黄子韬

Jiyong let his arm drop to his side when Zitao swept the letter out of his hand, but not without following him further into the living room, persistent. "The fuck it isn't my business." He stood over the younger, eyes following him down as he lowered himself onto the sofa and smacking away the plastic bag a second after he pulled the pack of cigarettes from it. "You left this shit in our closet, in a fucking communal space. Of course I'm going to read it." He stared down at the blonde, his silence — like always — only making Jiyong angrier. He hated when Zitao was short with his words, curt and simple when Jiyong wanted to talk (or more often than not, argue) every single thing out. He lodged himself between the coffee table and Zitao's knees, forcing himself into the other's line of vision. "Were you fucking him?"