BSS CH 23

Nightmare

Cheng Jing stood up straight, looking much less fragile than he did lying down. When he realized the two had spotted him, his gaze slowly dropped.

He hadn’t actually been there long, nor had he come with the intent to eavesdrop. He had simply stepped out to check after Zhao Duning had asked about Liang Jingmin’s whereabouts. But before he could leave, he overheard an argument, which made him stop at the doorway.

After a brief silence, he leaned lazily against the doorframe, exuding a faint air of his old self.

Despite everything he had suffered, there was no hatred in his eyes. Even seeing Liang Yulin in such a sorry state, he didn’t seem the least bit satisfied. Since their reunion, his emotions had been unpredictable—sometimes he was consumed by anguish, other times he acted as if nothing had ever happened.

It wasn’t normal.

When his gaze finally met Liang Jingmin’s, they both looked away almost instantly. Cheng Jing turned on his heel and walked off without answering the question.

Liang Jingmin followed, quickening his pace when he saw Cheng Jing’s retreating figure. But just as he was about to close the distance, Cheng Jing suddenly turned back, and the two of them came face-to-face.

Cheng Jing met his eyes indifferently.

Liang Jingmin frowned. “Why didn’t you answer my question?”

After a moment, Cheng Jing replied, “Didn’t hear anything. What, you two fighting?”

Liang Jingmin shook his head.

Cheng Jing blinked and asked, his tone light, “Didn’t you say that once I was stable, you’d take me back to Lake Akalass?”

Liang Jingmin frowned, unsure of Cheng Jing’s intent. “Do you not want to go?” he asked.

He had thought long and hard before asking this. In the past, so many of their misunderstandings stemmed from Cheng Jing’s refusal to say no outright, his unwillingness to reject. So this time, Liang Jingmin had decided to be the one to ask.

Cheng Jing gave the slightest shake of his head. “That’s not it. I’m just saying, if one day something happens, if I just die out there alone, what would you do?”

Liang Jingmin’s brows knitted tighter. “What are you talking about?”

Cheng Jing lifted his gaze, his eyes shining like glass marbles.

Liang Jingmin couldn’t stand the way he looked at him. “I’ve hired a doctor, full-time care. You don’t have to worry.”

“Liang Jingmin,” Cheng Jing said suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, “I don’t want to die.” He stared at him after saying it, as if searching for confirmation. “Do you know that?”

A surge of anger rose in Liang Jingmin’s chest. He fought to contain it, but still, he grabbed Cheng Jing’s left wrist and raised it between them. His voice was low, restrained. “You don’t want to die? Cheng Jing, this is what not wanting to die looks like?”

His grip tightened slightly. “You slit your wrist open. What could have been so unbearable?”

The fury in his eyes was deep, but beneath it, something else flickered.

Cheng Jing was momentarily puzzled but said nothing.

He tried to pull his wrist free, but Liang Jingmin wouldn’t let go.

So he looked straight at him again and asked, “Do you care?”

Liang Jingmin slowly turned Cheng Jing’s wrist over, tracing his fingers down until his thumb rested in his palm.

Cheng Jing didn’t resist, his hand lying limply in Liang Jingmin’s grasp, a faint flush rising under the pressure of his fingers.

Liang Jingmin looked down, his usual prideful expression unchanged, only rubbing his palm lightly.

The simple touch sent Cheng Jing’s breath into disarray, heat creeping up his face. Finally, he yanked his hand back.

Liang Jingmin’s lips curled slightly, almost imperceptibly.

Cheng Jing, however, looked flustered.

“You’re taking medication, aren’t you? When did you start? What are you on?” Liang Jingmin’s voice turned sharp.

He sounded like an interrogator, relentless and determined. And Cheng Jing—Cheng Jing was the guilty party, caught in the act, with nowhere to hide.

Whenever he faced questions he couldn’t answer, or situations he didn’t want to see, he retreated into himself. And now, faced with Liang Jingmin’s pressing questions, his instinct was to run.

He took two steps before his wrist was seized again—this time, his right hand, avoiding the scar.

In the next second, Liang Jingmin had backed him against the wall, maintaining his distance but effectively blocking any escape. He wasn’t forcing anything, but with his back pressed against the wall, Cheng Jing had nowhere to go except sideways.

“Cheng Jing,” Liang Jingmin said, voice firm, “answer me.”

Cheng Jing’s tone was quiet, almost unbothered. “It’s been a while. You only want to ask about this? Nothing else?”

