POTINS 21

Meng Chuan had a dream.

In the dream, he was also running a fever, and he was alone in the room.

Barefoot, he stood before the wardrobe like a porter, tirelessly emptying it trip by trip. All the clothes were piled onto the bed, forming a little nest for himself.

Then he lay down in the heap of clothes, surrounded by the scent of roses. The fragrance temporarily soothed the craving and emptiness inside him.

But it wasn’t enough. The searing heat still wouldn’t subside.

Meng Chuan was miserable. He didn’t know what he was yearning for.

Then the door to the room opened, and someone came in from outside.

Meng Chuan opened his eyes but couldn’t see the person’s face clearly. Yet in that instant, he relaxed, and spoke in a tone both familiar and a little surprised: “Why are you back?”

“If I didn’t come back, all my clothes would’ve been wrinkled by you,” the person said with a trace of laughter.

It was a very familiar voice, but the dream-Meng Chuan couldn’t recall whose it was.

That person walked over and sat beside him, placing a cool hand on his forehead, scolding him slightly: “You’re burning up like this and still haven’t taken an inhibitor, are you trying to roast your brain into mush?”

“I don’t want an inhibitor. I just want you,” Meng Chuan said. He held the person’s hand and pressed their wrist to his face, nuzzling against it with his nose in an intimate gesture.

The person laughed. “You’re acting just like a puppy.”

Hearing that, Meng Chuan simply mimicked a puppy and gave their wrist a bite.

The person hissed and yanked their hand back, then retaliated without hesitation, grabbing his hand and biting back.

Meng Chuan didn’t feel pain, only a tingling pleasure that shot up from his tailbone like electricity racing along his spine to his head.

Driven by instinct, he suddenly sat up from his fevered stupor, wrapped his arms around the person’s neck, yanked hard, and flipped over to press them down beneath him. He didn’t even give the other party time to speak before lowering his head and kissing them.

The person seemed to want to resist, but Meng Chuan gave them no chance.

The tightly sealed lips were pried open by his tongue, and their mouths tangled in a deep, fervent kiss.

Meng Chuan was surprised at how naturally it came to him, yet at the same time, it all felt perfectly right.

The intense rose fragrance was like an aphrodisiac, and the heat flooding Meng Chuan’s body finally found an outlet.

He seemed intimately familiar with this body. As he carefully explored it, his hand moved to tug down the other’s pants.

But suddenly, the person began to struggle violently, their voice hurried with resistance: “No—Meng Chuan…”

Meng Chuan’s lips moved down to kiss their collarbone. He murmured hoarsely, “It’s fine… ah, don’t scratch me.”

“No! Let go of me!”

“No what? What do you mean no?”

Meng Chuan was in a frenzy of arousal and only thought the person was teasing him. Refusing to be denied, he pinned their rebellious hands above their head and kissed their brow. “You’re telling me no now? Be good. Don’t fuss.”

“Meng Chuan!”

Wen Zhongyi, pinned beneath him, was trembling all over. His hands, trapped above his head, couldn’t move. Meng Chuan had one hand restraining him, the other sliding down. The disparity in strength between alpha and omega was glaring in that moment.

Wen Zhongyi’s back tensed, and his scalp prickled. Just as Meng Chuan leaned down again to kiss him, Wen Zhongyi bit down hard on his lip, eyes wet with a mix of emotions. “Didn’t you say you don’t like men? What the hell are you doing now!”

It seemed Meng Chuan finally heard him, his movements froze.

Wen Zhongyi seized the moment. He bent his knees and kicked with all his strength. Meng Chuan, caught off guard, was kicked straight to the end of the bed. Fortunately, the bed was large, so he didn’t fall off.

Wen Zhongyi sat up in a flash, his entire body drenched as if soaked. His usually calm and collected face was flushed and disheveled, his lips parted and slick with moisture, his chest heaving violently.

Meng Chuan finally shook off the dreamlike stupor.

