Chapter 21 Shen Jichuan’s Call…

Shen Jichuan hesitated, his words trailing off. At this moment, he didn’t feel embarrassed anymore; instead, worry began to surface.

You can’t think like that, Brother Shen. What if you encounter… If you can’t overpower the other person, you’ll end up at a disadvantage. In short, it’s not safe just because it’s between two men.

Shen Zhi nodded: I know. Even between two men, you still need to use protection.

Shen Jichuan erupted into a fit of earth-shattering coughs.

He just said it so calmly?

Shen Zhi: You’re clearly not that old, yet you force yourself to overcome your shyness to talk to me about these things, he tapped Shen Jichuan’s forehead, No matter what, I’m ten years older than you and have experienced much more. How could I not know about such matters?

Shen Jichuan covered his head: You’ll knock me stupid.

Shen Zhi: If you really feel embarrassed, you can help me next time, and we’ll call it even.

What kind of even was that?

Could such matters really be balanced out by taking turns?

Shen Jichuan had a bellyful of words he wanted to say, but when he met Shen Zhi’s eyes, all those arguments died in his throat.

Then, as if possessed, he said: Okay.

Shen Zhi smiled slightly and looked at his right hand: Actually, there’s something you can help me with right now. My forearm is a bit sore. There’s some muscle strain relief ointment in the first aid kit – could you apply it for me?

Shen Jichuan knew exactly why his forearm was sore.

The household had muscle strain relief ointment because Brother Shen, seeing how hard he studied, had bought it specifically for him, worried his wrists might ache.

Unexpectedly, he turned out to be quite resilient – despite all that studying, he never needed it, while Brother Shen ended up using it instead.

The pale ointment squeezed onto the arm, then spread over the scars, making sticky, subtle friction sounds – squelch, squelch – as calloused fingertips massaged the forearm muscles, easing the soreness.

Both the sounds and the scene overlapped infinitely with last night when he had massaged Brother Shen’s hands.

Shen Jichuan’s ears grew increasingly red.

He warned himself not to think about it, not to think about it, but the more he warned himself, the clearer last night’s memories became. Even the scent of the ointment at his nose seemed to change, transforming into a subtle, warm musk.

Shen Zhi propped his chin with his left hand: Speaking of which, although it’s not a big deal, I did put in effort. Don’t you think you should thank me?

That’s only right, Shen Jichuan said quietly.

Thank you, Brother Shen. You worked hard.

Shen Zhi suppressed a laugh: Then last night is behind us. Let’s never mention it again.

Mm.

Shen Jichuan’s tense nerves gradually relaxed. His emotions were influenced by Shen Zhi’s nonchalant attitude, returning to normal.

After massaging Shen Zhi’s arm, Shen Zhi went to eat while he went to study.

Everything appeared no different from usual.

But while studying, Shen Jichuan found himself unusually distracted.

He was thinking that Brother Shen was truly much more composed than someone like him, still wet behind the ears.

This was the first time Shen Jichuan truly realized the age gap between him and Shen Zhi.

Ten years.

Time and experience had settled within those ten years, becoming the tranquility and unrippled calm in his eyes.

Life’s experiences were laid bare across age, and his experience in dealing with people far surpassed that of younger men.

So even when faced with something like last night, Brother Shen could handle it with such steadiness.

There was no mockery, no teasing, no jest—only a protective safeguarding of his dignity, while timely clarification prevented both from lingering in an awkward atmosphere.

This was truly something someone his age couldn’t achieve.

The geometric shapes on the test paper grew abstract as he drifted into thought, as if time itself stretched and rewound before his eyes.

Ten years.

Enough for a person to experience one or several unforgettable loves, to meet a soulmate who could stir their heart—someone who could bring them joy and happiness, yet also pain and tears.

So has Brother Shen ever had someone he liked?

Oh, right.

Shen Zhi asked him, You mentioned your Grandma plans to buy the miracle drug, is that right?

Shen Jichuan snapped back to attention: Mm.

Shen Zhi: If the supply source is uncertain, be careful not to get scammed. Don’t rush to switch from the medication she’s currently taking. Abruptly changing drugs isn’t good if the body can’t adapt.

Shen Jichuan pondered: Alright, I understand. Thank you, Brother Shen. I’ll go home tonight and ask for more details.

Shen Zhi nodded.

At ten in the evening, Shen Jichuan left with his backpack.

Shen Zhi also returned from the living room to his bedroom.

He first cleaned the paint off the top of his foot, leaving only a small red spot.

