Chapter 28 - Parallel Lines

Translator's Note:

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"Excuse me, do I look like a reed to you*?" If anything, Tengshe's bruised-up face was closer to a shade of green. Shuai Zhaomin wriggled his shoulder, pushing away Tengshe's lips as they grazed his earlobe.

 

[T/N: In the original story, after the barber whispered the secret into the hole, reeds grew from the spot and began whispering the truth to the wind—exposing the king's secret.

By saying this, Shuai Zhaomin is sarcastically rejecting Teng She's attempt to confide in him. He's basically saying: "Do I look like someone who's just going to repeat whatever you tell me."]

 

He had zero interest in the little secrets of the Brelini family. In fact, the moment he could walk out of this apartment, he had no intention of ever coming back. Screw this damned competition. More importantly, he wasn't about to let his own mess drag Serg down with him.

 

"Hard to tell with your clothes on. If you don't mind, I could always check for you." Tengshe's broad chest pressed against his back, his heartbeat a slow, steady thrum against Shuai Zhaomin's spine. Shuai Zhaomin squirmed again.

 

It was a strange sensation. One never paid attention to their own heartbeat—until moments like this, when another pulse pressed against theirs, two different rhythms aligning, gradually syncing.

 

If they were lovers, perhaps it would be romantic. But they weren't. If anything, he and Tengshe Brelini weren't just not lovers—they were enemies. Damn it, why couldn't he control his own heartbeat?

 

"What, did the barber have a thing for reeds?" He jabbed an elbow back, but in the confines of the blankets, it lacked force. Tengshe pinned him down again, making the push feel more like playful wrestling.

 

Damn it! When would Tengshe get it through his thick skull? He had once been a lawyer, and now he was just an ordinary citizen. Not the Brelini family's pet, servant, plaything, or—hell forbid—punching bag!

 

"Didn't he dig a hole?" Tengshe murmured, his lips brushing Shuai Zhaomin's ear again, a hushed, smug chuckle slipping past them.

 

Goddamn it! Could he be any more blatant? Shuai Zhaomin's face burned crimson. In a moment of blind fury, he slammed his head backward, aiming for Tengshe's smug, insufferable face.

 

Of course, he missed. The back of his head had no eyes, and Tengshe, with his sharp reflexes, dodged easily. Instead, the bastard nestled his face against Shuai Zhaomin's shoulder, his rough stubble deliberately grazing over his sensitive skin.

 

It tickled—too much. A startled laugh escaped before he could clamp his lips shut. Tengshe chuckled against him, a low, amused rumble. "Attorney Shuai, I've been thinking about what you said. We've never really communicated, have we? You don't know what I want, and I…" He paused, as if savoring the moment. "I seem to have gotten addicted to playing with you."

 

His laughter vanished in an instant, replaced by a string of curses so elaborate that he managed to damn the entire Brelini lineage back eight generations—without repeating a single word.

 

What the hell did he mean by "accidentally addicted"? Was that even a thing? It shouldn't be! What kind of bullshit—

 

"Attorney Shuai, do you want to keep cursing, or do you want to actually talk to me?" Tengshe, as always, remained infuriatingly composed. Shuai Zhaomin, despite himself, had to force his mouth shut.

 

"Spit it out! Why the hell did you start messing with me in the first place?"

 

"That," Tengshe said lazily, "is a long story. You see, the barber went through quite a lot before he decided to dig the reeds."

 

The warm breath against his skin, the scratch of stubble along his throat—Shuai Zhaomin shuddered involuntarily.

 

Tengshe, that bastard, seemed to settle in comfortably, practically draping himself over Shuai Zhaomin's body.

 

"Barber, please stop fantasizing about the reeds. The shepherd boy is waiting in line. Now, if you've got something to say, get on with it." Shuai Zhaomin rolled his eyes. His glasses, pressed awkwardly between them, had tilted askew. Through the skewed lenses, he caught a glimpse of unruly black curls just below his vision.