When he opened his eyes, he was completely confused. It took him two seconds to register the lingering heat in his body.

Everything from the dream vanished in a blur, and once he returned to full consciousness, his memory stuck on one thing Wen Zhongyi had shouted—

Didn’t you say you don’t like men?

Yeah.

Aren’t I straight?

Meng Chuan stared blankly at the ceiling, his fever-fogged brain fully short-circuited.

Wen Zhongyi silently tidied up his clothes. The collar of his sweater had been tugged loose, no longer hiding the gland on the back of his neck. The zipper on his pants had been wrecked, one hard tug and the cheap trousers gave up the ghost, the zipper pull snapping clean in two.

Meng Chuan barely managed to gather himself, sat up, rubbed his face, and hoarsely said, unsure how to face Wen Zhongyi: “I’m sorry, I…”

“Spare me the bullshit.”

Wen Zhongyi hurled the broken zipper pull at him with a vicious flick. His expression was icy, laced with mockery. “You say you don’t like men, but your body’s honest enough.”

Meng Chuan had no defense.

Looking at Wen Zhongyi’s rumpled state, he quickly turned his gaze away, swung out of bed, and muttered, “I’ll find you some clothes.”

He opened the wardrobe, dug out a clean set of sweater and long pants, and handed them over. “I only wore these once. They’re clean.”

Wen Zhongyi took the clothes without sparing him a glance. “Get out.”

Meng Chuan obediently left.

The bedroom door clicked shut behind him.

Wen Zhongyi let out a long breath, closed his eyes, and leaned against the headboard to calm himself.

The room was saturated with the mingled scents of two different pheromones, impure, brimming with sexual implication, and suffocatingly strong.

Wen Zhongyi barely had the strength to change his clothes.

His movements were slow as he got dressed. Meng Chuan’s clothes were a bit too large and looked loose on him.

Suddenly, Wen Zhongyi recalled the last time Meng Chuan had gone into heat, it was very similar to now.

Meng Chuan had refused to take an inhibitor and insisted on using him as the cure, clinging to him over and over again until Wen Zhongyi was so exhausted he couldn’t even lift a finger.

Afterward, Meng Chuan kept sticking to him. If Wen Zhongyi showed any annoyance, Meng Chuan would act pitiful and wronged, making Wen Zhongyi feel guilty for being too harsh on an alpha in heat.

It was true that Wen Zhongyi had a soft spot for Meng Chuan, and also true that he couldn’t stand the amnesiac Meng Chuan touching him like that.

He touched his lower abdomen and let out a sigh of relief.

The coat on the bed had already been crumpled beyond salvation by Meng Chuan. Wen Zhongyi glanced at it but didn’t bother with it. Instead, he fetched a new coat from the wardrobe.

Outside, Meng Chuan was sitting on the sofa in a daze.

His lower lip had been bitten by Wen Zhongyi, leaving a blood scab that made it look red and swollen. The fever still hadn’t broken, and his face remained flushed with sickness.

Hearing the door open, he looked up, seemingly wanting to say something—but Wen Zhongyi clearly had no interest in talking to him.

The living room was silent. The glass windows creaked under the wind. Outside, snow was falling heavily, swirling and slamming against the panes.

Wen Zhongyi, dressed in ill-fitting clothes, changed his shoes at the entryway.

Meng Chuan watched him for a moment, then stood up and said, “It’s snowing out. Let me take you home.”

Wen Zhongyi, putting on his shoes, turned to look at him. “And how would you do that?”

“I’ll drive you.”

“You think you’re in any shape to drive?” Wen Zhongyi’s gaze slowly drifted down from his face and settled on a certain conspicuous bulge. He tugged at the corner of his lips without much expression.

Meng Chuan followed his gaze and looked down: “…”

The awkwardness was suffocating. His straight-guy dignity lay shattered at his feet.

Wen Zhongyi pulled his coat tight, bent down, and picked up the umbrella from the floor.

