Chapter 92: Main Story Finale

The next day, news about the Qingwu Awards flooded every platform. Shen Xici becoming the youngest Best Actor in Qingwu history and Wen Yage finally advancing to a triple-crown Best Actress became the two most-discussed topics everywhere.

As the biggest winner of this year’s Qingwu Awards, the film “Floating Life” not only took Best Director, Best Actor, and Best Screenplay, but also won Best Picture in the end.

Director Ding Wu was also nominated for Best Director, and the film she worked on with Wen Yage received a Best Picture nomination, leaping to No. 1 on major platforms’ “Most Anticipated” lists.

Firmly camped at No. 3 and No. 4 on the trending chart, meanwhile, were #EntertainmentCircleCharmer and #ShenXiciRelationship.

–“That final kiss on the ring was too beautiful—there was starlight in his eyes! I almost screamed. Screenshotting and looping on repeat!”

–“#ShenXiciRelationship Who exactly was that final ‘thank you’ for? Who taught him what love is? I feel a different vibe—this was a confession, right? Definitely a confession! We’re all family here—don’t say half a sentence, Shen Xici! I’m dying to know what kind of person he likes!”

–“Hahaha, one Qingwu Awards and the marketing accounts won’t worry about their KPIs this month. I foresee a total Shen Xici feed takeover! Do it more, I love to watch!”

–“That line about life sounded so pessimistic, but it feels like he’s walked out of that past and become the Shen Xici standing before us. Somehow it makes my heart ache [cry].”

–“#EntertainmentCircleCharmer I laughed so hard when I saw this tag, but it’s terrifyingly accurate. Both the Best Director and Best Actress thanked him on stage. If that’s not a charmer, what is!”

–“#ShenXiciRelationship Why was my first thought that the ‘thank you’ was for A Shao? Even though I don’t even know who A Shao is…”

In a small city near the border, the streets emptied out by afternoon. Motorbikes roared through the narrow lanes, kicking up waves of hot air.

At a fruit stall under a tarp, an old woman with neatly combed hair dozed in a bamboo rocking chair. Hearing fruit placed on the digital scale, she opened her eyes, checked the weight, calculated the price, and handed over the plastic bag.

Suddenly sensing something, she looked up, recognized the person before her, and broke into delight. “Young master? Aiyo, it’s been a year! You’re even more handsome than before! Where’s the younger one? Did he come back with you?”

Wearing a simple white hoodie, Sheng Shaoyan took the bag of fruit and said gently, “We got in late last night. He’s still asleep upstairs. I went to pack lunch.”

One glance and the old woman knew, “From that place at the far end of the street again, right? The little one likes their flavors!”

“Yes. He said it’s been too long since he had their sticky rice and fried chicken.”

The old woman’s wrinkles deepened with her smile, her eyes full of relief as she looked at Sheng Shaoyan. “You’re such a caring sworn brother. No wonder you two are still so close after all this time!”

As usual, she picked a little of each fruit and stuffed it all into the bag. “That machine the little one sent me—I use it every day. My legs don’t hurt as much now. It’s so thoughtful of him to keep me in mind from so far away. Come eat at my place when you’ve got time—I’ll cook you something good!”

Sheng Shaoyan patiently agreed to each invitation.

He pushed open the stainless-steel security door downstairs, went up the concrete steps to the fourth floor, and quietly closed the dark green door behind him, setting the keys in the tray.

On the small balcony, the bougainvillea still poured into a cascading bloom. The white gauze curtain swayed in the breeze. It was no different from those afternoons of that month long ago—time felt folded over.

After setting the packed dishes and fruit on the table and washing his hands, he heard a faint sound from the bedroom.

The curtains were mostly drawn, letting in a slice of bright sunshine that fell across the bed in a zigzag of light. In the dim room, Shen Xici lay under a thin quilt, his fair back bare, the wings of his shoulder blades finely outlined, rising and falling gently with his breath.

Sheng Shaoyan leaned down and smoothed his hair. “Awake?”

Shen Xici rolled over, eyes half-open. He lifted his bare arms and bonelessly looped them around Sheng Shaoyan’s neck, his voice still drowsy. “A Shao, why did you get up so early? Stay and lie with me a little longer…”

As he moved, the quilt slipped down, revealing the lean muscle lines and tight waist beneath. With one arm around his waist, Sheng Shaoyan lay down beside him and tipped his chin up, kissing him straight on the mouth.

