The moment he saw Shan Yu’s tears, Chen Jian began to suspect that Yue Lang’s comment hadn’t been a joke after all.
He had expected Shan Yu to be quite happy. After all, scrolling through his past Moments made it clear how much care he had poured into it—there were so many posts about that gecko. The gecko had been named Dage1: gentle-natured, timid, and a picky eater…
Yet he truly never imagined Shan Yu would cry.
And not just the kind of crying where his eyes welled up with red; the tears actually rolled off his chin and dripped onto Chen Jian’s hand.
“Shan Yu…” Chen Jian stood frozen in place, utterly at a loss. Just as his fingertips wiped away the tears on Shan Yu’s cheek and before he could even withdraw his hand, another stream of tears slid from the corner of Shan Yu’s eye.
His hands rose and fell, waving back and forth several times like an orchestra conductor, before he finally settled on a decision: “I’ll get you a tissue.”
Turning to fetch tissues from the coffee table, Shan Yu grabbed his arm, yanked him back, and held him in a fierce, tight embrace.
Burying his head, Shan Yu pressed his eyes firmly against Chen Jian’s shoulder.
Chen Jian quickly wrapped his arms around him too, his hand rhythmically patting his back, then stroking it gently.
This was probably the only comforting gesture he knew. When he had been unhappy or sick as a child, his mother would soothe him like this.
Now, whenever Xiao Dou’er cried or Mushroom refused to sleep, he relied on the exact same routine.
He didn’t know anything else.
Had he known Shan Yu would cry—and cry like this—he would have at least tried to learn a few more comforting moves…
Shan Yu cried very quietly, almost without a sound. As Chen Jian stroked his back, he could occasionally feel a slight tremor running through Shan Yu’s body.
A few minutes later, Shan Yu lifted his head, finally making a tiny bit of noise.
He sniffled.
“I’m going to wash my face,” Shan Yu said.
“Mm.” Chen Jian nodded, glancing at him.
Shan Yu’s eyes and the tip of his nose were bright red, his face streaked with tears.
Chen Jian subconsciously touched his own shoulder—a large patch was soaked clean through.
“Take off that jacket and wash it,” Shan Yu murmured as he walked toward the sink.
“No need,” Chen Jian said. “You can’t wash down jackets all the time; they lose their warmth.”
“You really don’t care about formalities, do you?” Shan Yu glanced back at him.
“I’m a guy who’s slept on the carpet twice,” Chen Jian said.
Shan Yu smiled faintly.
When he stepped out of the bathroom, Chen Jian had wiped down the soaked patch on his shoulder with a wet wipe. Tears left watermarks if they dried on fabric.
If Sanbing saw that, he’d definitely ask: Chen Jian, did Mushroom bite you too?
Yeah, and he bit a whole shoulder’s worth of drool onto me…
Shan Yu opened the fridge, grabbed a can of Coke, tipped his head back for two gulps, and walked over to stand in front of the terrarium.
“Did you buy it food?” Shan Yu asked.
“Bought mealworms,” Chen Jian walked over. “I asked Tang Rui. Since he fishes all the time, he said you can get them at the fishing tackle shop in town.”
“Mm,” Shan Yu smiled. “You asked around and figured it all out, huh?”
“Didn’t look into much else, mainly just wanted to know where to easily buy feeder bugs. The shop owner’s friend originally wanted to teach me how to care for it, worried I’d mess up and trying to get me to swap for something easier to keep,” Chen Jian reported in a single breath. “Later, when he heard your original one was raised from a hatchling, he dropped the lessons entirely.”
“Thank you.” Shan Yu draped an arm over his shoulder, his hand curling in to lightly hook his finger beneath Chen Jian’s chin.
“Want to give him a name?” Chen Jian tilted his head down and gently nipped Shan Yu’s fingertip.
“Let’s call him Erge,” Shan Yu said. “Is it a male?”
“Yeah.” Chen Jian nodded, still holding Shan Yu’s finger lightly between his teeth.
“Did you feed him these past couple of days?” Shan Yu asked.
“Didn’t feed him the first two days. Fed him yesterday, and again this morning,” Chen Jian said. “He just gulps down whatever you give him. I didn’t dare feed him too much, worried he’d burst from overeating.”
“Even buying a gecko, you match your own appetite.” Shan Yu laughed. He stood watching for a moment longer, then used the feeding tongs to grab a mealworm from the container beside the tank and dropped it before Erge.
True to form, Erge lunged forward and swallowed it in a single strike.
