YMW CH 56

Brother

Under the night sky, Xie Guilan’s voice was low, almost deceptively gentle. He still hadn’t let go of Cen Wu’s hand, his larger palm nearly swallowing the other boy’s completely.

Cen Wu’s pale fingers were red from the tight grip. He struggled, digging his heels into the ground, but couldn’t shake free.

Xie Guilan was cold and obsessive. When he wanted something, he didn’t hold back—and he never knew when to stop.

Just like how, when he decided to leave the Xie family and take revenge, he pushed himself to the top of the class. Every step he took was for vengeance, climbing higher without ever letting himself fall.

And if he wanted someone, he wouldn’t let go.

Cen Wu could curse him, slap him—it wouldn’t matter. It would only make Xie Guilan want him more. He’d gladly let Cen Wu stab him if it meant keeping him.

Because more than chasing, Xie Guilan was good at luring. And more than that, he was best at getting what he wanted—by any means.

But Cen Wu always softened toward him. He didn’t want to be held, but couldn’t bring himself to push Xie Guilan away. Just like now—he didn’t want to hold hands, but instead of forcing his way free, he worried about hurting him.

It made it hard for Xie Guilan to lose control. He couldn’t even find an excuse to force things.

“Let… let go,” Cen Wu muttered, face flushed. He tried prying Xie Guilan’s fingers open, half-tempted to break them, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead, Xie Guilan took advantage, sliding his fingers between Cen Wu’s, locking them together even tighter.

The heat from Xie Guilan’s palm spread. Cen Wu gave up, shifting deeper into the shadows of the villa’s back door, letting Xie Guilan keep their hands entwined in secret.

Xie Guilan’s calloused thumb stroked the back of Cen Wu’s hand, his dark eyes glinting faintly in the night.

Cen Wu’s face burned under the stare. His resolve wavered. He hadn’t been to Xie Guilan’s rented apartment, but the original novel described it—an old, rundown building, freezing at night.

Xie Guilan’s mother didn’t live with him. No one did. So what if he stayed a little longer? What harm was there in holding hands?

It wasn’t like it would kill him.

Cen Wu’s fingers loosened slightly. His lashes fluttered as he hesitantly curled his hand around Xie Guilan’s.

The night was cold. Xie Guilan’s fingertips were icy. Cen Wu covered them with his other hand, rubbing warmth into them before muttering, awkward, “Stop… chasing me. I don’t like you.”

He was trying to make Xie Guilan feel his fatherly affection.

“I know,” Xie Guilan said, hanging his helmet on the motorcycle handlebars. His voice was flat, detached. “You just pity me.”

“…That’s not what I meant,” Cen Wu said, flustered.

Xie Guilan hated pity. Even from his friends, he despised their sympathetic looks. Cen Wu had always been careful not to make him feel that way.

But the truth was, he did pity Xie Guilan. Not because he thought he was pathetic—but because everything about him made Cen Wu soften. It blurred into something like affection.

He couldn’t explain it. He just… felt for him.

Even knowing how ruthless Xie Guilan could be, how no one could truly hurt him, Cen Wu still worried. He didn’t want him to suffer. He wanted to take him home, hated leaving him alone.

Cen Wu bit his lip, still searching for the right words, when Xie Guilan suddenly yanked him forward by the wrist. If not for the villa’s gate between them, he would’ve crashed straight into Xie Guilan’s chest.

Xie Guilan brought Cen Wu’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles before locking onto his mouth with a stare.

Cen Wu: “…”

Seriously, bro?

All that worry for nothing. The guy only had one thing on his mind.

Might as well kiss me to death at this point.

Still in that position, Cen Wu lifted his hand and lightly smacked Xie Guilan’s cheek—more of a tap than a slap, just a scolding touch.

Xie Guilan paused. Then, with dark, unreadable eyes, he bit down on Cen Wu’s finger, leaving teeth marks.

Defiant to the end.

Cen Wu: “…”

Brat.

He couldn’t help thinking—good thing I’m not dating him. Who could handle this? Biting, gnawing, like he wanted to devour him whole, bones and all.

Maybe Xie Guilan would like that. Then they’d never have to part—flesh and blood, merged forever.

Before Cen Wu could linger any longer, the villa’s old butler came looking for him. He quickly yanked his hand free, waving hastily at Xie Guilan before hurrying over.

Xie Guilan watched Cen Wu’s retreating figure, thinking how well he suited this place—a life of luxury, behind gated walls.

Originally, he’d only wanted to ruin the Xie family, leave them with nothing. As for himself? He hadn’t cared what happened to him.

Maybe he’d die before he ever got his revenge.

But tonight, for the first time, he thought about the future.

A teenager’s promise might not mean much—but if Cen Wu ever agreed to be with him, he’d make sure he never lived a life worse than this.

