The Fake Son Wants to Live [BL]

Chapter 225: Chapter 225 - The flu

Jian blinked his eyes open and squinted into the soft morning light seeping through the artificial panels above. The room was quiet, the soft hum of the generator the only background sound. His body felt well-rested for once, muscles relaxed, breath steady. But the warmth that blanketed him wasn’t just the sheets.

His gaze shifted—and landed on the man sleeping beside him.

Xing Yu.

He lay perfectly still, almost too still. His arms were folded neatly over his chest, legs straight like he was in a damn casket. His long white hair fanned across the black pillow like snow spilled across night. His sharp, elegant face was free of its usual tension, lips parted slightly in sleep.

And then Jian looked down at himself.

Oh no.

One of his legs was sprawled lazily across Xing Yu’s lap. His arm—his entire arm—was draped across the man’s chest like some clingy little koala. His cheeks flared a deep red, heart thudding with panic as he slowly tried to retract himself from the crime scene.

How the hell did I sleep like this?! What the hell?! Jian scolded himself in his head. I’m not some kid with a crush—why am I wrapped around him like a stuffed toy!?

Blushing furiously, he tried to slide his limbs away without waking the man. But no luck.

Xing Yu’s eyes fluttered open.

The dazed silver irises blinked up at him slowly, unfocused, like he was trying to remember where he was. His brows scrunched slightly and then relaxed again.

”...Morning?” he murmured, voice a husky whisper.

Jian froze. Xing Yu’s hair was a mess, and somehow that made him look even more annoyingly attractive. The calm serenity on his face, the soft edge of sleep still in his voice—it was too much.

Abort mission. Immediate escape required.

”I-It’s so stuffy in here,” Jian blurted, almost tripping over the edge of the bed as he scrambled to his feet. ”I’m gonna take a shower!”

He dashed into the bathroom and shut the door behind him with a bit more force than necessary. Leaning against it, he huffed out a deep breath and closed his eyes.

”God... damn it...” he whispered.

And then he looked down.

Yep.

There it was.

His pants were way too tight in the front, the obvious bulge throbbing slightly beneath the thin fabric. Jian covered his face with his hands.

”No no no no no. Are you kidding me?! Seriously?!”

He turned to the sink and splashed cold water on his face. His hair clung to his forehead as he gripped the edge of the sink and stared into the mirror, horrified.

I’ve never—like, never—gotten hard just from... just from looking at someone’s face.

This is new.

This is really new.

Nope. He was just horny.

Because Xing Yu was hot. Even when he slept like a corpse.

”Oh god...” Jian muttered, running a hand through his damp hair again, voice cracking slightly. ”I’m so fucking doomed.”

He let out a frustrated sigh and leaned back, staring up at the ceiling. His heart was still pounding.

He hadn’t even been touched. Just being near that man... feeling his presence in sleep... was enough to spark something deep and stupid and unexplainable in him.

And worse than that... a small, treacherous voice whispered in the back of his mind.

You liked it, didn’t you?

He groaned again, louder this time, and turned on the shower, desperately hoping cold water could wash away both the problem in his pants—and the growing mess in his heart.

Jian stepped out of the small bathroom, rubbing at his dripping hair with a towel. His clothes clung to his skin—the shirt damp from both his cold shower and the residual steam still lingering in the air. He let out a sigh when he realized it.

Right. He’d forgotten to bring a change of clothes. Again.

His damp shirt clung to his back, translucent in patches, and his loose pants stuck stubbornly to his thighs. He huffed and ran a hand through his hair, water droplets flicking onto the wooden floor of the old farmhouse. The place creaked gently as the morning wind passed through the open windows.

Across the room, Xing Yu still lay in bed, unmoving.

Normally by now, the man would’ve been sitting up, fully dressed, and already preparing tea or checking the old generator outside like clockwork. But today, he was... still.

Too still.

Jian narrowed his eyes.

He turned toward the cupboard and tried to play it casual. Tugging his damp shirt up and over his head, he fumbled as he peeled the cold fabric off his skin with a slight grimace and muttered, ”You’re usually out of bed by now.”

Xing didn’t answer right away. His white hair spilled messily over the pillow, eyes closed, one hand resting just above his chest. His breathing was soft—but slower than usual.

”...Hmm,” Xing finally murmured, voice quiet and raspy. ”I think I’m... coming down with something.”

Jian froze mid-movement, the cupboard door hanging open in front of him. His head snapped back around.