“Feels like he’s grinning the second he gets food,” Chen Jian remarked.
“Eating makes anyone happy.” Shan Yu glanced at him.
“What,” Chen Jian looked back at him, “do I grin when I eat too?”
Shan Yu laughed softly, saying nothing.
“Should I buy some crickets?” Chen Jian asked. “I saw you used to feed crickets to Dage. The shop owner said these were raised on mealworms from the start, so he’s used to them.”
“Either works. If he eats mealworms, feed him those for now; they’re easier to buy,” Shan Yu said. “If you want to upgrade his meals, go catch crickets in the spring.”
“…I’ll just buy them for Erge,” Chen Jian muttered.
Shan Yu pinched his cheek with a grin. “How much did you spend on this tank and Erge?”
“Not that much,” Chen Jian said. “Well within my budget. I calculated it carefully, and set aside the two debts I have to clear before the New Year.”
Shan Yu stayed silent. He turned, collapsed onto the sofa, rested his head on his arms, and said after a quiet pause, “I started raising Dage back in middle school. I was renting a place back then, and the landlord was a reptile hobbyist. The room next to mine was completely packed with geckos.”
Chen Jian walked over, sat on the sofa, and leaned against Shan Yu’s legs.
“He gave Dage to me as a gift,” Shan Yu smiled faintly.
“You rented your own place in middle school?” Chen Jian glanced back at him.
“Mm,” Shan Yu hummed. “My home was far from the school, so I rented an apartment right beside the campus.”
Chen Jian said nothing. He felt Shan Yu’s teenage life was something he couldn’t easily imagine. Looking at his Moments, he seemed to have had endless friends, yet underneath it all, that bone-deep loneliness remained palpable.
Loneliness was something carried inside the heart.
“People say reptiles don’t have emotions like cats and dogs,” Shan Yu closed his eyes. “But back then, every time I came home, Dage would come out and watch me. Sometimes he’d stare the whole night. When I talked to him, it felt like he actually understood.”
“You talked to him and fed him,” Chen Jian said. “At the very least, he knew you treated him the best.”
“Mm,” Shan Yu murmured. “When I couldn’t sleep at night, he’d be active on his nocturnal cycle. On so many nights, he was the only one keeping me company. Aside from being a picky eater, he didn’t have a single flaw.”
Chen Jian smiled softly.
“When I learned I was heading to prison, my very first thought was what would happen to Dage,” Shan Yu said. “Yue Lang was out of the country that year, so I could only hand him over to Liu Wu. Even though Liu Wu had never kept one before, I knew he’d study desperately to figure it out…”
“Why…” Chen Jian looked at him, hesitated, then stood up and sat on the carpet in front of the sofa as before, leaning against it. “Why didn’t you ask your parents to take care of him?”
“Trapped in a mess that big, how could I have the nerve?” Shan Yu reached an arm across Chen Jian’s chest from behind, holding him close. “And I… didn’t want them to feel that, in a crisis like that, I had nothing to say to them, yet cared so intensely about a little pet.”
“Worried they’d think your feelings for them couldn’t even match a gecko?” Chen Jian rested his head back against Shan Yu’s waist.
“Mm.” Shan Yu let out a soft sigh. “He was eleven when he died. Normally, he should have lived a few more years. Liu Wu had practically turned himself into an expert keeper, but he still got sick… I think he did have feelings. He probably thought I abandoned him… Liu Wu said he’d still come out every night to space out, probably waiting for me…”
Chen Jian took his hand and pressed a kiss to his wrist.
“When Liu Wu told me Dage died, I truly felt… unbearable,” Shan Yu murmured, his voice carrying a slight thickness. “I felt so terribly guilty toward him.”
Only now did Chen Jian fully grasp why Shan Yu had reacted so intensely upon seeing the gecko.
“Tissue,” Shan Yu said.
“Hm?” Chen Jian blinked, caught on, grabbed a tissue from the coffee table, and reached back to hand it to him.
Shan Yu dabbed the tissue against his eyes.
“I’ll tell you a secret,” Shan Yu said.
“Mm.” Chen Jian immediately pressed his ear against Shan Yu’s cheek.
“During those years, at least on the surface, my attachment to Dage really was deeper than to my parents,” Shan Yu said. “I had probably grown accustomed to living without them.”
Chen Jian remained quiet.
“Don’t let my mom know,” Shan Yu added.
