Sun Rain Chapter 62

In the end, they didn’t make it to the art exhibition because Pan Jiawei took on a last-minute project that required him to travel out of town with his mentor.

Pan Jiawei on the phone sounded like he was about to cry, but Fu Xuanliao, hearing the news, laughed heartily. Shi Meng caught him red-handed when he suddenly turned around. Fu Xuanliao quickly dropped his smile, cleared his throat, and said, “Since the tickets are already bought… how about the two of us go?”

Fu Xuanliao ultimately got his wish and went. But only as the driver.

Shi Meng invited Li Bihan along. Fu Xuanliao bought an extra ticket at the venue and followed them like a bodyguard. He could only sneak a touch of Shi Meng’s hand when Li Bihan wasn’t looking, whispering things like, “This piece isn’t as good as yours.” He was then glared at by Shi Meng with the look one reserves for a hooligan, feeling quite wronged.

They drove back in the afternoon. On the way, they discussed the New Year’s Eve dinner party invited by Wei Liangji. Li Bihan checked the time and smiled, saying, “If we go now, we might still make it.”

Just as they got out of the car and walked into the yard, Shi Meng was pulled under the porch by a certain someone, who was using the same old trick.

“Are you really going?” Fu Xuanliao asked incredulously.

Shi Meng said, “If we can make it, yes.”

Fu Xuanliao grew anxious again: “That guy clearly has bad intentions toward you.”

“He appreciates my painting.”

“Then why does he always stare at you?”

“You’re the one who always stares at me.”

“If you weren’t looking at me, how would you know I was staring?”

… In his silence, Shi Meng even felt that this conversation was somewhat familiar.

Fu Xuanliao justified himself confidently: “I stare because I like you. I’ve confessed my feelings. I’m not like those old men who want to flirt without committing.”

Thinking of those three words Fu Xuanliao often had on his lips, Shi Meng’s cheeks flushed, leaving him speechless.

The two had once been contract bed partners, more familiar with each other’s bodies than their own, yet this was the first time they were touching each other’s hearts, the first time they spoke of feelings.

Like a young man on his first date, Fu Xuanliao belatedly felt shy. But running away would be embarrassing, so he braced himself and said, “Think about it… isn’t that the truth?”

Shi Meng lowered his eyes to the ground, and after a long moment, mumbled, “You’re the one who isn’t reasonable.”

Just as he was about to ask Shi Meng how he was being unreasonable, he heard a rush of footsteps. Li Bihan, who had just gone inside, came back out.

Seeing the two standing under the porch, she approached them, holding her phone, her expression serious. “I’m afraid the dinner party is off,” she told Shi Meng. “Shi Huaiyi was in a car accident. His condition isn’t good. We need to go back and check on him.”

The group arrived at the hospital around eight in the evening.

Fengcheng was lit up by thousands of lights that night. Although the hospital was as bright as day, it carried a chill. The floor reflected the stark white light, and abrupt footsteps echoed down the long corridors.

As soon as they stepped off the elevator, Shi Huaiyi’s assistant met them, guiding the group toward the Intensive Care Unit while explaining the details.

The situation wasn’t complicated. Shi Huaiyi was being driven to inspect a construction site in the suburbs. Due to a tight schedule, the car was moving fast. They encountered a drunk driver fleeing the scene who ran a red light, resulting in a collision between two speeding vehicles.

Apparently, the drunk driver wasn’t wearing a seatbelt and died instantly. Shi Huaiyi was in the back seat, and his driver managed to brake and swerve somewhat in time, taking the impact on the side of the car. Even so, Shi Huaiyi was bleeding profusely when he was brought in and remains unconscious.

After emergency treatment, he is temporarily out of danger. The ICU does not allow visitors at this hour, so they could only look at him from afar through the glass wall.

Shi Meng’s relationship with Shi Huaiyi was not deep, and he couldn’t forgive the fact that Shi Huaiyi had withheld information to protect himself. Seeing this “big shot of Fengcheng,” who was usually so imposing, now lying there quietly, wearing an oxygen mask, his head wrapped in thick gauze, and pale as a corpse, Shi Meng felt only a flicker of pity—the same amount Shi Huaiyi had shown him when he was lying in a hospital bed.

Li Bihan, however, found it hard to remain indifferent. After all, this was the father of her child, the man who had lived with her like family for decades.

