Chapter 26: A Drunkard

Chapter 26: A Drunk

Crashing at Gu Hansheng's place always put Zhao Yu on edge. Before, he only had to wait for a phone call; now it felt like a lamb waiting for the slaughter.

Gu Hansheng didn't come home that night. Zhao Yu sorted through his luggage and was shocked to see that all the clothes the assistant had brought were the same style as Chen Xitong's—none of the clothes he'd brought back from abroad were there.

The disguise he'd thought he could shed had to be put back on—back to square one. He hung the light-colored T-shirts and shirts one by one in the closet, but couldn't help thinking: even if he put these clothes back on, could Gu Hansheng really keep mistaking him for Chen Xitong? And where would all that barely concealed disgust be vented?

The next day, Gu Hansheng still didn't come home, and the day after that as well. Every time the workday wound down, Zhao Yu would get restless, and at night he slept lightly—he'd wake at the slightest noise. But even at night, the garage stayed silent.

He found out from the housekeeper that Gu Hansheng had another apartment in the city, closer to his company, and that he probably crashed there. He'd brought someone he hated here, yet was so disgusted he wouldn't even set foot in the house.

Zhao Yu couldn't wrap his head around Gu Hansheng's logic. Aside from his face being so messed up Gu Hansheng couldn't stand to look at it, he really couldn't find another reason.

He hadn't had a single good night's sleep, feeling listless and dazed, not knowing why he was even here. The anxiety kept building, and bits of memories—good and bad—of Gu Hansheng kept flashing through his mind, driving him crazy.

He wandered around the villa and found a hidden liquor cabinet on the first floor—love at first sight. He couldn't help checking the prices and realized he couldn't afford to drink them, let alone replace them, but he couldn't stop thinking about them. Eventually, he gave in and went out to buy booze.

Sitting in the yard, twisting open the bottle, he didn't want to think about anything, just hoping to shut his brain off and get a good night's sleep.

The bite mark on his arm still throbbed, but he totally ignored it. He downed several glasses of vodka mixed with sparkling water, then stumbled and crawled into the bedroom, completely wasted.

It was the best sleep he'd had in ages—so deep he didn't even notice the downpour overnight, and he didn't dream at all. Ever since he'd blacked out that time, alcohol worked like sleeping pills for him, and it seemed to hold up.

In the morning, the housekeeper had breakfast ready. Zhao Yu's head was pounding a little; he ate just one egg and crawled back into bed. This time the alcohol hit harder than the last two times. The more he slept, the foggier his head got, and he had no appetite for lunch either.

That evening, Gu Hansheng came home. Since Zhao Yu had told the housekeeper not to come at night, the house was dead silent—not even the sound of cooking. Gu Hansheng slammed the car door, annoyed, and walked into the pitch-black house.

When he flipped on the lights, the half-empty bottle of vodka on the coffee table caught his eye. Gu Hansheng frowned barely noticeably and pushed open Zhao Yu's bedroom door.

Hearing someone come in, Zhao Yu looked up groggily, then flopped back onto the bed. He seemed out of it, with an unnatural flush on his face—the spitting image of a drunk.

Gu Hansheng had been on a business trip for five days, and coming home, he was greeted by a "drunk."

This liar had been all sweet talk when he needed money, and now that he was back in the picture, this was the customer service he got.

Zhao Yu squinted against the light, struggling to sit up, his eyes unfocused: "Mr. Gu... why are you here?"

Gu Hansheng laughed bitterly: "You really think this is your place?"

"I told the housekeeper not to cook." Zhao Yu pushed himself up against the wall, swaying as he headed for the door: "You eaten? I can make you something."

"Not hungry." Gu Hansheng grabbed his arm, ready to let loose, but suddenly noticed his temperature was way too high.

He wasn't drunk—he was burning up with fever.

"Not eating... fine then." Zhao Yu slid down the wall to the floor, "I'm sleepy. I want to rest a bit."

He barely got the words out before his head lolled to the side and he pitched forward, out cold.

Gu Hansheng caught him in a flash, felt his forehead again, his expression changing slightly, then hoisted him over his shoulder and carried him out.

...

"The fever's from the infection in the arm wound. When did this happen?" the doctor asked.

"Five days ago," Gu Hansheng said.

"That long? That shouldn't be. No alcohol, seafood, or spicy food for a while. We'll see how he does after the IV."

The bruises on Zhao Yu's face had mostly faded, and the cut on the bridge of his nose had scabbed and peeled off. He'd taken good care of that face, applying the medicine three times a day as the doctor ordered, which is why it healed so fast. The parts that mattered got careful attention; the parts that didn't were ignored completely. He treated his body like a tool, his soul hovering outside, coldly watching his own injuries.

Gu Hansheng slammed the medicine box onto the table with a crack and called the housekeeper: "Get rid of all the alcohol in the house."

"Okay, Mr. Gu. Where should I take it?"

"I don't care!"

Zhao Yu's fever hadn't broken yet. Tossing in discomfort, he turned over, and his hand pulled at the IV needle. Gu Hansheng immediately pinned his wrist down.

Zhao Yu blinked groggily, still out of it, and whined: "My hand hurts."

Gu Hansheng ignored him. He struggled again, but he was too weak to pull his wrist free. After a quiet moment—whether his brain was working or not—he suddenly sat up and bit Gu Hansheng's arm.

Caught off guard, Gu Hansheng got bitten. He shoved Zhao Yu's forehead, forcing him back onto the pillow, leaving a faint ring of teeth marks on his arm.