“As if I’d dare say a word!” Chen Jian kept his voice hushed. After a moment, he leaned back against Shan Yu’s waist again. “Maybe it wasn’t that your feelings for Dage were deeper; you just poured so much of your emotion onto Dage, and a part of that was your feelings for your mom and dad.”
Shan Yu fell silent for a long time before tilting his head down to look at him: “Chen Jian, you really seem like you spent twenty years cultivating in the mountains.”
“Not twenty years. My cultivation only started after my mom passed away,” Chen Jian said.
Shan Yu chuckled softly.
“Did you have pets when you were little?” he asked.
“Do ducks count?” Chen Jian asked.
“Why don’t you ask if pigs count,” Shan Yu retorted.
“Wasn’t raised for selling or eating,” Chen Jian said. “My mom took me to the old town to wander around, and someone at the market had dumped a sickly duckling. It was terribly frail, so I picked it up and brought it home.”
“Did you raise it to adulthood?” Shan Yu asked.
“Mm,” Chen Jian nodded. “Acted like a goose. Would waddle after me everywhere, and quack loudly whenever it got too tired to keep up.”
Shan Yu laughed: “Isn’t that just like Mushroom?”
“Pretty much,” Chen Jian nodded.
“Did it have a name?” Shan Yu asked.
“Chen Duck-Duck,” Chen Jian answered in dead earnest.
“Why…” Shan Yu couldn’t help turning his head away with a burst of laughter. “Why did it get a family name too?”
Chen Jian clicked his tongue. “Didn’t your gecko end up being called Shan Dage too?”
“Fuck,” Shan Yu laughed even harder. “I was getting sleepy, and now you’ve wound me right back up.”
“Then let me tell you something else,” Chen Jian thought for a second. “I also kept a cat, though you couldn’t really say I kept it. A stray litter born at someone else’s place in the village, nobody fed it, so it always came to my house to eat.”
“Was it called Chen maomao?” Shan Yu asked with a grin.
“You… do you actually want to sleep or not?” Chen Jian glared at him.
“I do,” Shan Yu shut his eyes. “Go on.”
“It was called Chen Xiaomao,” Chen Jian said.
“Screw you,” Shan Yu burst out laughing.
“Chen Xiaomao had a feud with Chen Duck-Duck,” Chen Jian ignored him, continuing in a soft murmur. “Every time it came over, it fought Chen Duck-Duck. Chen Duck-Duck might have had goose blood in it, completely fearless, fighting back every single time…”
That cat and duck clashed for years, never managing to get along—brawling on sight right until the duck died of old age.
After the duck died, the cat rarely came around anymore.
Later on, the family house was gone, and the cat vanished with it. Though they lived in the same village, Chen Jian never saw Chen Xiaomao again.
By the time he finished recounting the epic feud between the duck and the cat, the arm Shan Yu had draped over his shoulder had relaxed completely, his breathing smooth and slow. He had clearly fallen asleep.
Chen Jian carefully set Shan Yu’s hand back on the sofa, went into the bedroom for a blanket, and draped it over him.
Given Shan Yu’s sleeping habits, this spot shouldn’t have a sofa; it should be replaced with a bed.
Or at least a sofa bed.
Then again, Chen Jian remembered the sofa’s price tag: full-grain leather packed with down feathers, costing over sixty thousand yuan. A decent fabric sofa bed would only set them back six hundred or so…
That eight-thousand-yuan ergonomic chair was still languishing in the storage room. The Pigpen Gang had taken turns trying to fix it, but made zero headway; Lao Si had even planned to haul it home over the New Year to let his father, a machinist, take a crack at it.
Standing beside the sofa, his mind drifting across random thoughts, Chen Jian confirmed that Shan Yu was dead to the world before tiptoeing quietly out of the office.
In the afternoon, he had another driving lesson scheduled with his instructor—the final session before his Subject 3 test, with only the pre-exam track orientation remaining after that.
“Want me to drive you?” Sun Nana asked.
“I’ll just take the scooter,” Chen Jian said. “In case President He and his team need anything, we need someone reliable on-site. There are a lot of guests right now, Panpan can’t handle it all alone.”
“Is Shan Yu not reliable?” Sun Nana laughed.
“He’s asleep,” Chen Jian said. “Probably won’t wake up until tonight.”
“Understood,” Sun Nana tossed her hair back with a smile.
“Let’s hold a quick staff meeting tonight,” Chen Jian said. “Whoever is free should attend, around nine. Things should be quiet by then.”
“Mm, I’ll let them know,” Sun Nana nodded.
Riding his scooter out, Chen Jian deliberately looped around the back garden gate to check out the newly arrived old car.
