Sun Rain Chapter 27
byWalking out of the Shi family gate, Shi Meng heard the sound of Shi Huaiyi and Li Bihan arguing inside the house.
“I never saw you spoil a child like this before, giving him everything he asks for.”
“Mengmeng has suffered too much…”
“He suffered? Did I not suffer? Does my Mu Mu deserve to have everything taken away by him?”
“Taken away? These things were always partly Mengmeng’s.”
“I think you might as well bring that woman over. I’ll move out and make room for your family of three.”
“Why are you dragging that woman into this again? I’m annoyed enough by her as it is; I sent her away long ago. She won’t affect our lives again.”
“Are you not annoyed by her son?”
“Mengmeng is also your son…”
“My only son is Mu Mu!”
…
Li Bihan’s public image was usually elegant and gentle. Even toward Shi Meng, the “bastard,” she was quite tolerant, at most treating him as invisible, which was considered highly cultured.
It was clear how angry she was this time, losing her composure and throwing a fit even in front of an outsider.
As the car drove away from the Shi family mansion, Jiang Rong turned her head to look back, seemingly worried about the state of the Shi couple.
Once they were farther away, the silence inside the car became even more unsettling. Fu Qiming, also in the back seat, kept a sullen face and didn’t speak. Jiang Rong deliberated for a long time before finally saying to Shi Meng, who was sitting in the passenger seat: “If you want to stay here, just tell Xuanliao. There’s no need to trouble your father. We have spare rooms at home anyway.”
Her tone was barely polite, but Shi Meng seemed not to notice the lack of welcome, stating matter-of-factly: “No need for a spare room. Fu Xuanliao and I will share one.”
Jiang Rong saw Fu Xuanliao, who was driving, tighten his grip on the steering wheel, the veins on the back of his hand bulging.
Fearing an accident, Jiang Rong reluctantly fell silent, turning to look at the hazy night outside the window.
However, her worry proved unnecessary, because Fu Xuanliao’s subsequent reaction was surprisingly calm, beyond everyone’s imagination. It was like a spring stretched to its limit; once released, it instantly lost its elasticity and no longer reacted no matter how it was touched.
After parking the car, he even proactively walked around to the back to help Shi Meng retrieve his luggage, taking it up the elevator all the way to his own room upstairs.
It was as if the earlier, murderous rage had been an illusion.
Maybe it really was an illusion, Shi Meng thought optimistically. In any case, his goal was achieved, and Fu Xuanliao had accepted it.
If you won’t come to me, I will come to you. You can never escape my grasp.
Shi Meng quickly and efficiently hung up the clothes he brought, one by one, in the walk-in closet.
Just then, Fu Xuanliao finished showering and came in. He placed his phone on the bedside table and turned around, seeing the small empty section of the wardrobe filled. For some reason, he let out a laugh.
The laugh was devoid of warmth, giving it a mocking quality. Shi Meng pretended not to hear it and continued squatting on the floor, organizing the contents of his suitcase.
Suddenly, he heard Fu Xuanliao’s voice: “Where is your cat?”
“At home,” Shi Meng said. “I’ll send it back to my mother’s place in a couple of days.”
“What about the painting?” Fu Xuanliao asked again.
Whenever the painting was mentioned, Shi Meng always became highly vigilant.
He stopped what he was doing and looked up at Fu Xuanliao.
Fu Xuanliao, fresh out of the shower, was only wrapped in a bathrobe. The tie was undone, loosely exposing his solid but not overly exaggerated upper chest, and the increasingly indistinct outline of his abs further down.
Shi Meng had studied art since childhood and had seen many stronger, more powerful bodies, but only this one captivated him.
Everything belonging to Fu Xuanliao was enough to make Shi Meng fall into deep obsession.
The thought of being able to see him often in the future, of being able to confine this body in his arms every night, caused a secret and fervent excitement to surge within him. The pleasure even drowned out that faint hint of unease.
“I hid it in a safe place,” Shi Meng said confidently, lifting his chin slightly. “You won’t find it.”
They still made love that night, with Fu Xuanliao unilaterally dominating, using it as a means of venting.
Only then did Shi Meng realize that his previous successful sneak attacks were due to the other party turning a blind eye, commonly known as holding back.
There had once been so many moments of tenderness.
But Shi Meng would not regret his choice. After all, if he let go, it would be difficult to possess him again, and he didn’t want to die a second time.
He constantly told himself that love had many forms, and pain was one of them.
It was like lying in a small boat, his body rising and falling with the waves, accompanied by dizziness and various discomforts.
Shi Meng held Fu Xuanliao tightly, vaguely imagining he was back on the broad back of the young man. They walked through the lonely night, the road ahead swaying, but his heart was steady. Even if the path led to a mountain of knives, a sea of fire, or the Avici Hell, he was not afraid.
As climax approached, Fu Xuanliao leaned down and asked hoarsely in Shi Meng’s ear: “Then take a guess, can I find your other weaknesses?”
Shi Meng’s eyes dimmed, but he was still smiling.
“Fool.”
He was laughing at Fu Xuanliao, but he was scolding himself.
My weakness is you. Why do you need to search?