He had nearly forgotten about this.

Fortunately, Shen Jichuan’s attention was entirely on last night’s events and he didn’t notice Shen Zhi’s foot. Otherwise, he would have surely dragged him to the clinic, and things might have been exposed.

Just thinking about it was awkward.

Afterward, he stared blankly into space for a while, not even knowing what he was thinking, just mindlessly spacing out for about half an hour.

When he came back to himself, it felt as if only a few seconds had passed.

Unaware of the time, Shen Zhi opened his phone, recalling the contact details of the private investigator he had used before crossing over.

When he was young, he was as dense as a block of wood. He hoped last night’s events would help the kid gain some insight.

Setting that aside for now, he had serious business to attend to.

Shen Zhi and this private investigator he was about to contact could be considered casual acquaintances.

He had once heard the investigator say that ten years ago, he had it rough—fancying himself a Sherlock Holmes but stuck catching mistresses. Some employers couldn’t keep their mouths shut and sold him out, leaving him badly beaten several times.

He had even been sued for violating privacy rights.

Shen Zhi sent a text to this number: Private investigation, interested?

Soon, he received a reply:

Greetings, Master! I am Black Mirror!

1. For commissions, please add me on FX for easier communication.

2. Local XX jobs require no extra fees. Remote investigations are accepted, but you, Master, must cover travel and accommodation.

3. After adding on FX, please specify the type of investigation, whether long-term or short-term. Prices vary for different cases.

PS: I have extensive experience catching mistresses, second partners, third partners, and beyond!

Shen Zhi: …

Didn’t this guy tell him he hated catching mistresses?

He added Black Mirror on FX and sent his request:

Subject One: Ke Youde

Investigation: Verify the source of his so-called Alzheimer’s miracle drug and the authenticity of the alleged supplier.

Address: XX Street, XX City, XX Province

Black Mirror: Big job, received. Anything else, generous Master?

Shen Zhi pressed his lips tightly together.

Slowly, he typed: Yes.

Subject Two: …

Investigation: …

Black Mirror: Received. The location is quite remote and secluded, requiring tracking investigation with a long time cycle. The deposit is 8000, final price will be determined by me based on case difficulty. Acceptable?

Shen Zhi transferred the money: Set out as soon as possible.

Black Mirror: OK! Will contact you later to confirm some information!

Shen Zhi had dealt with him before – this person would sometimes resort to extreme measures to complete assignments, but his most reliable quality was his airtight discretion. Unless betrayed by the client, he would never leak their information.

Ten years later, he indeed became a private detective with word-of-mouth reputation in specific circles, happily making money while chasing gossip through wind and rain.

11:30 PM.

Without Shen Jichuan’s constant clattering from washing things outside, the place felt excessively quiet, making it hard to fall asleep.

Communicating with Black Mirror inevitably made Shen Zhi recall his medication-isolated past. Having been off medication for quite some time, recalling those memories now came without pharmaceutical emotional blockers.

After the conversation, a persistent nausea gathered in Shen Zhi’s chest.

Calmly, he organized the scratch paper on his desk and placed the kitchen waste by the doorway.

Then he turned and entered the bathroom.

He vomited everything he’d eaten that evening until there was nothing left, yet he continued dry heaving for a long time – until the corners of his eyes reddened and teared up.

Disgusting.

Disgusting.

So disgusting.

Just remembering was disgusting.

Swoosh—

The water flushed away the filth.

Shen Zhi, pale with sweat-dampened temples, supported himself against the sink with both hands. He lowered his gaze to steady his breathing, eyelashes trembling incessantly.

The stomach that Shen Jichuan had been nurturing back to health recently began burning with discomfort again from stomach acid reflux, the throat following suit.

He stared at the sink drain where water spiraled into the dark opening. Staring too long made him dizzy.

Faint, fragmented whispers began echoing in his ears again, like countless ghosts clinging to his back, pressing against his ears, pouring venomous curses and pitying sighs into his hearing.

Undispellable. Inescapable.

Get lost…

Shen Zhi murmured lowly, closing his eyes.

Get lost.

He felt almost puzzled.

Why was it starting again? Not during his unstable states, not during his mentally confused periods.

These auditory hallucinations that clung like maggots to bone were returning while he was fully conscious.

Was it because Shen Jichuan had left him?

It had only been one night.

Was it because he’d communicated with Black Mirror and recalled the past?

But that shouldn’t cause auditory hallucinations while lucid.