Leaving the ICU, Li Bihan let out a long breath and closed her eyes. Shi Meng stepped forward to support her arm. She patted the back of his hand in return, as if assuring him that she was fine.

The mother and son walked slowly down the desolate hospital corridor. Li Bihan spoke slowly as well: “That man, he truly gives one a headache. Even when we were married, he constantly created problems for me—one moment, there was another woman outside; the next, he brought a child home. He shattered the mirror I had painstakingly repaired again and again, leaving the person standing in front of it unable to see herself clearly.”

Shi Meng knew that she actually resented herself for choosing to forgive him time and again, and he understood the difficulties she faced as a mother, which is why he never listened to outside gossip. The strength Li Bihan possessed—to endure for her child, and also to decisively leave for her child, letting that mirror shatter where it stood—was beyond the reach of most people in the world.

Unfortunately, Shi Meng was not good at comforting others. After thinking for a long time, he only said, “It’s not your fault.”

“Yes, it’s not my fault.” Yet, those three words allowed Li Bihan to squeeze a smile out of her exhaustion. Finding humor in her pain, she added, “If I must blame someone, blame the twenty-two-year-old Li Bihan for being too shallow, choosing men based only on looks.”

This sounded less like something said to a son and more like something shared with a long-time friend. Shi Meng, however, was accustomed to this mode of interaction. After serious consideration, he concluded, “Beauty fades easily.”

Just then, midnight struck. A distant clock tower chimed, signaling the arrival of the new year. Li Bihan suddenly sighed, “Yes, another year older.”

This time, it was Shi Meng’s turn to encourage her: “Every year is a new journey.”

He turned his head and saw Fu Xuanliao standing guard not too far away. Seeing Shi Meng look back, Fu Xuanliao smiled.

Due to the presence of an elder, Fu Xuanliao only mouthed something silently. Shi Meng pretended not to understand, turned back, and continued walking.

Then he also curved his lips, silently wishing in his heart, Happy New Year.

The news of Shi Huaiyi’s serious car accident and hospitalization spread throughout the streets and alleys of Fengcheng on the second day of the new year.

With the Shi family having lost its pillar, Li Bihan had to step forward on Shi Meng’s behalf to help arrange various matters.

Shi Meng naturally couldn’t stand idly by. He stayed in a nearby hotel. While Li Bihan handled company affairs during the day, Shi Meng would sit outside with his small notebook and draw. Before long, everyone in the corporation knew that this handsome young man was Shi Huaiyi’s only son.

Shi Meng had always ignored outside opinions, but after experiencing the overly solicitous treatment from the group’s employees, he reduced the number of times he went to the company. He spent the extra time visiting Jiang Xue or sitting with Teacher Ma.

Recently, Shi Meng’s focus had been on the portrait painting finals scheduled after the New Year. After several rounds of discussion, they still hadn’t settled on a subject for the competition. “Can’t I just paint Mom again?” Shi Meng asked.

Teacher Ma put on his reading glasses, opened the competition rules, and pointed them out to Shi Meng: “The rules state that the preliminary round and the finals cannot feature the same subject.”

This posed a problem for Shi Meng. He wasn’t naturally skilled at portraiture, and he found it impossible to draw anyone he didn’t genuinely want to paint. But the finals were imminent, and besides Li Bihan, who else could he draw?

Burdened by this dilemma, Shi Meng didn’t even eat lunch properly. On the way back, Fu Xuanliao got out of the car and bought him a bag of roasted chestnuts—the kind that were already cut open and easy to peel. Shi Meng took them and slowly popped them into his mouth. After a while, he went quiet. Fu Xuanliao turned his head and saw that Shi Meng had closed his eyes and fallen asleep.

Later, he was woken up by Fu Xuanliao. He was too lazy to move and planned to pretend to stay asleep, but Fu Xuanliao used his trump card, leaning close to his ear and whispering, “If you don’t open your eyes, I’ll carry you out.”

In his panic, Shi Meng still tried to act newly awake, slowly meeting Fu Xuanliao’s smiling eyes, feeling a surge of unprovoked morning grumpiness. “What is it?” He looked outside, finding the location vaguely familiar. “Where are we?”

