Sun Rain Chapter 48
byThe warmth radiating from his skin felt like a test, and the brush of his hair ends against Shi Meng’s cheek caused a tingling, numbing itch.
Fu Xuanliao recalled the Shi Meng of the past, whose hair reached his shoulders. Because he had heard Fu Xuanliao liked short hair, Shi Meng had cut it off without hesitation. Shi Meng had cut his hair again a few days ago. Aside from genuinely liking the clean, crisp look of short hair, did that decision hold a small connection to him?
He didn’t dare to flatter himself, only secretly thinking that Shi Meng might also feel sorry for him, or perhaps pity him. Shi Meng couldn’t bring himself to be completely ruthless and didn’t treat him as something disposable.
However, Fu Xuanliao was also very clear that this was only the Shi Meng who hadn’t fully reacted yet.
Just as he was about to lean in closer, to press against that soft, warm cheek, he was struck in the abdomen by a sudden elbow jab.
The force made Fu Xuanliao stumble back two steps. He covered his stomach with his hand, quickly straightened up, and maintained a relaxed demeanor as if he hadn’t been hurt. He even smiled and complimented Shi Meng: “Very strong alertness.”
Shi Meng saw his face instantly turn pale. He had just started to wonder if he had hit him too hard, but seeing him still able to smile brought a wave of irritated annoyance.
He had clearly said not to touch him, yet Fu Xuanliao had found a loophole.
“Since CEO Fu has time, you should go to the hospital,” Shi Meng said coldly.
Fu Xuanliao continued to smile, raising a finger to his own face: “Do I look that bad?”
Shi Meng didn’t answer. He could tell that by looking in a mirror.
He only stated his position: “I don’t want a single second of your three minutes.”
As he turned to leave, Shi Meng heard Fu Xuanliao say from behind him: “Then I’ll come back tomorrow and ask again.”
It was a sentiment remarkably similar to “Then I’ll just try harder.”
The door slammed shut with a bang. Returning upstairs and locking his own door, Shi Meng collapsed onto the bed, pulling a pillow over his head. His intention was to block out external sounds, but he unknowingly drifted off for a second nap.
He was later woken by the cat. Hungry and unable to find food, the cat’s meows were mournful and drawn out. Shi Meng groggily climbed out of bed, opened a can of cat food, and mixed it into the kibble. The satisfied cat stopped meowing and obediently lay by Shi Meng’s feet, keeping him company while he drew until night fell.
Dinner was a simple bowl of noodles he cooked. While eating, he received a photo from Pan Jiawei. He clicked it open: a mandarin duck hotpot, with various dipping sauces and ingredients spread across the table.
He hadn’t felt anything before, but looking at his own noodles after seeing the photo, they seemed a bit bland.
Pan Jiawei asked Shi Meng if he wanted to eat hotpot. Shi Meng said, “Not really.”
“That means you do want to eat it,” Pan Jiawei sent a voice message. “I’ve figured you out. You only say one-tenth of what you mean. ‘Not really’ means you really want to eat it.”
It was noisy on his end, sounding like he was having a meal with classmates. Shi Meng thought for a moment and typed: That’s not true.
Pan Jiawei chuckled: “Refusal invalid.”
He asked Shi Meng if he was free on Saturday. Shi Meng asked what for. Pan Jiawei was vague: “Nothing much, just treating you to hotpot. This place has great broth and fresh ingredients.”
Shi Meng asked why he was treating. Pan Jiawei became even more evasive: “Just… just to thank you for listening to me sing. Even my mom doesn’t like listening to me sing.”
The reason was barely plausible.
Shi Meng originally didn’t want to agree, but remembering the last few Saturdays when he was tracked from morning till night, he hesitated several times before replying: I’ll treat you.
Pan Jiawei replied quickly, his tone upbeat: “Does it matter who treats? It’s settled then! Saturday evening. If you have time, you can go wander around Xuncheng Street in the afternoon, and I’ll be your guide!”
But Saturday was still four days away, and Shi Meng had to prepare himself mentally every time he left the house, like going into battle.
Fortunately, that guy had been slightly more restrained these days. Shi Meng only occasionally sensed someone following him, and if he didn’t look closely, he wouldn’t even see Fu Xuanliao’s face.
The autumn rain in Xuncheng was intermittent, drizzling on and off until late Friday night. When the sun came out on Saturday, the temperature didn’t rise; instead, it dropped significantly. It was so cold that when Shi Meng pushed open the window and inhaled a breath of fresh air, he felt a chilling sensation deep in his lungs.
Li Bihan’s letter had reminded him to add layers using the phrase, “A spell of autumn rain brings a spell of cold.” Shi Meng thought that since it had rained so many times, winter must be approaching soon.
Pushing open the door, he saw the person squatting outside the yard in thin clothing, and Shi Meng couldn’t help but shiver again.
Fu Xuanliao, still wearing those same clothes, seemed unfazed. He looked up and wished Shi Meng good morning, while skillfully using a shovel to chip away at the damp soil, continuing his phone call.
Shi Meng had come out to check on the marigolds he had planted, fearing they wouldn’t adapt to Xuncheng’s damp, cold weather, and planned to build a small shelter for them.
He unintentionally overheard a few parts of the conversation. It sounded like someone was urging Fu Xuanliao to return, but he was unwilling. First, he said: “Didn’t I arrange everything at the company before I left?”
Then he said: “You’re allowed to abandon a mess and go abroad to accompany your wife, but I’m not allowed to take a leave of absence for something important?”
