In the lobby of Lingjie Bar in Yuncheng, Manager Zheng’s leather shoes tapped sharply against the floor tiles, almost rushing forward to grab the young man’s shirt hem: “Little ancestor! I’m begging you, just fill in for Zhou Yang this once! As long as you go in and sit for a bit, drink a few cups at most!”
However, the young man didn’t stop walking, the hem of his white shirt swaying in the breeze with a cold, stiff curve. Without even turning his head, he said, “I said it on my very first day on the job: I only work as an ordinary waiter, not for any other services.”
“Besides, there are so many people at Lingjie, why not find someone else?”
Manager Zheng slapped his thigh, his tone extremely matter-of-fact: “Aside from you, who else in the entire Lingjie has a figure and appearance that can compare to Zhou Yang’s? If I don’t look for you, who do I look for?”
“Do you know the kind of people coming in today? Those big shots can wave their hands and make our bar shut down for good! As long as you step in for this once, I’ll raise your monthly salary by three thousand, no, five thousand! How about that?”
The young man finally came to a halt and slowly turned his head. Under the dim lighting of the bar, one could still make out his porcelain-white complexion and unusually light pupils. That gaze fell softly, like morning mist brushing across the skin.
Zheng Mingfeng stared at him for a few seconds, then his eyes lit up, realizing that Cheng Xu had been persuaded. He hurriedly took out a red velvet ribbon, stood on tiptoe, and tied it around Cheng Xu’s eyes.
Lingjie Bar has a rule: waiters in Private Room 402 all have to wear blindfolds.
Many people were very curious when they first started working there, but Manager Zheng only said that some guests didn’t want to be recognized, while others didn’t want to recognize anyone else.
“Don’t talk nonsense once you get inside. Later on, I’ll transfer that five-thousand salary increase straight to your card!” Fearing that Cheng Xu might go back on his word, Zheng Mingfeng led him to the door of 402, opened it, and shoved Cheng Xu right inside with a swift push.
Before Cheng Xu arrived, there were already two attendants inside, also wearing blindfolds with number tags pinned to their chests.
Cheng Xu lowered his head slightly and looked through the velvet ribbon to see that he was Number 3, though he had no idea when Zheng Mingfeng had pinned it on him.
“Hey, when is Number 3 going to get here? I heard President Wang say it’s a rare, once-in-a-lifetime beauty. I’d better see what he looks like, keeping us waiting so long.”
“Yo-yo-yo, President Li is getting impatient? Should we send someone to rush him?”
“President Wang described him so exaggeratedly, how can anyone not be anxious?”
“Hey, hey, he’s here!”
The clamor inside the private room instantly ceased the moment Cheng Xu stepped in.
The young man wore a white shirt and black trousers, the hem of his shirt tucked neatly into his pants, outlining a slender, lean waist.
With his eyes blindfolded, Cheng Xu could only see hazy silhouettes of people.
Yet even without vision, the gazes of those people were clearly perceptible: appraising, scrutinizing, astonished, and finally churning into undisguised greed, possession, and desire.
Cheng Xu had experienced such gazes far too many times.
“Excuse me, everyone. The original Number 3 asked for sick leave, so I’m filling in for him. That’s why I’m late.”
Blindfolded as he was, Cheng Xu could only vaguely distinguish the outline on the sofa.
A bit chubby, somewhat short, bald. The figure right in the middle, however, looked very well-built. His gaze lingered on that person for a few extra seconds.
That person had broad shoulders and a wide back, his fingertips tapping absentmindedly against a glass cup. His gaze carried a substantive weight, and when it landed on him, the back of Cheng Xu’s neck suddenly stiffened.
Song Yanshan?
It couldn’t be him. Song Yanshan was in America; how could he possibly appear here?
Cheng Xu expressionlessly pinched himself, and when he snapped back to reality, he noticed that the person in the middle had shifted from leaning back to a slightly forward-leaning posture.
“Tsk tsk tsk, Lingjie really has hidden dragons and crouching tigers! This looks way more exciting than those internet celebrities and stars!” Li Huangdal’s gaze hadn’t left Cheng Xu since he walked in. Smiling, he picked up a glass of wine and said to the person in the middle, “President Song is truly blessed to have such a beauty on your very first visit.”
Also surnamed Song? Cheng Xu’s eyelid twitched.
“Isn’t that right? What’s that saying again? Face like jade! Hard to tell if male or female!” Wang Li was already flushed with alcohol, pointing at Cheng Xu and shouting, “Number 3 came so late, he has to be punished with drinks. How about this: the five of us are waiting for you, so you pour a drink for each of the five of us. How’s that?”
