Back home, Song Cheng released Chengfeng from the leash, sitting in the living room, scrolling on his phone while waiting for Qin Wunian. Twenty minutes passed, yet no sign of him. Song Cheng blinked at the front door.
Five minutes later, he carried his unfinished iced tea to the sunroom on the third floor and sank comfortably into the lounge sofa.
The sofa was low, without support, uncomfortable to sit on—but perfect for lying down. The sunroom’s ceiling was glass, and on rainy days, nothing could be seen above, only streams of water rushing down. Song Cheng loved it, listening to the rain, watching the water flow, and, in Sichuan dialect, he would say it in two words: ba shi—meaning perfectly satisfying.
Qin Wunian was also someone who knew how to enjoy himself. The sunroom was filled with his belongings. On the low table opposite, a fully transparent Bluetooth speaker sat, capable of projecting a spectrum of colors when music played, almost as if someone had spilled living paint inside.
Song Cheng pressed the touchscreen. Not very familiar with the device, he fumbled for a while before successfully playing music. He quickly swiped past the first few tracks.
Qin Wunian liked rock and rap, but every time Song Cheng listened, he found it unbearably noisy. Occasionally a track would catch his interest, but overall, neither genre suited him.
After swiping through nearly ten tracks, he finally found one he liked: a pure instrumental piece, Boléro.
The drumbeat rolled from far to near, accompanied by viola and cello, weaving a melody both flowing and romantic.
The rain continued outside. As Song Cheng listened, he felt himself growing sleepy.
On a sunny winter day, the trees outside still lush and green, the two sat in the room—one expressionless, the other sitting upright and tense.
Pressing pause, Song Cheng asked the man across from him, “So, what do you think?”
Qin Wunian heard his voice but didn’t answer immediately. He relaxed slightly and made a soft nasal hum: “Mm…”
Song Cheng: “You don’t like it?”
Qin Wunian: “Mm…”
Song Cheng: “Mm? What does that mean? If you don’t like it, just say it.”
Hearing this, Qin Wunian lifted his eyelids and, honestly, confessed, “It made me sleepy.”
Song Cheng: “…”
He put his phone aside and muttered softly, “Talking to a wall.”
The room wasn’t big, and with them sitting so close, Qin Wunian immediately heard him. He retorted, “Different strokes for different folks! Besides, you said yourself, if I don’t like it, I should just say so.”
Song Cheng ignored him, shaking his head at the window, then picked up the unfinished homework. “Just focus on being a good actor from now on. Music isn’t a path you can take.”
Qin Wunian: “…”
He ground his teeth in frustration. “So young and already so ruthless. No wonder you don’t make friends.”
Song Cheng snorted lightly. “I don’t make friends? Anyone I want can be my friend.”
Qin Wunian: “Yeah, sure. Keep telling yourself that.”
Song Cheng glanced at him and returned to his homework, speaking lightly: “It’s just a fact. You don’t want to admit it, I can’t help that.”
Once again, Qin Wunian felt that irresistible itch in his hands.
When he first met Song Cheng, Qin Wunian had been fooled by his appearance—thinking him a simple, obedient high schooler, as blank and innocent as a sheet of paper. After a few encounters, he realized he had been completely duped.
This kid’s heart contained every color imaginable, just no pure white. Even knowing what he was like, Qin Wunian couldn’t take his eyes off him.
The thought that ran through Qin Wunian’s mind most often when looking at him was simple: How does he manage to be so infuriating?
Frustrated to no end yet unable to act otherwise, Qin Wunian stared at Song Cheng’s face for a while. Then, an idea came to him. He smiled mischievously, leaning his arm on the table, approaching like a kind-hearted older brother—but the words he spoke were like a devil’s whisper:
“You’re so capable. Why aren’t you off playing with your friends today, and instead came running to me? One answer: you have no friends. Another answer: you don’t want to play with your friends and want to play with me. Song Cheng, pick one.”
Song Cheng froze slightly. Qin Wunian was too close; his breath brushed against Song Cheng’s cheek. Without a change in expression, Song Cheng subtly turned his head, their eyes mere centimeters apart.
Song Cheng didn’t react, yet Qin Wunian was momentarily stunned. So close, so intimate—he could count every eyelash, though he didn’t. Still, his gaze lingered on Song Cheng’s clear, captivating peach-blossom eyes. The boy’s youthful innocence hadn’t faded completely, and eyes that clean were dangerously alluring, easy to get lost in and impossible to escape from.
