped closer.
As if he didn’t dare look.

His hand didn’t move further.
It only rested atop the fabric of his hospital gown—gripping lightly, as if holding a dream that hadn’t yet happened.

His chest rose and fell, slow and uneven.
He bit his lower lip, afraid even the sound of breath might betray him.

“…Brother.”

A whisper. So soft it was hardly more than breath.

Outside, the rain had stopped. But the dream had not.

He buried his face into the pillow, hiding the warmth that lingered behind the fabric.
As if it was the only place left he could be honest.

医院的灯在夜里是不会全熄的，但走廊尽头的那盏感应灯，终于归于沉寂。

病房内一片静默。
Peach侧卧着，单手撑着腹侧的绷带，另一只手搭在胸前——不安分地游移着，像是要把什么感受压下，又像是故意要唤醒它。

他不是不能睡，只是这一晚太静了。
静得连被褥下的汗湿都格外清晰，静得连师兄那一声“我不会原谅你”的语调还在耳边回荡。

他想起对方的眼神——从未靠得那么近，也从未那么不克制。

那目光像是燃烧的火，又像刀尖轻抚皮肤，只擦过，不刺入，却让人无法无视它的存在。

他的手指慢慢从腹侧移向下腹，路过伤口时微微一颤，却没停。他不是为了快感，他只是想确认：
这具身体——
曾被那样注视过。
曾被那样抱住过。

手掌下的温度开始浮动。
Peach闭着眼，喉结动了动，轻轻呼了一口气，像是谁从回忆里靠近了他，而他没敢睁眼。

他的手终究没有深入，只是贴着那层病服布料停在那里，像握住了一场尚未发生的梦。

胸口微热，呼吸浅浅。他咬了咬唇，像是怕出声会被谁听见。

“师兄……”

他在唇齿之间轻轻唤了一声，声音低得像呼吸，也像叹息。

夜深了。
窗外的雨停了，但梦还没落地。
他把头埋进枕边，将那一点湿热藏在背光处——仿佛那是他唯一可以坦白的地方。