The Fake Son Wants to Live [BL]

Chapter 243: Chapter 243 - Regretful apology

”I look... a bit older.” Jian whispered, eyes still on his reflection.

Behind him, Xing Yu gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. ”In Gia, we... Farians mature faster. By fifteen, we’re considered adults.”

Jian turned slightly, then gave a soft scoff. ”So what does that make me? An adult?” He looked over his shoulder at Xing Yu with a crooked grin. ”Does that mean I can drink now?”

For a split second, Xing Yu’s neutral expression faltered. It was subtle—the twitch of an eyebrow, a small intake of breath. He clearly hadn’t expected humor from Jian so soon. Still, he gathered himself and replied with calm, ”We don’t really... drink the same way humans do. Alcohol from grapes isn’t cultivated on Gia—grapes don’t even grow on our planet. But we ferment a fruit called saranith during moon festivals. It has a mild intoxicating effect.”

Jian’s eyebrows rose, intrigued. ”Saranith,” he repeated. ”That sounds fancy.”

Xing Yu’s mouth curved faintly—not quite a smile, but close.

Jian finally turned fully around to face him, stepping away from the mirror. His bare feet touched the cool tiles as he moved. The loose white tunic he wore shifted gently around him. The moment he faced Xing Yu completely, the older Farian stiffened.

Xing Yu’s breath caught. Just for a moment.

The lighting in the room hit Jian’s newly revealed features—his blond hair catching the glow, the golden rim in his eyes almost radiant, and that green-golden gem in his forehead shimmering like a focused beam of power. He stood tall, slim, and eerily still. No longer the human boy they’d tucked away for protection on Earth. No longer an imitation of Bian.

This—this was Jian. In his real form.

Xing Yu quickly composed himself again and finished flatly, ”Saranith wine is only consumed in ceremonies. It’s not common. It’s not part of daily life. Farian society doesn’t value... intoxication.”

Jian nodded slowly, brushing past him, his fingers idly skimming the doorframe.

The two of them exited the bathroom in silence.

Jian plopped down on the edge of the bed, the mattress giving a soft creak beneath him. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes drifting toward the window.

Xing Yu lingered awkwardly by the door. His hands hung at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. After a long pause, he shifted, then finally sat down beside Jian, careful not to disturb the boy’s space.

Jian let out a soft, barely audible sigh. His eyes remained on the view outside, but his voice cracked slightly when he spoke.

”Mister Yu... where’s my mother?”

Xing Yu didn’t answer right away.

Jian turned his head slightly, meeting the man’s gaze. There was a sharpness in his eyes, a restrained ache beneath the surface. Xing Yu stood again without a word and extended his hand toward Jian.

”Come with me,” he said gently.

Jian looked at the hand. It was rough, calloused, clearly used to work—real work. Despite the stoicism Xing Yu carried in his posture, his hand trembled slightly.

Jian reached up and took it.

Even after Jian rose to his feet, Xing Yu didn’t let go. In fact, the man gave his hand a subtle, warm squeeze. Jian caught himself smiling faintly. He didn’t know why—it was such a small thing, that squeeze—but it felt like something human. Something that reached beyond rank or obligation.

Jian kept his head low, heart beating faster, his fingers still laced in Xing Yu’s hand. He didn’t say anything. Afraid to hope.

They walked into the small hall of the farmhouse. A soft hum filled the space—the sound of medical equipment.

Jian’s eyes darted toward the center of the room where a newer bed had clearly been installed.

It was surrounded by low machines that blinked softly with green and amber lights. Tubes and cables weaved their way in and out of monitoring units, connected to a slender form lying still on the bed.

The woman didn’t look aged at all.

Her long, golden hair tumbled like silk over the edge of the bed, glistening in the ambient glow of the monitors. Her face was pale but untouched by time—no wrinkles, no signs of pain. Her chest rose and fell gently beneath a cream-colored blanket, her features so still they almost didn’t look real.

Standing quietly beside her was Li Wang.

He stepped up next to Jian and spoke with quiet caution. ”Her vitals are strong,” he said. ”But... I have no idea why she won’t wake up.”

Jian barely heard him. He took slow, dragging steps toward her, eyes fixed on the woman’s face.