Liang Jingmin had long lashes, which gave him a deceptively gentle look when he lowered his gaze. He was always aggressive, but in these small details, he seemed softer.

Then, in a voice unlike his usual self, he asked, “Does it hurt?”

Cheng Jing suddenly felt like he was about to break.

He had always been strong, always kept his walls up. He never gave in, never backed down. But this one simple question cut straight through his defenses, and for a second, he nearly fell apart.

His voice came out raw. “Not a day goes by that it doesn’t.”

“You have no idea how hard it is. Every night, I lie there, waiting for someone to cut me open. I feel like an experiment.” Cheng Jing lifted his head slightly, lips trembling as if yearning for a comforting kiss.

But Liang Jingmin wasn’t going to give him that.

“Why didn’t you leave? He couldn’t have forced you,” Liang Jingmin said, shaking his head.

He recalled what Liang Yulin had told him earlier. That one sentence had lodged itself deep in his mind, a blade he had tried to ignore. But now, it was starting to twist, digging in, gnawing at him with every breath.

“Why did you agree to it? Cheng Jing, tell me.”

Cheng Jing didn’t answer.

He only looked at him with quiet despair.

Liang Jingmin cupped his face, tilting it upward. His cheeks were gaunt, his jaw sharp, his beauty carrying an empty fragility.

“Answer me, Cheng Jing.” His voice hardened again, regaining its usual authority, demanding a response.

Cheng Jing flinched, like he was physically rejecting the question. His body suddenly weakened, collapsing backward, and Liang Jingmin caught him by the nape.

He felt detached, like he wasn’t even inside his own body. His limbs had gone numb, as if he had been lying in bed too long, losing all sensation.

To test his awareness, he dug his nails into the back of his hand, pressing into his own skin—touching something that felt unfamiliar, as if it wasn’t his.

Maybe he just really, really didn’t want to answer that question.

He knew the answer but refused to say it out loud for the proud Liang Jingmin to hear.

Just as Cheng Jing was about to collapse, Liang Jingmin quickly caught him, lifting him effortlessly into his arms. Cheng Jing’s head rested against his chest.

“Cheng Jing!” Liang Jingmin called his name, a hint of panic in his voice.

Cheng Jing forced his eyes open, but everything was still a blur.

Without hesitation, Liang Jingmin turned and carried him straight into a hospital room, placing him gently on an empty bed. He cupped Cheng Jing’s face, his tone urgent. “What’s wrong?”

Cheng Jing felt the cold touch against his skin. He was exhausted, his body heavy with fatigue. The urge to sleep was overwhelming, but he still forced himself to speak. “I’m tired. Take me back to my room.”

Liang Jingmin nodded and, without hesitation, lifted him again—this time more carefully, as if he were holding a delicate glass figurine that might shatter at the slightest pressure.

He carried him down the hallway, silent now, asking no more questions.

Half-conscious, Cheng Jing murmured, repeating his earlier words, “Didn’t you say… once I was stable, you’d take me back to Akales Lake?”

Liang Jingmin glanced at him. “You already asked me that.”

Cheng Jing’s face, already pale, had taken on an unsettling shade of gray-blue. Yet, he managed a faint, bitter smile. “I’m stable now. Let’s go.”

---

Before Cheng Jing’s discharge was finalized, it rained in Xijing.

A typical rain—not heavy, not light, just enough to leave the air damp, carrying the scent of wet earth.

By nightfall, a thin mist began to rise over the roads, making everything look a little hazy. The neon lights blurred into the fog, casting a dreamlike glow over the city.

But the air smelled fresh. Breathing it in deeply felt comforting, the heat of summer momentarily washed away, hinting at the approach of autumn.

Drowsy from his medication, Cheng Jing insisted on sitting in the passenger seat. His hospital gown was slightly crumpled beneath the seatbelt, emphasizing the thinness of his frame.

He was in a daze, his window down, letting the cool breeze brush against his face. He looked almost tipsy, the wind playing with his dark hair.

Liang Jingmin drove steadily, unhurried. As they waited at a red light, he glanced sideways at Cheng Jing, who seemed to really enjoy the night air.

“Cheng Jing,” he called softly, almost like a whisper, as if unsure if he wanted to be heard.

Cheng Jing turned his head sluggishly, his eyes unfocused. It took a moment before he could meet Liang Jingmin’s gaze properly.