None of the cars driven by the other guesthouse owners in the area compared to this one. Most drove vehicles in the few-hundred-thousand-yuan range; the best among them was probably Boss Yang’s BMW, said to have cost around nine hundred thousand.
And that was a compact sports coupe, nowhere near as massive as this SUV.
“Off to practice driving?” Da Li walked out from the neighboring courtyard.
“Mm,” Chen Jian acknowledged.
“Did the boss assign this car to you?” Da Li asked.
“How could that be possible,” Chen Jian chuckled. “It’s the boss’s car.”
“So once you get your license, you’ll be driving that other one?” Da Li asked again.
“Yeah,” Chen Jian nodded.
“Boss Shan really has deep pockets,” Da Li remarked with an envious sigh.
Chen Jian said nothing more, throttling the scooter and riding away.
He was worried that if he hung around any longer, Da Li might ask if he could jump ship to Dayin.
We don’t take folks with too many schemes.
After all, Dayin mostly runs on people with a few screws loose.
During President He and his team’s stay, their itinerary was packed to the brim. It was obvious the travel agency wanted to seize the first-mover advantage. Foot traffic was already heavy, and with all the pre-holiday preparations, Chen Jian felt like he was walking non-stop every single day—back and forth, up and down, in and out.
When he passed his Subject 3 driving test on the first try, he didn’t even process it right away; it wasn’t until he walked back into the inn that wild ecstasy finally hit him.
“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go,” he paced back and forth across the office. “Take me to that road by the old quarry so I can try driving it! On my way back, I rode the scooter in to check—no people, no cars.”
“Looking at you, people would think you already had the license in hand,” Shan Yu said.
“Just one week,” Chen Jian held up a single finger. “One week! The twenty-seventh of the twelfth lunar month! I checked, the vehicle administration office is open that day, I can pick it up then.”
“Pick up your dad while you’re at it,” Shan Yu said. “You behind the wheel.”
“My dad would be scared out of his mind,” Chen Jian laughed.
“Then take your dad for a victory lap around all your relatives’ houses,” Shan Yu added.
“You still remember that?” Chen Jian paused.
“Of course I remember,” Shan Yu said. “Did you think I was just joking around?”
“My dad definitely wouldn’t agree,” Chen Jian said.
“Then you go by yourself,” Shan Yu said.
“Are you serious?” Chen Jian looked at him, feeling both an urge to do it—and an inexplicable surge of excitement—while also thinking it was completely unhinged.
“Dead serious,” Shan Yu said.
“Wouldn’t it be a bit…” Chen Jian hesitated.
“Unhinged?” Shan Yu said. “You’ve been treading on eggshells, cultivating your inner monk for twenty years. What’s wrong with losing your mind once?”
“Twenty years of cultivation, and I still haven’t cultivated inner peace,” Chen Jian sighed.
“Why the hell do you need that much peace?” Shan Yu grabbed the car keys and walked out of the office. “It’s not like you’re dead.”
“It’s almost the New Year, keep it auspicious!” Chen Jian hurried after him.
“Why need that much peace?” Shan Yu repeated. “We’re all living, breathing people.”
The road leading to the quarry had been abandoned for ages. Dried weeds crowded the edges, but the pavement itself remained flat and intact.
Shan Yu pulled over to the side of the road and stepped out.
“Actually, practicing with the other car would be fine,” Chen Jian got out as well. “If this one gets scratched…”
“You only remember to bring that up once we’re all the way out here,” Shan Yu walked to the rear of the car and popped the trunk. “Fine, let’s drive back and swap cars right now.”
“Forget it,” Chen Jian smiled.
“Come here,” Shan Yu said.
Chen Jian walked to the back of the car.
Sitting in the trunk was a small red box.
“For you,” Shan Yu said. “New Year’s gift.”
Even though he knew it was probably a knitted beanie—over the past few days, every time he entered the office, he had spotted the skeins of yarn in the bedroom, which Shan Yu hadn’t even bothered hiding.
Yet when the gift box was actually set right before him, Chen Jian’s hands still trembled with excitement.
“It’s been about ten years,” Chen Jian said, holding the box and trying to pry the lid off, his hands shaking so hard that two consecutive attempts failed to lift the cover, “since I last received a New Year’s gift, aside from Xiao Dou’er’s handmade greeting cards…”
Shan Yu reached out, steadying his hands, and helped him lift the lid: “Then try on this once-in-a-decade New Year beanie.”
__
- Means Big Brother. ↩︎