Was it because Shen Jichuan left while he was recalling the past?

That must be it.

It had to be.

This wasn’t a relapse – he had Shen Jichuan with him now. His emotional stabilizer was right here, how could his condition possibly relapse?

This must be an isolated incident.

Shen Zhi repeatedly told himself this as he washed his face with cold water and looked up at his reflection.

Suddenly he felt grateful Shen Jichuan had left tonight and hadn’t witnessed his current wretched state.

Though he enjoyed exploiting Shen Jichuan’s sympathy as a means to hook him, the shame of his illness made him unwilling to expose his true wounds to daylight. He would never let Shen Jichuan see him like this.

Shen Zhi stared at his reflection.

The 28-year-old Shen Zhi liked the 18-year-old Shen Jichuan very much, but—

Would the 18-year-old Shen Jichuan like the 28-year-old Shen Zhi?

Not the steady, mature, rational, reliable, and successful Mr. Shen he had imagined, but Shen Zhi—who had turned into a monster over the decade from eighteen to twenty-eight, wearing only the skin of a human.

The ‘Mr. Shen’ tinged with false colors was the person Shen Jichuan most aspired to become.

But Shen Zhi was not.

Shen Zhi—

A joke who had missed his own dreams, a failure defeated by scoundrels, a useless person who could only suppress visual and auditory hallucinations with medication, a decaying puppet rooted only in obsession.

He feared that if Shen Jichuan saw his sickly state, he would smell the scent of decay from his past struggles with medication and glimpse the tentacles of the monster locked within his heart.

No…

Don’t think about it.

Too negative. Immersing in negativity would lead to a vicious cycle.

He opened his phone and clicked on the Q friend list, where Shen Jichuan was the only contact.

The default profile picture sat quietly. To save data, Shen Jichuan usually didn’t initiate contact.

Shen Zhi placed his phone on the edge of the sink, gazing at Shen Jichuan’s profile picture as a temporary stabilizer.

Then, he gripped his right forearm with his left hand and slowly tightened his grip.

The scar-covered skin had lost much of its nerve sensitivity, much like the less sensitive skin around the elbow—pinching it didn’t hurt.

But it was only the skin that didn’t hurt.

As long as pressure was applied to the bone, pain came easily.

Shen Zhi emptied his mind in the pain, and the auditory hallucinations seemed to weaken.

Cold sweat slid down his smooth forehead, falling into his eyes, stinging with pain. The light and shadow on the phone screen before him blurred and overlapped.

Suddenly, the phone vibrated.

Buzz. Buzz.

Shen Jichuan: Brother Shen, are you asleep?

The expressionless young man froze slightly, his left hand gripping his forearm instinctively loosening.

On the other side.

The lit screen illuminated Shen Jichuan’s face.

He lay curled on his side, his thoughts wandering.

What he didn’t dare think about during the day could no longer be suppressed at night—that small fragment of memory he had deliberately pushed down.

He remembered how, before helping him, Brother Shen had pulled him in front of a mirror.

Standing behind him, his thin lips almost brushing his ear, yet his eyes fixed on his reflection in the mirror, he pinched his chin and said in a low, ambiguous tone, What are you pretending for? You’re trembling with excitement.

In that moment, he seemed to have seen a completely different Brother Shen.

Something flowed out from beneath that elegant and refined exterior, something viscous, slowly crawling over his limbs, making him tremble.

But it lasted only that brief moment.

So, even though Shen Jichuan remembered it clearly, he couldn’t be sure if it was his illusion or his fantasy.

It was as if he had glimpsed another side of Brother Shen, a side completely different from the cold and mature Brother Shen.

But what did it matter if Brother Shen had another side? People are multifaceted.

It was just that every time he recalled the words, What are you pretending for? You’re trembling with excitement, something stirred in his heart, like a feather brushing past, bringing a strange restlessness and itch.

Shen Jichuan didn’t understand what was going on in his own mind, leaving him tossing and turning, unable to sleep.

It was too strange.

No.

A single word that seemed cold and indifferent.

Brother Shen had replied.

Shen Jichuan perked up and began typing again, this time very, very slowly.

Brother Shen, are you an S? Or a dom?

…Too blunt. Delete.

Then typed: Brother Shen, do you know about S, or dom?

Not appropriate either, delete.

Type again: Brother Shen, may I ask if you prefer that kind of release with a sense of control? No particular reason, just asking to make it easier to help you next time.

Delete, delete.

Damn.

What is he even saying?

Even weirder!

