Chapter 500: Day 28 into the Alien War Story

Chapter 500: Day 28 in the Alien War Story

An Cheng took a deep breath, the heavy, suffocating feeling in his chest easing just a little as he breathed out.

He couldn't keep living like this.

From the first time he saw An Yi when he was eight—that six-year-old sitting quietly on the living room couch, looking at him with those gorgeous, glass-like eyes—from the moment he stubbornly made An Yi call him "brother"—

he was destined to be tied to An Yi for life.

His gaze, his heartbeat, his joys and sorrows, all his plans for the future—all of it was already bound to that boy named An Yi.

Like two vines growing together, tangled from the roots—separating them would mean tearing each other apart, bloody and raw.

He couldn't—and he absolutely wouldn't—watch the person he loved fall into someone else's arms.

An Cheng's eyes were set, all hesitation, struggle, and self-deception gone, leaving only the most primal, raw desire.

He reached over and picked up his phone from the nightstand.

The screen lit up, casting a cold white glow across the dark room. The time read: 2:47 AM.

Xiao Yi was still asleep—he couldn't wake him.

Dawn was still hours away.

An Cheng stared at the numbers for a long moment, then shut off the screen and closed his eyes again.

But he didn't fall asleep.

He just lay there, eyes closed, waiting in the dark for morning to come.

The minutes ticked by.

Outside, the city slowly woke—the distant rumble of the first bus, early birds chirping in the branches by the window.

Morning came.

An Cheng opened his eyes.

He hadn't slept a wink. His eyes were bloodshot, dark circles heavy under them, his face pale.

He sat up, grabbed his phone, and the screen lit up again.

9:00 AM.

It was Sunday. An Yi didn't have class, but he was definitely already up.

An Cheng's finger hovered over the call button.

On the screen, "Xiao Yi Xiao Yi" sat at the top of his contacts—he'd marked it as a priority, so An Yi's name was always front and center.

His finger hesitated for a few seconds, then he pressed call.

"Ring... ring... ring..."

On the sixth ring.

"Hello?" An Yi's voice came through the speaker.

An Cheng gripped the phone, his throat tight, like something was stuck there. Every sound, every word, was caught—couldn't go up, couldn't come down. He opened his mouth, but only a barely audible breath came out.

"Brother?" An Yi's voice came again, a little confused. "Something wrong?"

An Cheng took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm.

He cleared his throat, his voice still low and rough: "Xiao Yi."

There was a brief silence on the other end—just a second or two—then An Yi's voice came through, still calm: "Brother? What's up?"

An Cheng paused.

His fingers tightened without him realizing as he watched the sky brighten outside, the light slipping through the gap in the curtains.

Then he spoke, his voice low, soft, almost vulnerable: "I... I had a nightmare last night."

After saying such an absurd, ridiculous lie, he put on a bright smile, but An Yi couldn't see it on the other end of the line.

An Yi could only hear his voice, hear those words "I had a nightmare last night," hear the exhaustion and unease he was trying to hide.

There were a few more seconds of silence on the other end.

An Cheng could hear the faint sound of breathing through the phone.

Steady, even, like a reassuring rhythm, tapping against his eardrum, one beat after another.

He closed his eyes, picturing An Yi right now—phone pressed to his ear, those beautiful eyes half-open, lashes casting soft shadows on his eyelids.

He might be frowning a little, might be running his fingers over something, might be... wondering what his brother meant by calling this early to say he'd "had a nightmare."

What's he wearing today, I wonder? Did his hair get all messed up from sleeping?

"What nightmare?" An Yi finally said, his voice giving nothing away.

An Cheng's voice dropped even lower, barely a whisper: "I dreamed about you..."

He paused, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly: "I dreamed you were gone. No matter how hard I looked, I couldn't find you. No matter how I called, you wouldn't answer. You were nowhere."

He wasn't lying.

This was a nightmare he had often—so often he'd almost gotten used to it, but every time he woke up, the fear of losing An Yi was still fresh and sharp, like a knife cutting the same wound over and over.

In the dream, An Yi always turned and walked away, getting farther and farther, his back firm, no hesitation at all.

He chased after him desperately, running as hard as he could, but no matter how fast he ran, the distance only grew.

Sometimes An Yi left with Lin Yiduo, holding hands. Sometimes he walked with those friends, the mood easy and warm. Sometimes he was alone, but his steps were steady, heading somewhere An Cheng could never follow.

But the ending was always the same—

An Yi disappeared from his world.

Completely, totally, without leaving a single trace.

As if he'd never existed, as if those ten years together were just a dream.

Every time he woke from a nightmare like that, he'd be soaked in cold sweat, his heart slamming so hard it felt like it might tear out of his chest.

He'd need a few minutes to grab his phone and check that An Yi's contact was still there, to scroll through photos to make sure those memories weren't just in his head, and sometimes he'd even get the urge to call right away, just to hear An Yi's voice, to make sure he was still there.

That fear of loss lingered, refusing to fade.

Like a disease in the bones, like a nightmare demon, it crept up quietly in the dead of night, eating away at his sanity and his sleep.

On the other end, An Yi sighed softly. "It's just a dream."

An Cheng forced a smile. "Xiao Yi, will you disappear on me?"

The other end went quiet.

After a moment, An Yi spoke again, still calm, but more reassuring: "You're my brother. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

Brothers, family—that bond was solid, not easily broken.

So no need to worry. Nothing would disappear.

But those words snapped the taut string inside An Cheng.

"I'm not."

An Cheng said, "I'm not your brother."

He said it slowly, each word deliberate and firm.

On the other end, An Yi's eyelashes fluttered.

Even over the phone, without seeing each other, An Cheng could feel it—An Yi's breathing hitched for just a second.

"An Cheng."

An Yi called his name—not "brother," but his name.

But An Cheng didn't stop.

He continued: "I'm not your brother, Xiao Yi."

He repeated it, as if to emphasize, as if to convince An Yi.