WM CH44

Chapter 44: Gonna Say You Forgot Again?

“That minority guy—acts all high and mighty, pisses me off just looking at him.”

I was about to push open the bathroom stall door when voices hit—froze me solid.

“You’re just mad ‘cause Wu Yan’s into him, calls him hot, huh? Haha. But I hear he’s set to be some Yan Guan—can’t marry, can’t have kids. Wu Yan’s got no shot, relax.”

“Whoosh!” Water gushed—someone cranked the faucet outside.

“Plenty of phonies out there—who knows if he’s really above it all? Maybe he’s like those fake monks: pure on the outside, smoking and drinking behind closed doors.”

“Maybe it’s not women he’s into. You see how Zheng-laoshi fawns over him? So many oil painting models—why’s it always gotta be him?”

“Gay or what?” A scoff, dripping disdain. “Our department’s a damn queer nest.”

“If you hate that Cenglu guy so much, I’ve got a plan…” The voice dropped low. I strained to catch it, but the water drowned them out—couldn’t piece it together.

“Wow, dude, that’s vicious!”

Soon, the water tapered off, voices clear again.

“Not like it’ll kill him…”

Footsteps faded—bathroom went dead quiet.

Click. I unlatched the stall, stepped out. Two faucets dripped over the long sink. I twisted one on, scrubbed with soap.

The sink’s mess—swirls of mixed colors—flushed clean with suds, spiraling down the drain. Spotless, like nothing happened.

Back then, I’d already clocked Mochuan as my old online crush, MK. Hated that whole net-love mess so bad I’d have sworn him off for life. But if I hate someone, I’m upfront—open, honest loathing. No backstabbing.

Art folks mostly see themselves as lone wolves, detached and awake from the world’s mess. The best are brilliant; the rotten ones… downright revolting. I guessed those two were from my oil painting elective. No clue what they were plotting—shot Yan Chuwen a text: tell Mochuan to watch his back.

[? What’s up?]

[Overheard in the bathroom—someone’s out to get him.]

[What??]

Justice bystander duty done. How Mochuan handled it, what came next—not my circus, not my monkeys. Didn’t want to meddle.

Week passed—oil painting class stayed chill. No word from Yan Chuwen about Mochuan getting jumped in some alley. Figured it blew over—maybe just loudmouths, no action.

Bell rang. Teacher Zheng called a break, grabbed his giant tea mug, and left.

Oil painting elective: 48 hours a semester, two 90-minute chunks weekly, ten-minute break at the 45-mark.

Everyone stirred. Even Mochuan, up on the model stand, set down his book, kneaded his neck, rolled it out.

“Bai Yin, c’mon—smoke?” A buddy waved, two fingers miming a drag.

I dropped my brush, stood, glanced at Mochuan again.

He picked up his thermos, unscrewed it, lifted it to his lips—paused. Stared at it a sec, set it back down.

“Let’s go.” I looked away, headed out with my crew.

Bell rang again—we dawdled back. Near the rear door, Mochuan burst out. First-floor classroom, railing by the greenbelt. He hunched over it, clawing red streaks from throat to collarbone, coughing, puking—pain and mess all over him.

I stepped toward him, automatic.

Then Teacher Zheng and a few classmates rushed out, crowding him, all concern.

“What’s wrong?”

“Mochuan, you okay?”

“Did he choke? I saw him sip water, then this…”

Water?

A hunch hit. I pivoted, stormed inside, grabbed his tipped-over thermos, peered in—face hardened. Dumped it out.

“Ah—what’s that?!” A girl yelped.

With the water spilled a hunk of meat—raw beef, bloody streaks. Soaked too long in hot water, surface gone pale, but soon red seeped out, threading from the chunk.

Mochuan, Yan Guan heir, didn’t touch meat since birth—veggies and eggs only, even eating out with us. Knee-jerk: no way he put this in himself.

“Who did it?” Face dark, I scanned the room, face by face.

Blank stares, air thick—no one fessed up.

“No one, huh?” I grabbed my water, some tissues, wrapped the meat, and marched out.

Mochuan’s shock-vomit had stopped, but he looked rough—eyes red-rimmed, lips drained.