He’d buy him a villa.

Wasn’t that more interesting than wasting his life on revenge?

He wouldn’t let the Xie family off. But suddenly, they didn’t seem worth his everything.

Even if he was lucky enough to avoid death and only ended up in prison, what if Cen Wu married someone else by the time he got out?

Was he really supposed to wait until Cen Wu’s second marriage?

He couldn’t wait that long. And if he still couldn’t get his turn even by the third marriage—he couldn’t guarantee what he might do.

“Young Master,” the old butler said, carrying Cen Wu’s backpack for him, “who were you talking to just now?”

The garden was pitch black at night, and his old eyes could barely make out a shadowy figure.

“N-no one,” Cen Wu lied nervously.

A seasoned butler knew better than to pry. Without further questions, Cen Wu dashed back to his room, took a quick shower, and flopped onto his bed, face down, motionless.

Damn it. He felt like he’d been tricked—like he’d stepped right into some kind of trap.

Xie Guilan insisted on escorting him home every night, lingering for a few minutes before leaving. As a result, aside from the servants, Xie Guilan was practically the last person he saw every evening.

After all, Cen Wu’s parents and older brother were always busy—they rarely had time to see him at night.

Which meant that every night before bed, his mind was filled with thoughts of Xie Guilan. Xie Guilan kissed him, held his hand, and never let him go without some flirtatious remark or physical contact.

When he reached for the blanket, he’d remember this same hand had just been held by Xie Guilan. When he pressed his lips together to sleep, he’d recall how Xie Guilan had kissed him, even sucking lightly on his tongue.

It was impossible to escape.

And whatever lingered in your mind before sleep inevitably seeped into your dreams. These past few nights, Xie Guilan had haunted them all.

Like some relentless ghost, Xie Guilan followed him—awake or asleep—slowly, insidiously carving out a place in his heart.

Even if he didn’t like Xie Guilan now, years later, on some cold, moonlit night, he’d still remember the warmth of Xie Guilan’s palm. Even now, his heart hadn’t fully settled from the aftershocks.

Cen Wu had never hesitated to assume the worst of Xie Guilan—but Xie Guilan’s schemes always ran deeper than he imagined.

It was true that Xie Guilan just wanted to spend more time with him. But it was also undeniably deliberate.

Xie Guilan was terrifyingly skilled at manipulating hearts. It was an instinct, flowing in his blood—an天赋 that made him unstoppable.

Cen Wu didn’t dare dwell on it. He forced himself to sleep—tomorrow was his birthday banquet, and the thought alone made his scalp prickle.

His parents had invited countless guests. The Cen family’s youngest son’s birthday was never just a simple celebration—it was an opportunity for social climbers to cozy up to the Cens, and for business partners to strengthen ties.

Practically the entire upper crust of Huaijing would be there. Xie Mingcheng was coming too, so Cen Wu hadn’t invited Xie Guilan.

Otherwise, Xie Guilan would just be mocked by everyone again.

But he’d promised Xie Guilan—once the banquet ended, he’d go find him at Blue Night. All he did these days was placate that man. He was terrified Xie Guilan would overthink things, especially since it was technically Xie Guilan’s birthday too.

The next day, Cen Wu dragged his feet. Though the banquet wasn’t until evening, he’d been tossing since 3 AM, barely sleeping. When he got up, his face was pale, his head drooping listlessly.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Guan Xingxue asked worriedly, pressing a soft palm to his forehead.

Cen Wu shook his head. “N-nothing.”

Preparations for the banquet had started a month ago. Whether he wanted to or not, he had to go. There was no point complaining.

He hadn’t celebrated his birthday in five or six years. When his parents were alive, they’d always spent it at his maternal grandfather’s house.

After they passed, he lived with his aunt. That first year, she’d still gotten him a cake.

His father’s side of the family wasn’t particularly wealthy. They were a film dynasty, but his grandfather’s movies were never hits—often losing money. When his aunt first married, they’d struggled too, unable to even afford a home.

Later, when one of his father’s films succeeded, he’d given his uncle three million to buy a house.

At first, his uncle had treated him well. Even after his family went bankrupt, even after his parents died, leaving him with nothing—his uncle had still cared for him. His cousin had been kind too.

But he was still an extra mouth to feed. A burden, with debts trailing behind him like shadows.

On his fifteenth birthday, his aunt bought him a cake—and ended up arguing with his uncle.

“You won’t even buy Xiaobin new sneakers, but you’ll drop over a hundred on a cake for him?” his uncle had snapped, face dark.

“What?” His aunt’s voice turned icy. “Will a hundred-yuan cake bankrupt you? Then you were born to stay poor.”