Qin Wunian’s expression blanked slightly, but Song Cheng remained as composed as ever. Wordlessly, he placed a sheet of homework on the table, slowly pushing it toward Qin Wunian.
Hearing the rustle, Qin Wunian looked down. Then Song Cheng spoke:
“There’s a third option. You help me with homework—math, physics, chemistry are mine; history, geography, politics are yours. Don’t know something? Copy from the book. I want to go to the city square tonight. Everything must be finished before six. You can handle that, right? Or… you can’t?”
Song Cheng’s tone was casual, yet Qin Wunian instantly felt provoked.
How could he not manage? Where could he fail? He was the best at everything!
With a snap, he grabbed the sheet and dove into the sea of knowledge.
Leaning on his hand, Song Cheng’s face displayed a victorious, smug smile—but only he knew that beneath it, another emotion was hidden: pure happiness.
The truest, simplest kind of joy.
Suddenly, the music stopped. Song Cheng opened his eyes, still smiling, and saw Qin Wunian’s tall figure. Rubbing his eyes, he sat up. “You’re back?”
Qin Wunian hadn’t expected him to be awake, still standing by the Bluetooth speaker. “You weren’t asleep?”
Song Cheng yawned slightly, then said, “Half asleep, half awake. You turned off the music, so I woke up.”
Speaking of music, Song Cheng raised an eyebrow at Qin Wunian. “I thought you didn’t like Boléro. Why do you even have it in your playlist?”
Qin Wunian casually replied, “It helps when I can’t sleep—just a bit—”
He stopped mid-sentence, suddenly looking at Song Cheng. “How do you know I don’t like Boléro? Did you… remember something again?”
Song Cheng nodded contentedly. “It’s still winter… it feels just like that room in the photo. I put on music for you, you didn’t like it, you argued with me, and you couldn’t win, so all you could do was sulk and help me with homework.”
Qin Wunian: “…”
Realizing when Song Cheng was talking about, Qin Wunian scowled and sat down beside him. The sunroom floor was tatami, so sitting on the ground was fine, though it made Song Cheng slightly higher than him.
“What do you mean I couldn’t win? I was letting you have your way.”
Song Cheng hugged his knees, speaking honestly, “Doesn’t look like it. When you couldn’t win, your face was all twisted.”
Qin Wunian: “…Your memory is faulty. I never make that face.”
Song Cheng laughed heartily. Unlike Qin Wunian, who always needed to assert himself, Song Cheng’s victorious demeanor—without even needing to argue—was somehow more infuriating.
Seeing him so happy, Qin Wunian’s competitive streak softened. Once the laughter subsided, he asked, “Anything else?”
Understanding he meant memories, Song Cheng paused, a little guilty, and shook his head. “That’s all. I wish I could remember more, but every time it’s like squeezing toothpaste—only a little comes out at once.”
Qin Wunian watched his expression. He leaned toward the edge of the lounge sofa. Seeing this, Song Cheng scooted over slightly, making room. Qin Wunian sat down, and what had been ample space suddenly felt crowded.
Qin Wunian said, “No rush. You’ll remember eventually.”
Song Cheng looked at him with amusement. “You mean that… but I guess you really want me to recover my memory quickly, don’t you?”
Qin Wunian: “Why?”
Song Cheng: “Because they’re all our past together. And once I remember, I can speak to you with confidence.”
Qin Wunian frowned. “You don’t have that now?”
Song Cheng glanced at him lightly. “Now… well, a little. I can feel you already trust me just a tiny bit.”
He demonstrated with his fingers—an impossibly small gap between them, barely enough for a sheet of paper to slip through.
Qin Wunian had no argument for that. Not only Song Cheng, but even Ban Yunfang could see how little he trusted Song Cheng. After a moment of silence, Qin Wunian said, “That’s not important. Loving you is enough.”
Song Cheng pouted, wholly unconvinced. “No way it’s enough. Your love is mine, your trust should be mine, all of you—every single part—should be mine.”
Hearing Song Cheng so assertive was rare. Qin Wunian chuckled, then, pausing briefly, pulled Song Cheng onto his lap.
Song Cheng complied naturally, though the lounge sofa wasn’t ideal for sitting this way. Even on Qin Wunian’s lap, he couldn’t stretch his legs fully. After a brief hesitation, he straddled Qin Wunian, chest to chest, hands resting on his shoulders.
They met eyes. Song Cheng smiled at him—the same smile he had worn after waking from sleep.
Though not heavy, Song Cheng radiated presence. Feeling bolder than usual, Qin Wunian held his back and asked,
“Chengcheng, do you like me?”