”What?”

In an instant, he crossed the room, bare feet hitting the wooden floor with sharp urgency. He knelt by the side of the bed, his hand immediately going to Xing’s forehead—

And recoiled.

”You’re freezing!”

Xing didn’t even flinch, his eyes fluttering weakly open as he tried to offer some half-hearted smile.

”I don’t... feel that cold...”

Jian’s heart thudded hard in his chest. The man’s skin wasn’t just cool—it was like touching frost. There was no way this was just a mild cold. Something was wrong. Deeply wrong.

”Why are you so cold? You weren’t like this yesterday!” Jian snapped, panic rising in his throat. He didn’t wait for a reply. He threw the thin blanket off the bed and snatched the thick old quilt folded over the foot of the cot.

”Here, dammit, just—just stay still.”

Xing didn’t resist. He rarely did, honestly. Jian wrapped the blanket around him tightly, tucking it around his shoulders and chest like he was swaddling a child. The old farmhouse creaked again as the wind outside picked up.

It was only then that Jian noticed Xing’s hands were shaking faintly under the fabric.

”I’ll get some more guilt s,” Jian muttered, already turning on his heel. His wet hair dripped water onto the floor. ”Just—don’t move. You don’t look right.”

Behind him, Xing closed his eyes again, letting out a quiet breath.

”...Don’t worry,” he whispered, voice barely above a breath.

But Jian didn’t answer.

Jian stormed into the next room like a whirlwind, barefoot and shirtless, water still dripping down his neck and chest. The sudden slam of the door startled both sleeping groups in the shared farmhouse quarters. Eren sat up groggily, one eye half-closed, while Varon groaned and pulled his blanket higher—only to feel it yanked off a second later.

”Hey—!?”

”No time,” Jian barked as he snatched the heavy quilt from Varon’s legs and then dove toward the other pile by the foot of Eren’s cot. ”Need these!”

”Wait—what?! Why are you shirtless—?!”

”I said no time!” Jian grunted, wrestling the layered blankets into a messy bundle. ”Xing’s freezing. Like ice cold.”

That wiped the sleep from their eyes fast.

Eren shot upright. ”What do you mean ’freezing’? What happened?!”

Jian didn’t answer. He was already bolting out of the room, arms full of thick, musty quilts. His wet feet slapped loudly against the wood as he ran back into the other room, heart thudding against his ribs.

Xing hadn’t moved. His pale figure lay curled tightly beneath the single quilt Jian had left him in, but his hands still shook faintly above the edge of the blanket. Jian rushed over and, without ceremony, dumped all the extra quilts on top of him—layer after layer until the man looked like a tightly swaddled rice dumpling.

Or, in Varon’s words a few minutes later—”a bao bun.”

By the time Jian was tucking the last corner under Xing’s side, both Varon and Eren had entered behind him, gawking at the sight.

”What the hell...” Varon murmured, blinking as he took in the cocoon of blankets, only a sliver of white hair and one sleepy eye poking out from underneath.

Eren stepped closer, eyes narrowing. ”General...?”

Xing’s visible eye blinked once. Slowly.

”...I have the flu,” he muttered in a raspy deadpan voice.

There was a moment of stunned silence.

Eren’s face drained of color the moment Xing muttered the words ”I have the flu.”

Flu.

He took a half-step back, eyes wide, the gravity of that one word sinking in fast.

”Oh no,” he whispered under his breath. ”Exposure to this planet’s airborne microfauna... It must be a local strain.”

Jian’s head snapped toward him. ”Wait—what? What are you saying?”

Eren ran a hand through his hair, visibly distressed. ”He’s Farian. Our immune systems are genetically optimized to resist illnesses from our galaxy, our environment. But here—this planet—it’s entirely foreign. If he’s sick, it means something got past all our natural defenses. Which means it’s bad. Like... really bad.”

Panic surged through Jian like a sudden cold wind. ”Don’t you guys have medicine with you?! Antivirals? Antibiotics? Something?”

Varon grimaced, scratching the back of his neck. ”We usually don’t get sick, Jian. Not even the common cold. Our ships don’t carry a full medbay for illnesses. It’s... deadweight. We just have trauma and combat gear. Fluid bags. Some anesthetic. That’s it.”

Jian gaped at them like they’d grown second heads. ”You don’t carry medicine?! Are you guys insane?!”

”We don’t need it,” Varon tried to reason, lifting his hands. ”Farian biology is resistant.”