He emphasized again: “Important, of course it’s important.”
Later, his tone softened slightly, perhaps because the person on the other end asked about his illness, though his reply was still irritable: “It’s just a fever, I’m not going to die.”
He had been so subservient lately that it was easy to forget he was originally a man with such an autocratic, volatile temper.
Shi Meng had a temper too. Seeing Fu Xuanliao acting on his own initiative again, he didn’t bother asking what he was trying to do. He walked straight to the iron fence and stuck his shovel outside, stirring wildly.
Fu Xuanliao quickly hung up the phone and reached out to protect the plants: “These are roses. They’ll climb the fence and grow vines. The flowers are very beautiful.”
Shi Meng acted as if he hadn’t heard him, and in three quick strokes, he dug up the few flower stems that had just been planted.
He was self-righteous and ready to face the consequences. Since he had destroyed something, he was mentally prepared to be blamed and have Fu Xuanliao vent his anger.
He was impatient to see Fu Xuanliao fly into a rage, storm off, and allow his life to return to peace.
Unexpectedly, Fu Xuanliao only tried to stop him a few times initially, then dropped his hands and gave up the resistance, staring blankly at the few flower stems lying askew on the ground. His complexion was still poor, shrouded in the weakness of recent recovery. The sight of such a tall man squatting there, head bowed, conveyed an indescribable loneliness.
He didn’t seem like the Fu Xuanliao Shi Meng knew. It made Shi Meng wonder: Who made him this way?
“You like flowers,” Fu Xuanliao said softly. “I know what you like.”
Otherwise, you wouldn’t draw flowers, plant flowers, or give flowers to me.
He reached out, his long fingers touching the wilting leaves, showing only regret and pity, completely devoid of anger or dissatisfaction.
He said in a light tone: “Autumn isn’t really suitable for planting flowers anyway.”
“When you want them, I’ll come and plant them again.”
Shi Meng found it difficult not to notice that the shell he used to maintain his calm and rationality had developed cracks, and they were rapidly expanding.
During his short lunch break, he closed his eyes, and the gears of time reversed, replaying many familiar fragments. He saw the lily of the valley consumed by flames, and then a bouquet of fiery red roses dropped to the ground, petals scattering, trampled by passersby.
When he woke up, the overwhelming emotions surged within him. Shi Meng tried to deny these memories, but in the process of struggling, he was pulled back again and again.
Because the person who created these memories was right outside. Every time he tried to hide, that person chased after him, no matter how many harsh words Shi Meng spoke or how many hurtful actions he took.
Shi Meng thought Fu Xuanliao had gone mad; he clearly wasn’t like this before. He should have no patience with Shi Meng. If Shi Meng bit him, he should immediately retaliate and make Shi Meng hurt even more.
After spending some time thinking, Shi Meng decided to try Jiang Xue’s suggestion: call the police.
Shi Meng was not someone who liked to trouble others. A few months ago, when he was beaten and barely clinging to life in the pouring rain, he hadn’t thought of calling the police.
He had been forced into a corner, with hard walls on both sides and behind him. He had no other choice.
Just as Shi Meng pressed 110, his thumb hovering over the dial button, the courtyard gate downstairs was abruptly knocked upon.
The visitor was a middle-aged man with a dignified appearance, formally dressed, exuding the steady aura of someone accustomed to high status.
Because someone was watching intently less than three meters away, Shi Meng didn’t open the door immediately. Instead, he asked through the gate: “Who are you looking for?”
The middle-aged man handed over a business card: “My surname is Wei. I am a great admirer of Mr. Shi’s paintings. I apologize for this abrupt intrusion.”
Only after inviting the man inside did Shi Meng recall where he had seen this face. Jiang Xue had compiled information on people who had purchased his paintings. She had once shown it to Shi Meng, saying the list was full of the wealthy and powerful, including many single diamond bachelors, joking that Shi Meng should find a partner among them—anyone would be better than the man surnamed Fu.
The name on the business card confirmed the man’s identity. This Mr. Wei, whose full name was Wei Liangji, was the CEO of a listed company in Fengcheng and had previously bought Shi Meng’s paintings at auction for high prices.
As for how many pieces he had bought, given Shi Meng’s usual indifference to his surroundings, the fact that he remembered this person’s name meant it must have been quite a few.
After seating the guest on the living room sofa, Shi Meng went to the kitchen and found the floral tea Li Bihan had sent last time. He put a handful in a cup, brewed it with hot water, and presented it to the guest.
When he was still painting, Jiang Xue handled all these interactions with outsiders. Now that he was doing it himself, the awkwardness and nervousness were palpable.
However, Mr. Wei was composed and didn’t beat around the bush. He took a small sip of the tea and went straight to the point: “Mr. Shi, are you no longer painting?”
The question made the injury on Shi Meng’s palm twinge.
He said: “I am painting.” After a brief pause, he added, “I was injured, so I can’t paint well.”
Wei Liangji’s gaze followed down, a brief, light acknowledgment.
“I heard from Miss Jiang about the injury to your right hand, which is truly regrettable. However, seeing that Mr. Shi is still persisting in creating art, my trip here has not been in vain.”
His voice was steady and his tone peaceful, which calmed Shi Meng’s agitated heart.
“As for whether the painting is good or not,” Wei Liangji looked toward the easel on the balcony, which held a sketch of the scattered oranges on the table, “it is always determined by the heart. Every person’s heart is different, and judging by any standard would be unfair.”
“Mr. Shi, just keep painting. As long as you are still painting, I will always be your loyal fan.”