The Fake Son Wants to Live [BL]

Chapter 259: Chapter 259 — The answer he needed

Jian waited. He stewed and rehearsed the words in his head, paced the house until the moon slipped higher, and every passing creak wound him tighter. He told himself he would speak with civility, that he’d be measured — but the hours crawled and the man he needed answers from did not return to their room. Not until deep into the night.

Fuming, Jian flung himself out of the house and into the cool orchard air, searching for the small sounds he’d learned to recognize: the tiny clinks of metal, the quiet breath of someone bent over a machine. He followed those noises to the outbuilding at the edge of the yard and froze.

There, hunched over a half-dismantled spaceship engine, was Xing Yu. The engine’s hulking mass sat on a workbench, pistons and wiring exposed; the panel lights blinked but the thing refused to turn over. Xing Yu’s hands were grease-dark, his forehead bead-sweated, the wrench clutched in one fist. He muttered to himself, coaxing the dead machine like a stubborn animal. He did not notice Jian at first.

Jian took a breath and stepped forward. The man stiffened almost immediately, shoulders tightening as if he had sensed Jian’s presence the way a sleeping animal senses a shadow. He didn’t turn, but Jian felt the shift — the tiny stiffening of the spine, the way Xing Yu’s calm detachment frayed at the edges.

He closed the distance until he was at Xing Yu’s side. ”What are you doing?” His voice dropped to a whisper, warm with fatigue. ”It’s late. Let’s go to bed.”

Xing Yu’s throat worked. ”Um... yeah. I’ll get this running and then I’ll head to sleep. Don’t wait up for me.” He kept his eyes on the engine, fingers tightening around a stubborn bolt.

That tone — the quiet, the refusal to meet him — cracked something inside Jian. He had had enough. He grabbed Xing Yu by the back of the shirt and hauled him away from the bench. The motion was abrupt; the wrench slipped from Xing Yu’s hand and clattered to the floor.

Xing Yu’s eyes widened. For a second, his measured composure fractured entirely. ”Jian?” he said, voice small, surprised.

”We need to talk, Xing Yu.” Jian said each word through his teeth, every syllable edged with the raw exhaustion of five years spent wanting. He used Xing Yu’s full name, the formality cutting like a blade. It made the air between them thin and taut.

Xing Yu froze, hand curled around nothing. ”What is it? Is something bothering you?” His steel-gray eyes were steady now, searching for what was coming.

”Yes.” Jian let the single syllable hang in the night. He forced himself to breathe. ”Something is bothering me.” He stepped closer so the moonlight haloed Xing Yu’s silver hair, painting him in an unwitting, ethereal glow. The sight only made Jian’s chest ache more.

Xing Yu’s face turned serious. ”Tell me. You can tell me. I’ll help you.” There was no pretense in the voice — only concern.

Jian drew in a tremulous breath, then let the question that had been burning inside him loose. ”It’s about what you didn’t do.” He looked straight into Xing Yu’s eyes. The moonlight made them hard and readable. ”Xing—do—do you desire me?”

The words left him thin and raw.

Xing Yu stared. For a long, awkward moment his mouth moved without forming words, his expression an honest fish-mouth of surprise. ”I... what... I mean...” His voices splintered.

Jian watched the shock, the hesitation, and felt the fragile composure inside him begin to break. Tears came unbidden, hot and furious. He swallowed them down once and tried again, firmer: ”Do you desire me?”

Xing Yu let out a dry, humorless little chuckle as if to deflect. ”What brings about this question? It’s late. You should go to bed.” He tried to step back toward the engine, to return to the safe ritual of tinkering.

Jian would not let him. He seized Xing Yu’s collar with both hands and forced the man to turn and face him. Tears blurred his vision; he fought to keep his voice steady. ”Do you desire me.” This time the question was a plea. ”If not—tell me right now. I don’t want to carry this useless hope forever. I don’t want to imagine something that doesn’t exist.”

Xing Yu’s hand, still smudged with oil, froze. He reached up and touched Jian’s cheek, gentle as a whisper. ”Jian—”

Jian flinched as if burned. The single touch sent a fresh storm of tears down his face. He took a step back, shaking his head, tears streaming unchecked. ”Do you even like me,” he said, voice breaking, ”or am I just a mission to you? Am I just duty and responsibility, nothing more?”

Xing Yu tried again, words soft and earnest, stepping forward. ”Jian—”

But Jian couldn’t bear it. The combination of years, the silence, the invisible distance — it all loomed too large. He had expected denial; he had hoped for something else, but the truth felt heavier than any answer. He had already begun to die a thousand small deaths each night waiting for a sign. That was why the next, crueler realization clipped him like a blade: perhaps he had been fooling himself all these years.

”Why did I even ask?” he whispered, more to himself than to Xing Yu. ”I knew this would be the answer. You don’t want me that way. You’re here because the Emperor ordered it. I—” His words unraveled into a bitter laugh. ”Why did I delude myself all this time?”

He rubbed his face hard; the movement was frantic. Tears spilled in a hot stream down his cheeks. They wouldn’t stop. The house, the orchard, the night around them swallowed his small, animal sobs.

”Good night, General.” The words tasted like stone. He turned and fled.

For one stunned second, Xing Yu stood rooted in place, the touch of Jian’s palms still burning. Then he chased after him, hand snatching at Jian’s sleeve. ”Jian!”

”Let go! Let go, you bastard!” Jian jerked away with a strength belying his slender frame. Rage surged in him now, the humiliation twisting into something sharper. ”Touch me and I’ll tear you down.” The threat was raw and trembling.

Xing Yu’s voice cracked when he tried again. ”Jian—please—”

But Jian wrenched free and sprinted back toward the house, leaving the clinking wrench and the stalled engine behind them like a broken promise. He slammed the door to their bedroom with a noise that felt like the last piece of him snapping. Inside, he slid down the wall and folded into himself, sobs shuddering through his chest. The moonlight leaked across the floor, indifferent and cold.

Outside, in the engine shed, Xing Yu stood alone in the messy glow of the instrument lights, hand still outstretched. His fingers curled slowly into the empty air, and something like regret — or fear — pressed at the base of his throat.