Her lips were parted just slightly. Her expression peaceful. Too peaceful.

He stopped at her bedside, standing still. His breath caught in his throat as he stared.

Ever since he was young he had been imagining his mom in his mind. Wondered about her voice, her smile, the way she might look at him.

He reached out and gently touched her hand—slender, warm, but limp.

”Mom...” he whispered.

Xing Yu stood at a distance, watching quietly.

Jian gently pulled her thin, cold hands to his face. Her skin felt like delicate silk that had been left out in the wind too long—soft, fragile, almost translucent. He pressed her knuckles to his cheek, as if trying to give her warmth through his own.

”Mom...” his voice broke into a whisper, ”your son is here.”

He closed his eyes, holding her hand close.

”I’m sorry,” he choked out, ”I didn’t come find you sooner.”

A single tear slid down his cheek, landing on her wrist. Then another, and another. His shoulders began to tremble as silent sobs took over. No words left his mouth after that. Just the quiet sound of his breath catching and the soft hum of the machines beside him.

The weight of the years he hadn’t known her—years where he had been someone else, in someone else’s body, living someone else’s life—pressed down on him like stone. All that time, she had been here, unmoving, unaware, while he had searched for meaning in the dark.

He lifted his head slowly, eyes blurry and red-rimmed, and turned toward Xing Yu. His voice cracked.

”Isn’t there any way to wake her up?”

Xing Yu didn’t speak right away. He walked forward silently and placed a firm, grounding hand on Jian’s shoulder.

”She will wake up... when she’s ready,” he said quietly. ”Now, all we can do is wait.”

Jian looked down at her again, his fingers still wrapped around hers.

”But what if she never does?” he whispered. ”What if I never get to talk to her?”

”You will,” Xing Yu replied. ”It may not be today or tomorrow. But the mind protects itself when it’s been through too much. She’s healing in ways we can’t see.” Jian sniffled, his grip tightening just a little.

He glanced up at him. The man’s eyes were calm but unreadable—like a sea that had weathered storms but refused to speak of them.

Jian whispered, ”Thank you.”

Xing Yu gave the faintest nod. His hand squeezed Jian’s shoulder once, firmly, before he stepped back again and turned to leave the room. He stopped briefly at the doorway, glancing back at the boy hunched over the sleeping woman, then continued down the hall in silence.

Alone once more, Jian leaned over and gently brushed a strand of hair from his mother’s face.

”I’m going to stay here,” he murmured. ”Until you wake up. I won’t leave this time.”

He leaned his forehead gently against her hand.

”I’m not lost anymore.”

Li Wang stood silently beside Jian for a long moment, watching the boy hold his unconscious mother’s hand with a grief that was quiet but overwhelming. The kind that filled the room without sound.

His throat tightened. Shame burned in his chest.

He had stood idle for too long.

Without warning, he dropped to his knees beside the bed with a dull thud. His palms hit the wooden floor as he bowed deeply forward, his forehead almost touching the floorboards. The sudden movement startled Jian, who looked up, confused.

”I’m sorry...” Li Wang’s voice cracked, low and trembling. ”Jian... I’m so, so sorry.”

He didn’t lift his head.

Tears began to fall onto the floor beneath him, one after the other.

”I should have done something. I should have intervened. All those years... I stayed silent. I turned my face away while my uncle hurt your kind.” His voice shook, and he gasped between words, struggling to hold himself together.

”I didn’t ask questions. I knew. But I knew something was wrong. I knew they were experimenting on farians... And I still... I still didn’t stop him.”

His voice rose into an ugly sob. He sat up slightly, his face red and blotchy, eyes swollen. The veins in his neck stood out with the force of his crying.

”I was a coward,” he said. ”I was selfish. And now I’m here, trying to help like it means something. But it doesn’t. None of it can undo what I let happen.”

Jian didn’t move, his expression unreadable, too many emotions conflicting inside him.

Li Wang looked up at him, barely able to meet his eyes through the blur of tears.

”If you don’t want to see me anymore... if just the sight of me hurts you... I’ll go,” he whispered. ”I’ll leave. Right now. I swear I’ll never come back. Just... say the word.”

The room went silent again.

The only sound was the soft beeping of machines beside the bed.