 

A restless heat stirred deep inside him—not unfamiliar, but wholly inappropriate for this moment. It was raw, primal, something deeply masculine. Shuai Zhaomin exhaled sharply, torn between ignoring it and suppressing it with sheer force of will.

 

Then, suddenly—

 

A wet swipe along the side of his neck.

 

Shuai Zhaomin jerked violently, his back arching before he was firmly pressed down again.

 

"The story is long, so let's focus on the key points." Tengshe sounded pleased with himself, his teeth grazing over the spot he had just licked. His palm, broad and steady, rested against Shuai Zhaomin's waist, separated only by the sheets.

 

Well, he might as well treat it like a snakebite and hope the venom wasn't fatal. His head throbbed, his body felt heavy. Fighting back would be exhausting, and if he didn't react, Tengshe would probably get bored soon enough. Damn it. People really never stopped learning, no matter how old they got.

 

"Fine. I'd love to hear the key points." Actually, he'd rather skip to the conclusion.

 

"Then tell me—what do you think my mother was looking at?" For the first time, Tengshe's voice lost its usual teasing lilt. It was low, melodic, but suddenly, deeply serious.

 

Shuai Zhaomin's brain stalled.

 

That… came out of nowhere. The shift in topic was jarring. What the hell was he even asking?

 

"I'm sorry… Was there supposed to be some context before the 'key point'?" He worded it as politely as possible, but his frustration was clear. Even if they were skipping details, there had to be some kind of lead-in!

 

"I just don't understand. My mother always sat on the balcony, staring into the distance. What was she looking at? My grandmother was in Italy. There was no family left in Taiwan. My father, though often absent, called home every single day to talk to her—even when he was severely injured." The words poured out, smooth yet strangely detached, like a leaking faucet. The steady drip of a dream spoken aloud.

 

"Why didn't you just ask her?" Shuai Zhaomin frowned. If he was so hung up on it, why hadn't he asked his own mother?

 

According to the records, Tengshe had lived with his mother and grandmother right up until his mother passed. They should've been close. Shuai Zhaomin himself hadn't even been raised by his mother, but there was nothing he couldn't say to her. He had come out to his parents when he was thirteen, and when he started hitting puberty at fourteen, his mother had simply tossed him a pile of calcium tablets* and condoms, telling him to figure out sex on his own.

 

[T/N: This could suggest that the person needs to stay strong or keep their bones healthy, possibly because they're expected to exert a lot of physical effort. I'm dying... :'))]

 

"Son, all boys go through this! You got this."

 

God. He had been mortified.

 

"My education never taught me to ask about other people's feelings or opinions."

 

Wow. If that wasn't the most brutally honest self-assessment ever.

 

"Mr. Brelini, I can't answer that question on your mother's behalf." More importantly—could he get the hell off him now? Just because they'd slept together before didn't mean anyone was allowed to pin him down like this.

 

"I figured as much." Tengshe, apparently, had developed a fixation with his ear, because he latched onto the already reddened earlobe again.

 

"Then why ask me? What's the next key point?" Shuai Zhaomin knew better than anyone that the softer the ground, the deeper the roots would dig. He had struggled—but hell, there was a saying for this: "With thick enough skin, you can be invincible."

 

And Tengshe Brelini's skin was stainless steel. There was no way in hell Shuai Zhaomin's elbow alone was going to dent it. Moving around only made Tengshe press down harder, so he figured he might as well surrender to gravity.

 

To be fair, it wasn't entirely uncomfortable. Heavy, yes, but warm. Through the layers of fabric, he could feel Tengshe's heartbeat, the rise and fall of his muscles and bones. It had a strange, lulling effect.

 

And anyway… his hangover was still sending dull, persistent pulses of pain through his temples. Shuai Zhaomin exhaled, let his eyes close halfway, and yawned. The worst part? Tengshe was exactly his type. Especially in terms of physique.