After doing ten sit-ups and push-ups on the bed, Shen Jichuan finally calmed down.

He lay back down and typed: I asked Uncle-Grandfather Ke. He couldn’t disclose the source of the medication, but he assured me it’s fine.

So that’s what it was about.

Shen Zhi came out of the bathroom, but he felt utterly exhausted. After throwing up, he had little strength left in his body.

He closed the bathroom door and leaned against the mirror on it, slowly sliding down to sit on the floor.

Behind him was the spot where Shen Jichuan had gasped and come last night. Pressing close to it felt like pressing close to Shen Jichuan’s warm body, which helped stabilize his emotions a little more.

His damp hair was still dripping, the screen reflecting his pale face.

Ignoring his trembling right hand, Shen Zhi lowered his eyes and slowly typed: Don’t worry too much about it.

Shen Jichuan: Mm, anyway, for now, we’ve decided to stick with the old medication for my grandma.

Shen Zhi frowned, glanced wearily at his disobedient fingers, then bent his legs, placed the phone on his knees, and switched to his left hand:

Okay.

He quietly watched the screen, waiting for Shen Jichuan’s message.

He wanted to chat a little longer, about anything at all.

But after a while, he received: Brother Shen, good night then?

Drip.

Cold water from his hair dripped onto the screen.

Shen Zhi spaced out for a moment. When he came to, it was already ten minutes later. He shook his head, tapped his ear, and typed:

Shen Jichuan.

I can’t sleep.

Shen Jichuan.

It’s so noisy in my ears.

Shen Jichuan.

Can you stay with me all the time?

Shen Jichuan.

Can you come back?

Shen Jichuan.

Shen Jichuan…

Type it out, delete it, type it out, delete it.

Delete, delete.

In the end, what Shen Zhi sent was:

Shen Jichuan.

Can you talk with me for a while?

Several minutes passed with no response.

Only then did Shen Zhi belatedly check the time. After Shen Jichuan had said good night to him, he had spent nearly twenty minutes deleting and rewriting his replies.

So he must be asleep by now.

Shen Zhi’s spine relaxed, his head tilted back slightly, his Adam’s apple bobbed, and the hair on his shoulders fell in disarray.

The phone slid off his knees and dropped to the floor.

He didn’t bother to pick it up, nor did he have the energy to stand.

Five meters away from the bathroom was the bedroom, its door wide open like a massive black hole.

His gaze slowly lost focus.

Abruptly, the phone rang.

Shen Zhi’s eyelashes fluttered. He picked up the phone, and there it was:

Shen Jichuan Incoming Call.

He held his breath for a moment, then answered.

There was a brief silence on the other end, followed by the young man’s hushed voice: Hello? Brother Shen? Brother Shen?

As if mindful of the poor soundproofing in the Shen residence, his voice was low and soft. Yet, even suppressed, it still carried the unique vitality of youth.

Shen Zhi brought the receiver closer to his ear.

Like shadows retreating from light, the auditory hallucinations faded like a receding tide.

Thinking the phone might be broken since there was no sound, Shen Jichuan tapped the phone case: Hello? Is Brother Shen there? Are you there?

Shen Zhi whispered, Mm.

I’m here.

Good that you can hear me. I thought my phone was broken, Shen Jichuan muttered, his lowered voice tinged with embarrassment. Brother Shen, are you calling because you can’t sleep? I figured calling would be easier. Hope I’m not disturbing you.

No.

That’s good, Brother Shen. Are you painting right now, or getting ready to sleep?

I…

Shen Zhi was neither painting nor preparing for bed. He glanced at his current state and said, I was just about to sleep.

Pulling himself up from the cold floor with Shen Jichuan’s voice as an anchor, he returned to the bedroom and lay down on the bed.

And I’m already tucked in now, Shen Zhi added earnestly.

So obedient.

The thought nearly slipped out unfiltered. Shen Jichuan quickly covered his mouth.

What the hell? Why did Brother Shen’s words strike him as clever? This was completely upside-down—had he lost his mind?

Shen Jichuan: Well then, Brother Shen, what should we talk about?

Shen Zhi thought for a moment.

Then said: Shen Jichuan, could you read me a story?

After a pause, he added: But not any Chinese or English textbook passages.

Hearing the faint resentment in his tone, Shen Jichuan couldn’t help but laugh: Alright. Let me see what books I have.

Shen Zhi heard the sounds of someone rolling out of bed, the rustle of blankets, footsteps, and a cabinet opening.

For some reason, these noises gave him a sense of comfort.