“President Wang’s request isn’t an easy one. That liquor is fierce; let alone 5 cups, even 1 cup down can make someone lose their mind. Five cups down and he probably won’t even be able to stand steady.”
The group laughed boisterously, swaying drunkenly, every face plastered with an expression of watching a good show.
The two boys next to Cheng Xu also wore schadenfreude expressions, and even through the velvet ribbon, they could feel those gazes nailing themselves onto him.
Cheng Xu’s lowered hands clenched, his fingers touching the thin, exorbitant hospital bill tucked inside his trousers pocket.
Without any hesitation, he slightly curved the corners of his lips, revealing a perfectly calibrated, distant yet polite smile, picked up the wine glass, and drained it in one gulp.
Crimson wine stained the corners of his lips, glistening brightly and adding a hint of shattered, stunning allure. Cheng Xu set the glass down, his voice calm: “Cup one.”
The fiery liquor slid down his throat, scorching his empty stomach.
He hadn’t had a single drop of water since morning, and his stomach was already churning violently. Forcing down the discomfort, Cheng Xu picked up the second glass and drank it down in a single breath.
As Cheng Xu bent over to grab the third glass of wine, sweat dripped down from the corner of his forehead.
“Keep drinking! You’re done for already?”
He closed his eyes to steady himself for a few seconds before someone grew impatient. “What’s wrong with your bar? A waiter can’t even handle a few drinks?”
Quietly bringing the glass to his lips, Cheng Xu was suddenly interrupted by a deep, cold voice: “Enough!”
Cheng Xu’s hand paused, a chill hit his collarbone, and wine spilled onto the collar of his shirt as a tall figure enveloped him.
Song Yanshan’s brow twitched uncontrollably a few times. Bending down, his voice carried a simmering anger: “Tonight’s gathering was set up to welcome me back to China, so I should be the one calling the shots. If Number 3 is going to toast, shouldn’t he be toasting me?”
Although he was shielding Cheng Xu, his words were clearly meant for the men sitting on the sofa.
The Song family was low-profile yet possessed deep roots, with intricate networks in both political and business circles. As the sole heir, Song Yanshan’s return this time was meant to take over the family enterprise.
Everyone present was shrewd; hearing this, they immediately chimed in and agreed.
“Yes, yes, yes! President Song is the guest of honor, whatever you say goes!”
“That’s right, that’s right, Yanshan, just have a good time.”
Yanshan?
Cheng Xu’s throat bobbed as he raised his head to meet the eyes of the man in the middle. Their gazes collided abruptly amidst the flashing lights and clinking glasses, and he suddenly felt grateful for the blindfold rule in Room 402.
Working as an escort in a bar, with the object of companionship being none other than one’s ex-boyfriend, logically speaking, Cheng Xu’s primary reaction should have been embarrassment and humiliation.
Yet Cheng Xu was only thinking: Song Yanshan is back? Why did Song Yanshan suddenly return to China? Did Song Yanshan have a hard time in America? Did Song Yanshan recognize him?
“Number 3.” Song Yanshan’s fingers pressed against the rim of Cheng Xu’s eye socket over the velvet ribbon, his gaze landing heavily on his face. “You have two choices: drink the rest of the wine, or let me see your eyes.”
Cheng Xu abruptly took a step back, his spine stiffened straight, and his speech quickened: “I choose to drink.”
Song Yanshan stepped closer, the bar lights casting his shadow behind him. Blindfolded, Cheng Xu could only perceive a broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted silhouette standing very straight. The distance between them was even closer than before, their breaths entangling.
“Choosing to drink means finishing the remaining cups.”
The bar’s ambiguous neon glow swept across both their faces. Cheng Xu’s shirt collar was slightly unbuttoned, and the red wine stain that had accidentally spilled earlier rested on his collarbone like a brilliant tattoo, rising and falling with the owner’s breathing.
Song Yanshan’s fingers moved to Cheng Xu’s collarbone. Feeling that subtle warmth, Cheng Xu then felt the heat shift to his stomach, lingering there much longer. He heard Song Yanshan say: “This liquor is very strong. You can’t handle it. Aren’t you going to consider changing your choice?”
Cheng Xu smiled, his voice low enough that only Song Yanshan could hear: “Forget it. We’re not a match.”