 

"Attorney Shuai, you never answered my question—have you ever watched a loved one die?"

 

"No." His reply was immediate. But then he hesitated. "…What exactly do you mean by 'watched'?"

 

"My father was assassinated by his enemies—shot seven times while dining at his favorite restaurant." Tengshe's voice still carried that habitual undertone of amusement, as if it didn't affect him in the slightest.

 

It was as if none of it affected him. As if he were merely an audience member watching a film, detached, his only concern whether the couple seated beside him was ever going to stop groping each other and just get a damn hotel room.

 

It made Shuai Zhaomin unsure how to react.

 

Was he supposed to respond to the movie plot or to the couple in the next seat? Lately, everything around him seemed like a constant test of his perception and awareness. Like the kidnapping. Like that kiss.

 

…That kiss.

 

Burying his face in the sheets, he rubbed at his mouth. The moment the thought of that kiss came up, his mind went straight to Serg. He really should be calling Serg right now.

 

So why the hell was he still in bed, playing mind games with Tengshe?

 

"Mr. Brelini, I need a phone."

 

Their entire interaction could be summed up in one phrase: scattered and fragmented. Nothing ever got resolved—only more questions and more bargains, like a child distractedly switching between toys, playing with whatever caught their attention at the moment, only to circle back and pick up an old toy again, leaving everything strewn about, untouched and unfinished.

 

"You're not going to ask about my father?" Tengshe still wouldn't move, his palm warm against Shuai Zhaomin's waist as it idly drifted up and down.

 

"You just told me, didn't you? Shot seven times. Died in front of you. You're not about to tell me his last words, are you?"

 

For fuck's sake. What did that have to do with him? He already had to listen to his own parents' final words one day—why the hell would he need to hear someone else's?

 

"It concerns Fitch. Are you sure you don't want to know?"

 

A sharp pulse throbbed against his skull, his stomach twisting with nausea from drinking on an empty stomach. Why? Of all things, why did this have to involve Fitch? He'd assumed this was leading to something about Tengshe's mother.

 

"What, was he your father's lover?" Shuai Zhaomin's tone dripped with impatience. He was hungover, worried about Serg, exhausted, and pinned down by Tengshe, whose mouth was currently preoccupied with nibbling his neck and ear.

 

What the hell? Was he breakfast? A goddamn chew toy?

 

"No." Tengshe burst into laughter, clearly entertained by the absurd suggestion. His mood lifted as he rubbed his cheek lazily against the pale skin of Shuai Zhaomin's neck. "Fitch was only five when my father died."

 

"Oh." There was no dodging him, and if he moved his head too abruptly, the orchestra in his brain would start playing full force.

 

"My father asked me to protect someone for him." The laughter cut off abruptly, his voice dropping to a quiet murmur, thick with an eerie intensity. "With everything I have. Even at the cost of my own life."

 

"Is this how your father* died?" It made sense. As a key figure in the Brelini family, Tengshe's father would never have been unguarded. Taking seven bullets was almost implausible.

 

[T/N: In the raws, it says "Is this how your mother died?". But it doesn't make any sense to me, so I changed it. You may correct me in the comments if I'm wrong.]

 

"He called it love." Tengshe's voice carried a rare trace of confusion, as if he were speaking of a foreign concept. "He said it was the greatest happiness of his life."

 

"Oh."

 

"Attorney Shuai, what do you think my mother was always looking at?" His playful demeanor returned in an instant, biting down lightly on Shuai Zhaomin's neck again.

 

"You already have an answer, don't you?"

 

A heavy weight pressed him down into the mattress, forcing a cough from his throat. He swatted at Tengshe in vain, powerless against his grip. Tengshe let out a rich, satisfied laugh, his lips sliding from the curve of his neck to his earlobe before brushing against his cheek.

 

"No. I don't." His response was unwavering—undeniable, absolute.

 

Shuai Zhaomin let out a long sigh and collapsed against the bed, utterly drained.

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