Afterward, Shi Meng casually retrieved the small sketchbook he carried with him, pulled a pen from the bedside table, and handed it to Fu Xuanliao.
The latter leaned back lazily against the headboard, glancing at him: “What for?”
Taking advantage of the rare calm after the exertion, Shi Meng said: “Draw a mushroom.”
“…What nonsense are you up to now?”
“The mushroom you drew last time at the resort.”
The reminder made Fu Xuanliao recall it, and he sneered: “Do you really think of yourself as a mushroom?”
Shi Meng didn’t answer, only grabbing his arm, persistently urging him to draw.
The sleepy Fu Xuanliao reluctantly took the book and pen, quickly sketching a few lines.
When it was handed back, Shi Meng looked down at it for a moment. Like a plant that had been long dry finally absorbing nourishment, his voice lifted: “Is this me?”
Fu Xuanliao had already pulled the quilt over his head, giving a perfunctory “Mhm.”
Then he fell asleep. Shi Meng leaned over and kissed him, but he remained completely unaware.
After the New Year, major universities successively started their semesters. The art academy Shi Huaiyi had arranged for Shi Meng also sent an admission notice just before the Lantern Festival.
On the day of registration, Shi Meng was led by Jiang Xue to complete the procedures at the school.
Looking at the students passing by, laughing and chatting, Shi Meng gripped his backpack strap, standing timidly close to the wall. Jiang Xue turned around after collecting the materials, and seeing him like this, she felt both heartache and exasperation: “You chose this yourself. Let’s go, we need to meet your mentor.”
The mentor was a vigorous man in his fifties named Ma, a member of the National Artists Association. Jiang Xue had long heard of his reputation and immediately flattered Mr. Ma on Shi Meng’s behalf upon meeting him.
Fortunately, the mentor was amiable. Not only did he not mind Shi Meng’s silence, but he also praised Shi Meng’s painting skills.
“I saw your work at the exhibition. The brushwork is unique, the composition is exquisite, and it possesses a strong personal style. I will have to learn much from you in the future.”
Jiang Xue acted as Shi Meng’s spokesperson, humbly saying “Not at all” and “How dare we,” before pressing Shi Meng’s head down to bow, urging him to repeatedly greet the teacher.
Carrying the art books borrowed from Teacher Ma as they left the school, Jiang Xue lamented meeting such a benefactor while eagerly planning Shi Meng’s future path: joining the Artists Association within two years and holding a solo exhibition within three, everything clearly laid out.
Shi Meng, however, was not enthusiastic. Once in the car, he urged Jiang Xue to drive quickly; he wanted to go back.
“What’s the rush? That’s not your own home,” Jiang Xue had long been critical of Shi Meng moving into Fu Xuanliao’s house. “Besides, that Fu guy doesn’t come back every day.”
“If work isn’t too busy, he always comes home,” Shi Meng said.
Jiang Xue snorted: “Why did Gao Lecheng tell me he’s been going to the Heting Club a lot lately?”
Shi Meng thought for a moment: “Maybe he wants to drink.”
Before returning, Shi Meng detoured to a supermarket to buy a few bottles of alcohol.
He didn’t know much about liquor, so he chose the most expensive ones, picking up a bottle of different types and proofs. When he carried them back, Jiang Rong, who opened the door, was startled.
“You bought so much alcohol,” she looked at the fully stuffed refrigerator with some difficulty. “Where should we put it?”
Shi Meng carried all the bottles into the room and arranged them on a table. He took a photo and sent it to Fu Xuanliao.
Fu Xuanliao didn’t reply all evening.
Nor did he come home.
Lying in bed that night, Shi Meng began to regret not bringing that sweater. Although there were many of Fu Xuanliao’s clothes here, and his scent was on the pillow, Shi Meng still preferred that sweater—it was soft, crumpled easily when hugged, and every time he saw the marks he left on it, he felt a strange sense of satisfaction.
He wondered if the scars he left on Fu Xuanliao during their last lovemaking had faded, or if they had already disappeared?
Did that waiter named Xu at the Heting Club like him so much that he would climb into his bed and try every means to leave marks on him?
After all, a drunk Fu Xuanliao would lose at least seventy percent of his fighting capacity, and if he were drugged… In a place like the Heting Club, perhaps such drugs really existed.
So Shi Meng went to the Heting Club. He never liked to sit and wait for things to happen.
The first time he went to the Heting Club, he was allowed to sit inside. The next few times, he could only wait downstairs. This time was even worse; he wasn’t allowed to stand in the open area downstairs. Shi Meng was chased to the edge of the sidewalk. Several waiters bowed and called him Young Master Shi while watching him to prevent him from approaching the main entrance.
“It’s orders from above, we can’t help it,” one waiter said apologetically. “Young Master Shi, please be kind. It’s cold out, let me call a car to take you back.”
The Lunar New Year had passed, and the weather was no longer cold. Shi Meng knew this was an excuse.
He also knew Fu Xuanliao was retaliating against him. He tried every means to force him to stay, and Fu Xuanliao did everything he could to escape. It had been this way from the start.