Shi Meng’s unconscious display of affection made Fu Xuanliao’s heart beat faster. He barely managed to restrain the urge to kiss him right there, instead taking his hand, leading him out of the car, and saying softly, “I’m taking you to see something good.”

Inside the hotel-like building, seeing the familiar decorative ceiling and arrangement of tables and chairs, Shi Meng suddenly remembered: this was the venue where his painting, The Flame, had been auctioned.

Flooding into his mind along with the memory were the cold mockery from the crowd and the pain of seeing his own work attributed to someone else. He instinctively wanted to flee, but before Shi Meng could turn around, Fu Xuanliao grabbed his wrist and pulled him back.

“Trust me,” Fu Xuanliao said. “I won’t hurt you.”

Even with his reassurance, Shi Meng was still afraid.

An art-related banquet was taking place here. Paintings appeared on the large screen on the stage, and many artists and connoisseurs from the industry sat together, appreciating and commenting on them. Shi Meng only listened from the side, afraid to join in. Even when someone recognized him and came over to offer a toast, he didn’t know what expression to wear. Besides, Shi Meng couldn’t understand a word of what they were saying.

First, a connoisseur he had met a few times approached him with a kind smile: “I said back then that it was impossible for you to have done such a thing.”

“No one wants to encounter something like that,” said a senior figure in the art world, speaking with tolerance and generosity. “Fortunately, everything has come to light. Just focus on your creation from now on, and let the unpleasantness fade away.”

Then there was a media person he had never met, asking with probing intent: “Mr. Shi, are you here today to personally clear your name regarding your artwork?”

Fu Xuanliao blocked him.

Fu Xuanliao led the bewildered Shi Meng to the side of the venue, found a sparsely populated area for him to sit, and pointed toward the stage: “Look, it’s starting.”

Shi Meng looked up blankly, only to see a light suddenly flash onto the screen. Right in the center of the screen was The Flame, the painting created by his hand, which had since vanished.

Shi Meng couldn’t clearly recall what happened next. He only remembered feeling like he was dreaming, as someone displayed a photo of his painting and corrected the author’s name based on the appraisal results provided by an authoritative expert.

When he “woke up,” Shi Meng didn’t believe it, until he saw his name, “Shi Meng,” clearly signed beneath the painting. The sound and image traveled through his senses to his heart, causing a deafening palpitation, and only then did reality sink in.

The familiar host on stage apologized on behalf of the organizers for the previous error regarding the painting’s authorship, then solemnly introduced this work—a blend of craftsmanship and inspiration—by the emerging artist Shi Meng.

Every stroke of his immersion, the effort and emotion poured into every line, was seen and acknowledged.

So many words of praise fell upon Shi Meng’s ears; all the applause and compliments were for him. In a daze, Shi Meng returned to the dream that had been crafted for him. The difference was that this beautiful dream would never end.

The banquet ended, and the commotion dispersed. Shi Meng was walking down the corridor toward the exit when he suddenly swayed.

Fu Xuanliao quickly caught him, frowning. “I told you to drink less.”

Shi Meng pulled his lips into a wide smile, squinting his eyes. “I’m happy.”

Shi Meng’s happiness was priceless, so Fu Xuanliao let him be, thinking there might be a surprise waiting for him later.

Once the car was on the road, he realized he had been overthinking things. Drunk as Shi Meng was, his mind was still clear. He even had the energy to pull out his small notebook and draw a night view of the clock tower with ninety-nine percent accuracy.

He held the drawing up to Fu Xuanliao and asked, “Is it pretty?”

Fu Xuanliao said it was pretty, but Shi Meng didn’t believe him and asked again, “Really?”

“Really. If you don’t believe me, you can ask someone else.”

“I’m only asking you.”

“Alright.” Fu Xuanliao acknowledged him, pulled the car over to the side of the road, took the notebook, examined it carefully under the reading light, and then sincerely said, “It’s wonderful. It’s better than anything the teachers at the studio painted back then.”

Shi Meng still doubted his judgment: “But you only studied for less than a week.”

“What does that matter? Can’t I tell the difference between good and bad?” Fu Xuanliao pointed to a few spots. “Look at these lines. How could anyone draw them without ten or twenty years of diligent practice? I’ve seen how much heart and effort you’ve put in all these years.”

“Think about it, did those people applaud every painting just now? It’s because your painting is good, exceptionally good. Otherwise, they wouldn’t even bother to look at it properly.”