Is he a dog?! Gu Hansheng cursed under his breath, wishing he hadn't left his tie at home so he could tie him up.

Zhao Yu was pinned to the pillow, too weak to fight back, stubbornly repeating: "My hand hurts."

Gu Hansheng snapped: "You did this to yourself."

"My hand hurts."

"Don't move!"

Zhao Yu went still and quiet for a long moment, but then Gu Hansheng felt something wet in his palm. The second he lifted his hand, Zhao Yu turned his head and buried his face in the pillow.

Gu Hansheng flipped his palm over and stared at the wet mark, caught off guard.

Crying?

He couldn't see Zhao Yu's face. If it weren't for the wetness in his palm, he'd have thought he imagined it.

"What are you crying for?" Gu Hansheng asked.

It took a while before Zhao Yu mumbled: "My hand hurts." His voice was thick with tears.

Does it hurt that bad? Gu Hansheng was skeptical. He got up to fetch the doctor but Zhao Yu grabbed his clothes.

"Isn't it your hand that hurts? I'll get the doctor."

Zhao Yu stayed quiet, slowly letting go, then pulled the blanket over his head.

"What the hell do you—" Gu Hansheng yanked the blanket away, and his words died in his throat—Zhao Yu was really crying.

He didn't cry when he got bitten, didn't cry when he got beaten black and blue in a fight. Only when he was sick and out of his head did his vulnerability slip out beyond his control. Even when crying, he had to hide it, as if the world had no room for his tears.

Zhao Yu curled up on the hospital bed, arm over his eyes, but the tears kept soaking the pillow anyway. He couldn't see Gu Hansheng's face, but he could catch that familiar, faint, cool scent. He wanted to hold onto that scent, thinking maybe then his hand wouldn't hurt anymore.

But he could never hold onto anything. He'd been unlucky his whole life—everything he ever wanted always slipped away in the end. Even Aunt Guo was going to be stolen by cancer.

Gu Hansheng slowly sat down. All his anger had fizzled out, replaced by a mess of complicated feelings. Zhao Yu was hidden under the blanket, curled into a ball, not moving—Gu Hansheng couldn't tell if he'd fallen asleep. As he watched the bubbles rise one by one in the IV line, the image of Zhao Yu's tears stubbornly lingered in his mind.

Gu Hansheng despised Zhao Yu for his deception, and agreed to Zhao Yu's deal only as a means of revenge. Gu Hansheng could hurt and humiliate him at will, and he would never dare to resist.

But Gu Hansheng found no satisfaction in venting his anger.

That night in the private room of the nightclub, Gu Hansheng was provoked because Zhao Yu had struck a nerve about the truth he least wanted to face. Many of the qualities he saw and was drawn to came from this counterfeit. The real and the fake were so tangled together that his love and hate, once black and white, were now muddied.

His feelings for Chen Xitong should have been pure—his beloved was still unconscious, yet he had become entangled with this liar once again. If Zhao Yu started it, Gu Hansheng's own hands weren't exactly clean either.

What he should do was tell Zhao Yu to stay far away and never see him again, but he couldn't stand to just let him off that easy.

Love could no longer be pure, and even hate was not ruthless enough. The messy, twisted knot between him and Zhao Yu only got tighter.

...

During the night, Zhao Yu's fever gradually subsided, and by morning his temperature had returned to normal. When Zhao Yu woke up, he found himself smothering under the covers, and his eyes were so swollen he could barely open them. He threw off the blanket and suddenly noticed someone sitting by the bed.

Gu Hansheng was slumped in the chair, arms crossed, half-asleep, a deep frown creasing his brow. The doctor had said Zhao Yu needed to be observed—if the high fever recurred, it could lead to pneumonia and become life-threatening. Gu Hansheng had brushed off the doctor's "scare tactics," but he still didn't leave.

The moment Zhao Yu sat up, Gu Hansheng opened his eyes, still heavy with sleep.

"Why am I in the hospital?" Zhao Yu asked.

"What do you think?"

"And why is Mr. Gu here?"

"Waiting to pick up your corpse."

Zhao Yu laughed, but when he saw Gu Hansheng wasn't laughing, he forced his smile down, thinking to himself: Can't a guy even laugh at a joke?

Gu Hansheng continued, "Your life isn't worth much, but Tuotu's stock is. If you don't want to live, go die at home. Just don't get in my way."

With that, he tossed the medicine on the table into Zhao Yu's arms and walked away, his face cold enough to freeze the whole room.

Zhao Yu barely dared to breathe until Gu Hansheng had walked out, then he let out a soft sigh. He had angered Gu Hansheng again—every time something happened, he always ended up catching the flak. As the saying goes, when it rains, it pours.

A nurse came in to check on him and saw Zhao Yu putting on his shoes to leave. "Oh? Your friend already left?"

"He's gone, what's the matter?" Zhao Yu said.

The nurse smiled. "Nothing. You had a high fever when you came in, and he stayed with you all night. Some family members aren't even that devoted. Come on, let's do a quick check."

Zhao Yu went still.

Stayed all night... No way.

The check showed no major issues, and Zhao Yu was discharged. As he walked out of the hospital, he instinctively looked around, but didn't see Gu Hansheng's car—he must have left long ago.

Could that man, who hated his guts, really have stayed the night for him? Zhao Yu watched the endless stream of cars on the road, momentarily confused.