He breathed in the scent of cotton from his pillow and waited quietly.

On the other end.

Shen Jichuan’s fingers skimmed past normal magazines and classic literature.

These would have been the most suitable for storytelling, yet somehow none felt quite right.

Finally, he opened his small book cabinet.

He rarely touched this cabinet, so when he opened it, something felt off—the balled-up test papers he used to conceal books seemed messier than before?

But since he needed to pick a story for Shen Zhi, he didn’t dwell on it.

All the books and magazines were in place, neatly arranged just as he’d left them.

Shen Jichuan pulled out one titled The Extinction of Male Homosexuality.

Though the cover bore that name, it was actually a magazine cover he’d liked that had fallen off; he’d repurposed it as a book jacket.

Inside was entirely different—a worn book he’d picked up called Death in Venice. It didn’t look like it came from a legitimate publisher; it seemed more like someone’s private translation, self-published, that had somehow ended up here.

It told the story of an aging male writer who travels to Venice, falls in love with a beautiful youth, struggles between desire, reason, and morality, suffers torment, and ultimately contracts an illness and dies in Venice.

The plot was relatively weak, and the protagonist’s overly sensitive, artistic nerves didn’t appeal much to Shen Jichuan.

But the book’s critical reflection on forbidden love between men had made him ponder seriously.

It was also suitable for reading aloud—sleep-inducing.

With some unspoken intention, Shen Jichuan selected this particular book, then carried it back to bed: Shall I start?

Shen Zhi: Mm.

Shen Jichuan: On a spring afternoon in the twentieth century, Gustav Aschenbach left his residence near the Regent of Munich for a solitary walk. After his fiftieth birthday…1

Shen Zhi hadn’t expected this book. He chuckled softly.

Shen Jichuan paused: Brother Shen?

Shen Zhi: I’ve read this book before.

Shen Jichuan coughed lightly, growing embarrassed: You’ve read it…

Shen Zhi thought to himself, of course he had read it. He also knew the book was so tattered it was practically falling apart, with a cover pasted over it titled The Demise of Male Homosexuality.

Shen Jichuan: Then I’ll switch to another one.

Shen Zhi: No need, this one is fine. I quite like it—it helps me fall asleep.

Then I’ll continue.

Alright.

Shen Jichuan: It was already early May, after several weeks of damp, cold Apocalypse Bringer meetings, a deceptive midsummer had arrived. Though the trees in the English garden had only just begun to show tender green, the weather was already as hot as August.

…Some paths leading to Aumeister were quieter, where Aschenbach wandered, gazing into the distance…

The youth’s clear, soft voice flowed through the night.

Time seemed to slow down minute by minute.

After reading three pages, Shen Jichuan gradually lowered his volume until it became nearly inaudible. Finally, he leaned close to the receiver and faintly heard steady breathing.

Brother Shen?

His whisper was barely perceptible.

There was no response from Shen Zhi’s end.

He must have fallen asleep.

Shen Jichuan closed the book but didn’t hang up.

Perhaps it was the extreme quiet of the night, or perhaps it was because Shen Zhi had sought him out to talk in the evening, making him sense a hint of intimacy and unusualness, or maybe it was due to the budding palpitations still stirring in his heart.

He reopened the book to the first page.

Shen Jichuan said softly: After finishing this book… I wrote something down. Brother Shen, let me read it to you too?

Only silent, steady breathing answered from the other end.

Collecting himself, he read:

Perhaps in the future, there will also be a snow-capped mountain in my heart, sacred and pure. I shall offer my worthless devotion and base admiration as sacrifices, all dedicated to him.

The youth’s voice was gentle, carrying an indescribable seriousness and solemnity.

His fingertips unconsciously picked at a page corner, rolling it back and forth between his thumb and index finger.

As the page corner curled, it whispered with the rustling sound of friction.

Naturally, there was still no movement from the phone.

Shen Jichuan smiled: Goodnight, Brother Shen.

The call ended.

On the other side.

Shen Zhi’s eyelashes fluttered lightly as he opened his eyes.

His forehead rested against the phone screen, as if maintaining some connection with Shen Jichuan on the other end.

He thought to himself.

Shen Jichuan might not have found his snow-capped mountain yet, but Shen Zhi, after searching for so many years, had already found his.

At that moment of crossing time and space, that moment when he picked someone up from the Safe House on a cold, snowy night and brought them home.

His voice dissolved into the silent night.

Shen Jichuan, you are my snow-capped mountain.