When his voice fell silent, the car was quiet for a moment.

Then, in the depth of the silence, Shi Meng raised a hand and wiped his eyes.

This startled Fu Xuanliao badly. He thought he had said something wrong, but didn’t know how to comfort him. He quickly pulled out a tissue, cupped Shi Meng’s chin to turn him around, and gently wiped away the tears spilling from the corners of his eyes, saying, “I was wrong, please don’t cry.”

He was clumsier than a house cat. Shi Meng couldn’t bring himself to scold him. His heart was filled with a hundred emotions, but only one phrase left his lips: “You’re so annoying.”

Fu Xuanliao froze. “I… how am I annoying?”

Shi Meng didn’t want to say, but Fu Xuanliao pressed him, looking genuinely eager to learn, as if he could correct the fault instantly if Shi Meng named it. Having no choice under the relentless questioning, Shi Meng finally said, “You always apologize and admit fault so easily.”

When many things aren’t even your fault.

“That’s not exactly…” Fu Xuanliao started, then corrected himself mid-sentence. “Fine, I’ll change. Is there anything else?”

Of course there was. But Shi Meng shook his head, indicating he wasn’t going to tell him.

Shi Meng cried, silently repeating in his heart, You are so annoying. Just when I’ve accepted the reality that I am insignificant, you tell me—you are wonderful, and you are great. Your small wishes are more important than anything else in my eyes.

A long time ago, Shi Meng thought he had lost the ability to cry. Now he realized that crying required the right time and place. Previously, when facing the unfairness of fate or the condemnation of thousands, he could be strong enough to remain indifferent, because he was fighting alone, and no one would see his tears anyway.

But now, he dared to expose his vulnerability and grievances. This was not the cathartic release of a broken spirit, but tears shed because he was cherished and loved, because there was someone who felt his pain. These were the tears of finally being willing to show weakness after pretending to be strong for so long.

Seeing that Shi Meng’s tears not only hadn’t stopped but were intensifying, Fu Xuanliao completely panicked. He tossed the tissue aside and tried to wipe them with his hand, then leaned in to block them with his lips. The tears flowed into his mouth, salty and bitter.

He seemed to understand why Shi Meng was crying, yet still didn’t know how to soothe him. He could only turn sideways and clumsily pull Shi Meng into his arms.

Shi Meng hugged him back, his fingers digging into the tense muscles of Fu Xuanliao’s shoulders and back, holding on tightly.

Having once lingered at many crossroads of fate, Shi Meng had struggled fiercely, hoping someone would come to save him. Now that he had found that person, he was afraid of losing his grip, afraid that if he wasn’t careful, he would slip away again.

After steadying his breathing slightly, Shi Meng used the courage granted by the alcohol to ask, “Will you leave?” “If you leave, what will I do?” “What if you realize I’m not the one you want? What if you regret it?”

After this hasty barrage of questions, the first response he received was surprisingly superstitious. Fu Xuanliao said roughly, “On such a good day, don’t say such unlucky things.”

Next, he hardened his heart and pushed Shi Meng away, making him face him. “If not you, then who else could it be?” Fu Xuanliao said, his eyes wide and slightly red. “Look, it has always been you. From the beginning until now, there has only been you.”

He verified his words with every action, and Shi Meng truly saw himself reflected in his eyes. Full of nothing but the self named Shi Meng.

They stared at each other for a long time. Once Shi Meng’s breathing calmed and his emotions gradually stabilized, Fu Xuanliao let out a breath. “When we get back, I’ll tell you slowly.” “Even if you might not believe me, I have to tell you.”

This time, Shi Meng didn’t say “no.” Instead, he closed his eyes, squeezed out the last two tears, and allowed his exhausted, limp body to fall back into the arms of the person in front of him.

Holding Shi Meng again, Fu Xuanliao leaned close to his ear: “Is there anything else I don’t know? Tell me slowly in the future, okay?”

He was pushing his luck again, using the guise of negotiation to coax out Shi Meng’s true feelings. But now was not the time to quibble. Because while listening to the gentle words, Shi Meng also caught another sound.

He raised his hand and pressed it against his heart, feeling the tremor beneath his palm, like something breaking through the soil. It was the sound of a flower blooming, even when rooted deep in the dust.