Meng Chuan called after him. “I’ll have the driver take you home.”

“No need,” Wen Zhongyi replied.

The pheromones lingering in the house were far too strong. Even staying one more second made his limbs feel weak, he had no desire to remain.

Meng Chuan glanced at the snowy night outside, then at Wen Zhongyi’s thin back. He wanted to ask him to stay the night, but swallowed the words.

After what had just happened, saying something like that would only seem suspicious.

Just as Wen Zhongyi was about to step out the door, Meng Chuan called his name again. Wen Zhongyi frowned impatiently. “What?”

“Take a scarf. It’s freezing out,” Meng Chuan said, walking to the coat rack and taking down a gray scarf.

He tried to hand it to Wen Zhongyi, but since Wen Zhongyi had a phone in one hand and an umbrella in the other, Meng Chuan simply wrapped the scarf around his neck for him.

The thick, warm scarf covered Wen Zhongyi’s neck and chin tightly. Meng Chuan adjusted it carefully, tugging the fabric higher so it covered half his face and even his ears, leaving only a pair of cold, beautiful eyes exposed.

Those eyes blinked a few times in silence. Meng Chuan didn’t meet his gaze, just lowered his head and seriously tied the scarf.

He wasn’t good at fancy knots, so he tied it the way one would tie a garbage bag.

Wen Zhongyi frowned in distaste.

After securing the scarf, Meng Chuan let go and took a half step back. He apologized again for what had happened that night: “I’m sorry.”

He was fully prepared for Wen Zhongyi to lash out or mock him. But Wen Zhongyi did neither, he simply looked at him in silence.

The corners of Wen Zhongyi’s eyes naturally tilted up a little. His pupils were clear and black, reflecting Meng Chuan’s figure, along with other, unreadable emotions.

Meng Chuan suddenly had the urge to hug Wen Zhongyi.

The thought startled him, so he suppressed it.

Wen Zhongyi didn’t respond to the apology. He turned around wordlessly and stepped into the elevator.

Only when the number on the display changed to 1 did Meng Chuan snap out of it. He immediately regretted not going down to see Wen Zhongyi off, or at least calling a car for him.

After thinking for a second, he grabbed a coat and rushed downstairs.

He arrived just in time to see Wen Zhongyi getting into a taxi.

The car door slammed shut. Wen Zhongyi didn’t see Meng Chuan chasing after him in slippers.

The red taillights quickly disappeared into the snowy night.

Wen Zhongyi closed his eyes wearily and leaned his head against the car window.

His phone buzzed, it was a message from Meng Chuan.

—Let me know when you get home.

Wen Zhongyi glanced down at it, then looked outside. The car was stopped at a traffic light. Snowflakes, exposed under the glow of the streetlights, were impossible to ignore. A young couple was kissing in the snow.

First snow always seemed to be tied to love, imbued with romantic meaning.

But alone like this, Wen Zhongyi didn’t find it romantic at all.

He blinked, trying to turn away, but his gaze still lingered on the couple.

When he finally arrived home, it was already late at night. Wen Zhongyi sent a reply to Meng Chuan.

Meng Chuan had assumed he wouldn’t respond and was about to call when the screen lit up.

Wen Zhongyi: I’m home.

Meng Chuan: Okay. Get some rest then. I won’t bother you.

His tone was overly polite, completely unlike the usual Meng Chuan.

Wen Zhongyi didn’t reply to that message, which Meng Chuan had expected.

He put down his phone and returned to the bedroom. The bed was still a complete mess.

The coat Wen Zhongyi had worn and two damp towels were piled together. The sheets and comforter were in disarray. One pillow had fallen to the floor, and a broken zipper pull—the one Wen Zhongyi had thrown at him—still lay on the bed.

Clearly, Wen Zhongyi had put up quite a struggle.

Meng Chuan hung the wet towels and sat blankly on the edge of the bed.

He needed some time to sort through everything.

It was all just too chaotic.