“Teacher, someone tossed this in his cup.” I opened my hand for Teacher Zheng.

“This…” His brow creased tight.

“Can you walk? I’ll take you to a doctor.” I handed Mochuan my water to rinse. “Then we call the cops.”

Could be big, could be small—schools hate escalation. Teacher Zheng jumped to cool it.

“Bai Yin, don’t rush—just a classmate prank, not that serious. Leave it to me—I’ll sort it for Mochuan, trust me.”

“Prank? Meat today, poison tomorrow. Teacher, you covering a death?” I snapped.

Big-shot instructor from Capital U’s art dept, used to praise—my blunt jab turned his face red, then pale. He dropped the nice act.

“What’s this got to do with you? Why’re you butting in? Mochuan, come to my office—we’ll talk it out.”

All eyes swung to Mochuan. He sipped my water slow, half a bottle, stared down, quiet forever.

Gripping the tissue wad, his silence churned me up—pissed, antsy. I pushed.

“Going or not? You don’t, I’m out.”

Felt like I was sticking my neck out for him—simple choice, and he’s waffling. Mad, impatient—words spilled without thought. Why’d I leave if he stayed—” Skip class for what?

I turned to storm off—wrist snagged from behind.

Whipped around—Mochuan, in front of everyone, picked. “I’ll go with you.” Grip tightened.

Gloom lifted fast. I grabbed his hand back, yanked him along, tossing over my shoulder, smug, “Teacher, report this to the dean quick—no sweeping it under. We’re not playing that game!”

Teacher Zheng’s face—years later, still crystal clear. Shit hit the fan—Mochuan’s status made it blow up big if pushed.

Those two punks didn’t wait for cops—cracked, turned themselves in. Both got disciplinary marks; one bailed, too ashamed to stay, dropped out soon after.

Didn’t dwell then. Years apart, replaying it, I’d wonder—did he really miss the cup’s funk? Need my shield?

Maybe, like those creeps guessed, the real Mochuan wasn’t all saintly detachment.

He had mortal wants—buried deep, real deep…

Eyes cracked open from sleep—dazed, lost on what year it was, thrown by the unfamiliar room.

Minute later, it clicked—Zuochang, Kun Hongtu’s aunt’s place. Rubbing a throbbing forehead, I sat up.

Window ajar, fresh air rolled in, damp with post-rain morning mist.

No Mochuan. I slid to the bed’s edge, slipped on shoes, stood—legs buckled, plopped back down.

Staring at my lower half, more flashed back. Groaned—head pounded worse.

“Fuck…” Tongue hurt too!

Last night, on this bed, Mochuan and I kissed like we’d die without it—one stopped, the other dove back in, round and round. Drunk off my ass, I grabbed his hand, shoved it down my pants.

He resisted—I rubbed against it, coaxing, “It’s fine, I’m forcing you—no one’ll blame you.”

Wasted like that, felt nothing—but seeing that long hand slip past my waistband? Brain fireworks.

That hand holds sacred tools, writes sutras—what right did I have to make a Cenglu divine son do this?

“Mochuan… Mochuan…” I sat there, moaning his name, grinding my head into his shoulder, neck.

Suddenly, mouth clamped—his sweaty palm over it, eyes dark in the dim light. “You’re too loud.”

Panting, I licked his hand—his face shifted.

“This filthy act… who’d you learn it from?”

He switched to pinching my cheeks—I yelped, not from the tongue this time.

No feeling’s relative—pain trumped numbness; even smashed, I felt that.

Couldn’t talk—fumbled to soothe his hand in my pants, kneaded his arm till his fingers eased off. Rest’s a blur—like I went boneless, clinging, hugging, pressing… half the night, chaos, then sleep.

Was that wine or some aphrodisiac?? How’d I turn into that?

Stunned, reflecting, the door creaked open.

Mochuan, one hand with a tray, saw me up, shut it behind him. “Wash up, then eat breakfast.”

I shuffled over, sheepish, scratching my head. “Last night…”

He set the tray down, shot me a look, words light but sharp. “What—gonna say you forgot again?”

I flinched, shook my head fast. “No, no—remember it all, totally!”