“…” His uncle’s face flushed with anger. “All that’s left of your family is that sharp tongue. Every one of you is the same.”

They’d argued in hushed tones, thinking he couldn’t hear. But by then, they’d moved into an old apartment building—thin walls meant he caught every word.

That was when Cen Wu realized his presence could break a family.

He’d already lost his own. He couldn’t take someone else’s.

He started boarding at school, seeing his aunt less and less. Sometimes, walking home at night, he’d pass by that old building. The lights inside were warm and bright again.

That was how he knew—some people didn’t have to stay together. He’d rather see her windows glowing years later than watch her life shatter for his sake.

Guan Xingxue cherished him. She’d watched him grow up, eagerly anticipating his birthday every year. She thought Cen Junshan had no taste, so she took charge of the celebrations herself.

Cen Wu couldn’t bring himself to refuse.

By 2:30 PM, Guan Xingxue’s styling team had arrived at the Cen residence. Over a dozen people were assigned just to prep Cen Wu.

He’d barely woken from his nap before three stylists hauled him off to change. His face was bloodless, his legs trembling.

The Cens had a dedicated dressing room, filled with costumes from Guan Xingxue’s acting days. Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, plush carpets underfoot. Cen Wu was deposited onto a sofa.

They’d brought over thirty suits. With practiced deference, the lead stylist presented the first rack.

“Young Master, which would you like to wear tonight?”

Guan Xingxue had initially prepared just one outfit, but then she kept thinking, This one looks good… that one too… Cen Wu would look perfect in anything. In the end, she had over thirty custom-made.

Cen Wu’s lips trembled. He couldn’t get a single word out. The stylist mistook his silence for dissatisfaction and waved for the assistants to wheel the rack away, replacing it with another dozen suits.

Help.

I want to fight rich people so badly.

Cen Wu’s head spun. The sheer number of people was overwhelming—dozens of them circling around him, every pair of eyes locked onto his every move.

His hands shook as he reached for a glass of water, only for someone to immediately step forward, test the temperature, and apologize, “Young Master, let me pour you a fresh cup.”

He couldn’t take it anymore. He raised a trembling hand and randomly pointed at one.

“J-just… this one.”

“Of course, Young Master.” The stylist immediately had the suit brought down, helped him into it, then whisked him off for makeup and hair—ensuring every inch of him was polished to perfection.

The suit he’d picked was white. Guan Xingxue matched it with a white fringed shawl over a qipao.

Her long, dark curls cascaded down, breathtakingly beautiful, though her peach-blossom eyes held a cool, distant sharpness.

Until she saw Cen Wu. Then they curved into crescents.

Cen Wu thought his sharp, beautiful deskmate must take after his mother—except Xie Guilan was far more sinister.

By evening, Cen Xiao drove them to the hotel. Cen Wu leaned against the window, his lips growing paler, his palms clammy and cold. His stomach churned, the nausea making him carsick.

“Sweetheart,” Guan Xingxue patted his back gently, then suddenly asked, “Do you not want to go?”

Cen Wu froze. He pressed his lips together, forcing down the queasiness, and whispered, “Mom, I do.”

“If you don’t want to, we won’t.”

Backing out last minute would make him seem like a spoiled, unruly young master. No one would dare say it to his face, but the whispers behind his back would be merciless.

Cen Wu didn’t care, but Cen Junshan and Guan Xingxue would inevitably be dragged into the gossip. He just had to endure one night.

He insisted he was fine, so Guan Xingxue led him into the banquet—a glittering sea of perfumed gowns and clinking glasses. The original host had loved these events, and Guan Xingxue had invited so many people for his sake.

But before he could even reach the stage, his stomach twisted violently. A ringing filled his ears. He turned away and gagged.

The curtains shielded them from view. Guan Xingxue sent Cen Xiao ahead, then guided Cen Wu to a sofa, kneading his stiff fingers.

“What’s wrong?” Cen Junshan approached. “Is he unwell? Stomachache?”

Guan Xingxue held Cen Wu’s hand. “You and Xiao stay here. I’ll take him out for dinner.”

Cen Wu’s stomach was in knots, his eyes rimmed with feverish red. Tears welled up from the force of dry heaving.

Cen Junshan didn’t understand, but he never questioned his wife’s decisions. If Guan Xingxue said they had to leave, there was a reason.

Of course, he’d hoped Cen Wu could stay for his birthday—to avoid gossip. But the Cens hadn’t climbed this high for face. They’d done it for family.

If Cen Wu was suffering just to keep up appearances, what was the point of everything he’d built?

Cen Wu didn’t really want to leave. He thought he could tough it out. But Guan Xingxue was already looping her arm through his, then morally blackmailing him with an innocent, “Sweetheart, don’t you want to have dinner with Mom?”