Not a match. This was the second time Song Yanshan had heard this phrase from Cheng Xu’s lips; the first time was Cheng Xu’s reason for breaking up, and this time was Cheng Xu’s reason for refusing to see him.
Song Yanshan withdrew his hand, watching him coldly as he continued to drink. The young man’s fragile neck lifted, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, a sensation he had remembered for four years.
As Cheng Xu reached for the third glass of wine, Song Yanshan caught him by the wrist.
The familiar warmth transmitted over. Four years ago, these hands had gripped his waist and grasped his ankles. The fingertips resting on the rim of the glass trembled slightly. Cheng Xu stared at that hand: distinct knuckles, with a faint ring mark still lingering on the ring finger.
“I don’t like forcing people,” Song Yanshan’s deep voice fell beside his ear. “Drinking this wine is pointless.”
In the end, Cheng Xu didn’t finish those last few glasses of wine.
He no longer remembered how he had stumbled out of the private room. With waves of pain gripping his stomach, Cheng Xu disregarded everything else and dashed straight into the restroom.
After vomiting for a long time, Cheng Xu gripped the sink and raised his head, pulling a bitter smile as he looked at his pale-faced reflection in the mirror. The ribbon clutched in his hand was soaked with sweat; only then did he realize how tightly he had been gripping it.
Cheng Xu let go of it and pulled the corners of his mouth in a thankful smile: Good thing.
Good thing he didn’t let Song Yanshan see his eyes.
Song Yanshan once said his eyes were very special, like a clear, cold lake hiding the things that fascinated him most. Yet now, staring at his own eyes in the mirror, he saw only a battered, pathetic version of himself.
Refusing to dwell on it any longer, Cheng Xu pulled a cigarette from his pocket. Lacking a lighter, he simply bit down on it to ward off the bitterness rising from his stomach.
The door behind him was pushed open, and Song Yanshan walked in. Standing sideways to him, Cheng Xu leaned bent over against the edge of the sink, the arched posture making the vertebrae beneath his white shirt unusually prominent.
“You have a bad stomach and you’re still smoking.”
Song Yanshan strode over and pulled the cigarette straight out of Cheng Xu’s mouth.
Cheng Xu smiled lazily, his voice weak: “Didn’t you see? I didn’t even light it.”
Standing right in front of him, Song Yanshan said nothing, only staring at him heavily.
That gaze was too penetrating, as though trying to pierce straight through his skin, all the way to his bones and blood. Feeling completely uncomfortable under that scrutiny, Cheng Xu deflated and spoke up: “When did you recognize me?”
“The moment you walked in.”
“Turns out it was that early. Did you find it pretty funny watching me stumble around trying to cover it up?”
After four years apart, no pleasant words came to mind. A fresh wave of bitterness suddenly surged up Cheng Xu’s stomach, and though he swallowed hard, he couldn’t suppress the nausea.
Song Yanshan leaned in, cupping his face and soothingly patting his back, saying gently, “Don’t swallow it, spit it out.”
Tears and bitterness flowed together, the damp warmth falling onto Song Yanshan’s hand. Even Cheng Xu hadn’t noticed, but Song Yanshan’s fingertips trembled slightly, his voice raspy and dry: “Cheng Xu, don’t cry.”
Song Yanshan has so many things he wants to ask Cheng Xu.
Like why he was working in a bar?
Why his stomach ailment had worsened again?
Why he looked like he was living so poorly?
Why he had chosen to leave back then?
Yet when Song Yanshan touched Cheng Xu’s tears, when he touched that hollow, emaciated frame, he could only repeat over and over: “Don’t cry. Don’t cry.”
Cheng Xu didn’t feel like crying; it was simply that his body was too desperate to vent. It felt as though his consciousness had detached, watching the self held in Song Yanshan’s arms weep uncontrollably.
After a long while, he pushed Song Yanshan away and picked up the cigarette again.
Reaching into Song Yanshan’s pocket, he fished out a lighter and lit it for himself. Taking a deep drag, the taste of nicotine seeped into his body, and Cheng Xu finally felt a little better. Tilting his head back, he slowly exhaled a ring of smoke, the hazy mist separating their faces.
Cheng Xu said, “What is this supposed to mean? Caring about me?”
With a self-deprecating shake of his head, his pale pupils drifted along with the smoke, as though his whole person was about to be carried away by the drifting haze.
Abruptly, Cheng Xu fixed his gaze on Song Yanshan, exhaled a puff of smoke, and asked word by word:
“Song Yanshan, you couldn’t still be in love with me, could you?”