His left hand, oddly enough, was still gripping a folded fruit knife. He finally let it go, setting it between his legs, then lifted his now-free hand, palm up, toward Liang Jingmin. The scars on his skin were clear under the dim light.

He squinted slightly, as if confirming something. “Liang Jingmin.”

“What?”

“Don’t stick your head out the window. You’ll get it chopped off.” Liang Jingmin scolded him with a straight face.

Cheng Jing was different now—his thoughts scattered, his expressions unfamiliar. He smiled, but the smile didn’t quite belong to him.

“Alright,” he agreed absently, then, without warning, changed the subject. “I’m hungry.”

“What do you want to eat?”

“Grilled gluten. The kind they sell at No. 1 High’s front gate. And leek pockets, grilled cold noodles, shaved jelly, cart noodles, deep-fried milk…” He listed one street food after another, a bizarre mix of greasy, unhealthy snacks, sounding like a spoiled child making unreasonable demands.

“No,” Liang Jingmin denied him outright. “It’s not good for you. Pick something else.”

Cheng Jing thought seriously for a moment before replying, “Poached eggs. And scallion noodles. The kind my mom used to make.”

“Alright,” Liang Jingmin agreed, as if sealing a business deal. “You can have that when we get home.”

“I don’t want the cook to make it,” Cheng Jing said slowly. “His food is terrible.”

“I fired him. I’ll cook for you.”

The light turned green. Liang Jingmin started the car again, his side profile sharp and handsome under the glow of streetlights. There was something effortless in the way he spoke.

Cheng Jing raised an eyebrow skeptically. “You? Cook?”

Liang Jingmin didn’t answer. He simply turned and gave him a long, steady look.

Cheng Jing laughed.

“I’ve known you for years. I’ve never seen you set foot in a kitchen. Cooking? What a joke.”

“I cooked for myself in high school. I rented an apartment back then,” Liang Jingmin said matter-of-factly.

Cheng Jing hesitated, half-believing, half-doubting. After a pause, he muttered, “You’d better not. I’ve been throwing up everything I eat lately. What’s the point?”

It was true—his appetite had been terrible. He could barely keep food down, so he had all but stopped eating altogether.

“We’ll talk about it when we get home,” Liang Jingmin said. “It’s still a long way. Get some sleep.”

Cheng Jing nodded obediently. In moments like this, he was so easy to love. Liang Jingmin couldn’t help but think—if only he were always this soft, always this gentle.

Once, when they were younger, Cheng Jing had been just like this—innocent and clumsy.

Out of nowhere, an old memory surfaced.

A high school craft class.

Here’s a more natural translation with a fluid, novel-like feel:

---

Their school buried them in endless studying, but still insisted on forcing them into occasional art classes.

That day, they had to build some kind of miniature structure, but Liang Jingmin barely paid attention. He had brought his math homework and was focused on finishing it instead. The six-person group struggled to figure out the assembly, while Cheng Jing quietly followed their instructions, piecing things together.

He used 502 glue—anyone who’s ever used it knows how it is. The moment it gets on your hands, it hardens into a stiff layer, blocking every pore. At first, two other group members helped, but as soon as they got some glue on their fingers, they panicked, flailing around to get it off. Whether they tried peeling it, running their hands under hot water, or some other method, they completely abandoned the project.

Liang Jingmin couldn’t be bothered to care. He had already filled a page of the project report and was ahead on his math homework, flipping through the last few pages of his notebook. Bored, he finally looked up, deciding he might as well lend a hand.

By then, only Cheng Jing was left at the table. When Liang Jingmin focused on him, he saw that all ten of Cheng Jing’s fingers were coated in glue, stiff and rigid like the hands of an old wooden puppet. His joints moved awkwardly, and the soft pads of his fingers had hardened like the cover of a book.

Liang Jingmin reached out and grabbed Cheng Jing’s hand, feeling the rough, glue-stiffened skin between his fingers. But Cheng Jing simply pulled away without a word.

Now, in the present, Cheng Jing rested his chin against the car door, obediently keeping his head inside while the wind tousled his hair. His eyes blinked rapidly, unable to withstand the breeze.

Liang Jingmin’s gaze softened, tinted with the nostalgia of old memories.

He wondered—if he let Cheng Jing stay in this half-conscious, drowsy state, would he finally forgive him? Would he lower his defenses, just like when they were young, and kiss him again with that same naive, reckless determination?

Liang Jingmin shut his eyes, unwilling to dwell on the thought.