Fortunately, Fu Xuanliao was a normal person with too many exploitable weaknesses. Besides the hidden painting, Shi Meng had other methods.
He stood under the shower in the lingering chill of early spring, turning the temperature knob to cold water, and unhesitatingly twisted the tap open.
The bone-chilling cold was followed by the body’s warning of functional breakdown. Waves of heat surged, burning him into a state of delirium, as if he were floating on a cloud.
In the early morning, Shi Meng woke up again in a daze, vaguely seeing a figure pacing back and forth by the bed and hearing an anxious voice on the phone.
“Xuanliao, please come back and see him. He refuses to go to the hospital, won’t take medicine or drink water… I’m afraid if this continues, he will, he will…”
Older people, out of reverence for life, always avoided inauspicious words.
But Shi Meng believed neither in ghosts nor gods. His lips moved, silently finishing the sentence—if this continues, he will die.
Death was not scary; the most terrifying thing was that no one cared whether he lived or died.
Fortunately, he had gambled correctly. After silently counting from one to a hundred twenty times, he opened his eyes. Fu Xuanliao’s face gradually came into focus, accompanied by rapid breathing.
Before he could even smile at him, Shi Meng was pulled off the bed by his wrist.
An unusual heat radiated from his palm. Fu Xuanliao’s face was terrifyingly pale: “Let’s go, to the hospital.”
But Shi Meng clung desperately to the door frame, squatting and resisting, using his body weight to fight against Fu Xuanliao’s strength, refusing to go with him.
He was practically dragging Shi Meng out of the room. Jiang Rong watched in fear and stepped forward to advise: “You can’t do this, he’s still sick.”
Fu Xuanliao lost his patience and turned to roar: “Do you want to die here?”
His thought confirmed, Shi Meng, sitting on the floor, began to laugh: “You don’t want me to die… I knew it, you can’t bear to let me die.”
It turned out that when he was precariously balanced on the windowsill holding The Flame, the terror in Fu Xuanliao’s eyes contained a part that belonged to him.
Shi Meng was resurrected the moment Fu Xuanliao rushed back in a fit of rage.
He refused to go to the hospital, grabbing the fever reducer Jiang Rong had prepared on the bedside table and tossing it into his mouth. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he dry-swallowed it.
His face was as pale as paper, but his body was burning hot. His gaze toward Fu Xuanliao was equally fervent, like he was looking at a hard-won trophy.
After all this commotion, Fu Xuanliao didn’t even have the energy left to call him a lunatic. This kind of self-destructive tactic, hurting the enemy by eight hundred and oneself by a thousand, was probably only something a lunatic among lunatics like Shi Meng could pull off.
In the evening, the fever had subsided somewhat. Shi Meng went to the kitchen to get a bottle opener and two glasses, pouring the wine that had been sitting on the table for a long time for Fu Xuanliao.
“We have wine at home,” he said. “Don’t go to the Heting Club anymore.”
Fu Xuanliao asked him: “Is this wine drugged too?”
Shi Meng froze, then let out a short laugh: “You’ve already come back. Why would I need to drug it?”
Fu Xuanliao was beginning to think Shi Meng was genuinely insane.
He poured himself a full glass of wine, raised it toward Fu Xuanliao from a distance, and said in a very soft voice: “Thank you for saving me.”
Fu Xuanliao didn’t know which time he was referring to, and he scoffed: “So, this is how you repay me?”
Shi Meng, feeling challenged, grew anxious. He put down his glass, jumped off the chair, bent his legs, and crawled onto the bed. While tugging at Fu Xuanliao’s clothes, he whispered in his ear: “I heard that when you have a fever, it’s very hot inside. Want to try?”
The scorching breath burned every cell operating in his body. Fu Xuanliao felt like he was going crazy too.
Later that night, after Shi Meng fell asleep, Fu Xuanliao got up to stand on the balcony and catch the breeze. His phone vibrated just then, and he answered it.
Shi Sihui on the other end heard the rushing wind and asked: “Are you outside?”
“No, I’m home,” Fu Xuanliao said irritably. “Say what you need to say.”
“Nothing much, just letting you know we’re ready. When the time comes, the group’s elders will stand with us and help us acquire that ten percent of shares based on the original capital contribution.”
“Mhm.”
“What about your side? Have you decided?”
Fu Xuanliao turned and looked at Shi Meng on the bed in the room. He was sleeping soundly, unaware of the impending betrayal he was about to face.
However, Fu Xuanliao felt he should be happy and delighted to be able to personally take away something precious from such a cold-hearted, vicious person, using his own methods against him.
Once he had nothing, Fu Xuanliao wouldn’t be constrained by him anymore.
Thinking this, Fu Xuanliao ignored the scattered thought that could be categorized as reluctance, turned back, and said into the phone: “I’ve decided. I’ll help you.”
Suddenly, a gust of wind blew in through the half-open window, gently stirring the hair on his forehead. Shi Meng, deep in sleep, was oblivious, only clutching the quilt tighter.
In his dream, he didn’t have to climb high mountains or cross dangerous peaks. He didn’t need to hurt others or himself to drink the spring water essential for his survival, nor to touch the sun that was within reach.