Cen Wu: “…”

Dare I say no?

Still in their formal wear, they left. The hotel was surrounded by restaurants. Guan Xingxue took him to a teahouse and ordered fish congee—silky, mild, and soothing. Cen Wu’s stomach settled almost instantly.

Only then did Guan Xingxue start ordering for herself.

Guilt gnawed at Cen Wu. He’d ruined her plans, wasted a month of her effort.

But Guan Xingxue didn’t mention it. It was just an ordinary night out. Over dinner, she shared stories from her acting days—set gossip, directors who yelled, how she used to cry from their scolding.

“I hated those directors,” she sighed. “All so mean-tempered.”

Cen Wu thought of the countless actors he’d reduced to tears and guiltily piled food onto her plate.

After dinner, Guan Xingxue rested her chin on her hand and asked suddenly, “Sweetheart, want to catch a movie?”

It had been years since Cen Wu last stepped into a cinema. He was nervous, but he couldn’t refuse her.

Their outfits were too extravagant, so Guan Xingxue took him shopping for casual clothes, then bought tickets for a regular screening.

He’d expected a private theater, or at least a booked-out showing—after all, Guan Xingxue was a celebrity, a magnet for paparazzi. Public cinemas weren’t exactly ideal.

But she just… took him to the movies. Like any mom would. She even bought him Coke and popcorn.

The film was clichéd. Cen Wu zoned out halfway, mentally rewriting scenes. By the time he snapped back, the credits were rolling.

The lights stayed off. Most of the audience lingered for post-credit scenes. Guan Xingxue took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Sweetheart,” she murmured, voice soft in the dark, “did you have fun tonight?”

Cen Wu was stunned. He had enjoyed himself. Guan Xingxue hadn’t pressured him. They’d talked about filmmaking—though he’d bitten his tongue to avoid slipping up.

“B-but, Mom,” his voice was hoarse, “I didn’t… make you happy.”

Guan Xingxue’s eyes reddened. In the dim glow of the screen, she discreetly wiped a tear away before clutching his ice-cold hands.

“Silly boy,” she whispered. “When you’re happy, I’m happy. Nothing else matters.”

Cen Wu wasn’t that child.

That child would never have said such a thing. Guan Xingxue wanted to know where her real son had gone—but she couldn’t bring herself to ask Cen Wu.

After all, he was so worried about her, even when he was clearly struggling himself.

By the time the movie ended, it was past 11 PM. Cen Xiao had saved a slice of cake for him.

Cen Wu picked it up from the hotel, then hovered hesitantly near Guan Xingxue, trying to catch her attention. “Mom,” he mumbled, “I… I want to go out.”

Guan Xingxue pinched his cheek. She didn’t even need to ask—it was obviously for Xie Guilan.

If not for the utter innocence in Cen Wu’s eyes, she’d have suspected he was head over heels for the boy.

“Come home early,” she warned. “Have the driver pick you up. No staying out overnight.”

Cen Wu nodded eagerly, then immediately bolted—desperate not to miss midnight. But after a few steps, he slowed down, cradling the cake box carefully to keep it intact.

Cen Xiao watched with a twisted expression. What kind of spoiled brat demands a cake delivery at midnight? If he didn’t know better, he’d think Xie Guilan was some master manipulator—the type who’d sweet-talk his way into being called gege behind closed doors.

Cen Wu arrived at Blue Night with just three minutes to spare. After a quick word with the manager, he dragged Xie Guilan away.

No time for a private room. He hauled Xie Guilan to an empty hallway, plopped onto the stairs, and frantically tore open the cake box. Without waiting for a response, he shoved a forkful into Xie Guilan’s mouth.

“Eat, eat!” he urged, tense.

For once, Xie Guilan was genuinely baffled—but he obediently took a bite. Only then did Cen Wu’s eyes curve in relief.

“Wuwu,” Xie Guilan noticed the candles in the bag. He lit one and held it out. “Happy birthday.”

Cen Wu leaned in to blow it out. Silently, he added: Happy birthday to you too.

Then he caught himself. Wait, what did Xie Guilan just call me?

His ears burned. “D-don’t call me that. I’m… I’m older than you now.”

(If they counted his past life, the gap was over three years.)

Since when do you use my nickname?!

Xie Guilan hummed in acknowledgment—then suddenly pulled him into a crushing embrace, burying his face in Cen Wu’s neck.

Cen Wu shoved at him, even kicked a few times. Xie Guilan didn’t budge. He clung like a vice, utterly indifferent to the struggle, as if pain meant nothing.

Eventually, Cen Wu gave up. Fine. It’s not like hugging will kill me.

Then Xie Guilan lifted his head. Those dark, bottomless eyes locked onto him—

And in a low voice, he called:

“Brother”