By the time they arrived at the lakeside villa, Cheng Jing was fast asleep.

He looked so quiet before falling asleep, but once he drifted off, his rest was anything but peaceful. Liang Jingmin moved carefully, afraid of waking him, as he shut the car door and walked around to the passenger side. Gently, he gathered Cheng Jing into his arms.

Cheng Jing stirred slightly, his eyelids fluttering open for a second before closing again.

He had always been a quiet sleeper—no tossing, no murmuring, no grinding his teeth. Almost the perfect roommate.

The walk from the garage to the house wasn’t far, but Liang Jingmin still had to juggle opening the door while holding Cheng Jing. Once inside, he lowered the back of the sofa, setting Cheng Jing down. A dull ache spread through his arms, the kind that started in his fingertips and slowly seeped into his chest.

After making sure Cheng Jing was settled, he fetched a plush, expensive blanket from the cabinet and draped it over him.

The villa had been empty for a while. He’d let go of the housekeeper long ago, keeping only the maid who handled cooking and cleaning. He had called ahead to have the place tidied up, so at least it was clean, and the air conditioning was already running.

Unfortunately, it was too late now, and the maid had gone to bed.

Even so, leaving Cheng Jing to sleep in the living room felt wrong. Liang Jingmin leaned down and murmured, “Let’s go upstairs.”

Then, wrapping both Cheng Jing and the blanket in his arms, he lifted him again.

Cheng Jing’s eyelids fluttered slightly, his eyeballs shifting underneath, but he remained asleep.

The bed upstairs had been freshly made, warm and inviting. Lying there alone, Cheng Jing looked even smaller and frailer than before.

Liang Jingmin didn’t lie beside him.

He had already seen how Cheng Jing rejected him when he was awake. He had seen how light his sleep was. Instead, he turned to leave, planning to sleep somewhere else for the night.

He had an early meeting at the office—there weren’t many hours left to rest.

But just as he stepped away, he felt a faint tug.

Cheng Jing’s fingers had loosely curled around his.

It was barely a grip, likely just a subconscious movement in his sleep. His index finger hooked onto Liang Jingmin’s knuckle, like the ghost of an embrace.

Such a light touch—maybe even accidental—yet it was enough to tighten something in Liang Jingmin’s chest. Like an invisible hand had reached into him and gently, but insistently, clenched his heart.

His feet wouldn’t move.

“Just a little while,” he thought. “I’ll sit for a bit, just until he’s sleeping deeply.”

So he sat beside Cheng Jing, leaning against the headboard, keeping a fist-sized distance between them.

He pulled out his phone, squinting at the messages he had missed throughout the day. He lowered the screen brightness to the minimum, making his eyes ache from the strain.

His other hand, almost absentmindedly, traced soft circles in Cheng Jing’s open palm.

Perhaps it had been an exhausting day. Before he realized it, he started to doze off.

One sitting, one lying down. Both unconscious, at least for now, and in this state, their conflict seemed momentarily suspended.

But Cheng Jing’s sleep remained restless.

He suffered from nightmares almost every night—tonight was no exception. His breathing grew erratic, his body shifting uneasily. He gasped sharply, as if trapped in some unseen terror, but didn’t wake up.

His movements stirred Liang Jingmin from sleep.

He opened his eyes and saw the distress on Cheng Jing’s face. His breathing had become shallow and rapid, his eyelids twitching violently as if he were trying to wake up but couldn’t. His pupils rolled back, exposing whites that looked eerie in the dim light.

Liang Jingmin frowned.

He called softly, “Cheng Jing.”

It was both an attempt to wake him and a hesitant whisper, afraid of disturbing him too harshly. But nothing worked—Cheng Jing’s distress only deepened.

Unable to tell if it was just a nightmare or something more serious, Liang Jingmin hesitated, considering calling a doctor.

But before he could make a decision, Cheng Jing’s eyes suddenly flew open.

On instinct, Liang Jingmin reached out to help him sit up—

—and then froze.

Cheng Jing’s face was deathly pale, drenched in sweat, his pupils unfocused.

Something was wrong.

Then, before Liang Jingmin could react, Cheng Jing moved—swift, unhesitating.

The knife.

The fruit knife Liang Jingmin had given him earlier—he had been holding onto it this entire time.

And now, in the haze of half-sleep, half-conscious instinct, he drove the blade forward with force—

—straight into Liang Jingmin’s hand.