Song Cheng met his gaze and, after a moment, shook his head.
Qin Wunian knew this wasn’t a true denial, but seeing the gesture still made his heart skip. Luckily, the warmth of Song Cheng’s body reminded him he was right there, in his arms. He asked again, “You really don’t like me?”
People only grew more timid with time.
Eighteen-year-old Qin Wunian had been brash and self-assured. Even when losing to Song Cheng, he would never have shown this vulnerable expression. Once confident and dignified, he had one day lost all of that.
Song Cheng hadn’t taken anything away; instead, he trampled Qin Wunian’s confidence and dignity into the mud, mingling with blood and flesh, beyond recovery.
A man who could dominate the internet with a single retort found no trace of pride before him. Perhaps the first days after reunion were an exception, but over time, Qin Wunian’s facade had been dissolved by Song Cheng—he could no longer hide.
Song Cheng’s smile faded as quickly as it appeared, his expression somber. “Qin Wunian, why can’t you hate me like a normal person? Make me suffer a little too.”
Listening, Qin Wunian pressed his lips tight. “Maybe I’m disabled.”
“Some are born without legs, some without hearing. I… I was born unable to do what you’re asking. It’s my flaw, but I can’t change it.”
Song Cheng remained quiet for a long moment, then lifted his hand. His fingertips touched Qin Wunian’s brow, slowly gliding down to his cheek.
Feeling Song Cheng’s gentle touch, Qin Wunian’s heart trembled. He closed his eyes, and after a few seconds opened them to see Song Cheng gazing at him with utmost seriousness.
“Never use ‘like’ to describe my feelings for you. I love you—far deeper than an emperor loves his people, a god loves mortals, a husband loves his wife, or parents love their child. I can’t recall why I know this, but I am truly, truly certain.”
Qin Wunian’s throat moved, as if he’d lost the ability to speak, staring at Song Cheng.
Song Cheng’s own throat tightened. He felt an urge to cry—not the sort of release prompted by a movie, but a deep, heartfelt surge. The long-blocked stream of emotions in his chest finally broke free, and the words he had longed to say came out at last.
His heart ached for Qin Wunian, and for himself.
He gave a small, gentle smile—but it was not a happy one. Seeing it, Qin Wunian felt a sharp tightening in his chest, as if someone had kicked him where he was most vulnerable.
Song Cheng: “Actually, it doesn’t matter if you couldn’t do it, because I could. I took your part, added my part, and did it all together. Before, I never understood why every time I saw you, I felt like I had done something wrong. Now I understand—but what I did wasn’t just a simple mistake. I hurt you… and I hurt myself. I—”
Before he could finish, Qin Wunian silenced him with a fierce kiss. His tongue moved against Song Cheng’s so urgently it made him tingle. Both of Qin Wunian’s hands pressed onto Song Cheng’s back like clamps, gripping his shoulder blades hard.
It hurt.
Qin Wunian probably didn’t realize how much force he’d used; he just wanted Song Cheng to stop talking.
And Song Cheng was right—he did trust him, just a tiny bit.
But that trust was like the ethical dilemma of a child playing on railroad tracks: whichever path you choose, the outcome isn’t an answer—it’s heartbreak.
Distrusting him made Qin Wunian anxious, but trusting him meant facing a crueler reality: during all the years Qin Wunian had struggled, Song Cheng had suffered the same way, never enjoying a single good day.
Some might secretly rejoice at a former partner’s hardships, but Qin Wunian wasn’t that person. To him, a former partner was never just a “former.”
It was a curse with no antidote.
This wasn’t a kiss—it was more like a wild, predatory bite between beasts. Song Cheng initially resisted, but Qin Wunian, seemingly losing all reason, went further. They had already left the sofa; Qin Wunian pinned Song Cheng to the tatami. Song Cheng grew scared and struggled.
Qin Wunian trapped both of his hands above his head. In a flash, Song Cheng realized his strength couldn’t match Qin Wunian’s. Exhausted, he let go with a weak whimper. Then, as suddenly as before, Qin Wunian paused, slightly pulling back. His chaotic breaths remained close; Song Cheng’s chest rose and fell even more violently, as if he’d been deprived of air for too long.
Qin Wunian regained some control. After a pause, he leaned down again, gently pressing small, soothing kisses to Song Cheng’s lips.
Like reassurance. Like instinct. Song Cheng gradually calmed, and he reached out to stroke Qin Wunian’s back.
But when he did, he realized Qin Wunian’s spine trembled lightly, as if unable to bear any more.