Already not fully awake, his oxygen stolen, Shen Xici’s thoughts grew hazier. He parted his teeth instinctively, letting the other’s tongue slide in and plunder. A hazy notion rose—Sheng Shaoyan’s kisses did have a strong addictive pull for him.

After the ceremony ended, swarms of reporters descended. With Ge Lanjing running interference, he’d dashed into Sheng Shaoyan’s car, then straight to the airport tarmac—onto a private jet through Ningcheng’s neon river—and finally here before dawn.

Or rather, it could no longer be called a rental. He learned that the day after he’d checked out and returned to Ningcheng, Sheng Shaoyan had bought the apartment.

Time felt paused here. Everything in the place was exactly as he had left it: the white botanical tablecloth, the carved wooden bird hanging from the window lattice, the woven grass storage baskets on the cabinet—everything in its place.

As if he’d only stepped out for a while and just come back.

“I once had a dream on this bed.”

With their breaths mingling, Shen Xici’s lips were wet and flushed, his gaze liquid. He heard that sentence and hadn’t processed it yet. “What dream?”

Sheng Shaoyan’s eyes darkened. His palm pressed to the side of Shen Xici’s neck, fingers kneading his smooth earlobe, as he spoke his once-hidden desire with perfect candor. “In the dream I made you cry. I had you kneel on the bed and kiss me. Your knees were rubbed raw.”

Shen Xici’s voice was muffled, purely puzzled. “If I’m kneeling on the bed, was I only kissing you?”

That question was a spark in dry grass. Once, only in dreams would Shen Xici become like this—lips and tongue wet, ripe as fruit, sweet-and-sour juice slicking Sheng Shaoyan’s hands. Now, he no longer needed to hold back.

The shaft of light on the bed trembled. In the rush of breath came soft, tear-tinged calls of “A Shao.”

The packed lunch went completely cold, the ice drink melted to water. After holding him in the shower, Shen Xici was a lovely mess when they sat down at the table again—his eyes still damp, the corners still pink. The loose collar of his top showed faint red marks. He exuded a decadent, languid sweetness, still tucked in Sheng Shaoyan’s arms at the table.

Deep inside, he was still tender and trembling, instinctively wanting to press closer—unconsciously rubbing his waist into the other’s palm.

After lingering a kiss on his shoulder, Sheng Shaoyan’s gaze darkened another shade. He patted below his waist, lips brushing his ear as he warned in a roughened whisper, both order and coaxing, “Be good. No more. You’ll get hurt.”

Shen Xici paused. “I—I wasn’t…”

The words of defense stuck. He reflected for a moment—there really wasn’t any explanation more fitting than wanting love.

He knew Sheng Shaoyan wanted to kiss him. He also knew he wanted Sheng Shaoyan to come take his lips, and to respond, eager and open. So he had lured him by instinct—wanting Sheng Shaoyan’s heartbeat to lose its steady pace because of him, wanting the other’s reason to crack and restraint to fall away.

But once that was noticed, seen through, and said aloud, Shen Xici buried his face in Sheng Shaoyan’s clothes and decided not to speak to him for five minutes.

Then he thought, five minutes is too long—three minutes, then…

After the two-hour-delayed lunch, Shen Xici changed into a white thin sweater, curled on the sofa, and replied to a few messages.

He’d run straight from the venue, untouched by the media scrum, leaving Ge Lanjing in Ningcheng juggling a dozen fires.

“So many people all want to be the first to interview you. Every time I say, ‘Shen Xici isn’t in Ningcheng, he’s on vacation,’ they ask suspiciously, ‘Sister Lanjing, have you already booked his schedule and just don’t want to say, so you’re using this as an excuse?’ Heh. There’s no trust left in this world!”

Imitating their tone through her nose, Ge Lanjing made him want to laugh—then he remembered it was his fault and quickly suppressed it.

“Someone even asked me where you are now. Never mind that I don’t know—even if I did, would I tell them? Dream on.” After venting, she reminded him, “It’s perfect if no one can find you. Your heat is too high right now—better to lay low. Have a good time with Mr. Sheng. Leave everything here to me.”

“Thank you, Sister Lanjing!” he said with sincere gratitude.

Time seemed to slow. The day stretched long. While Sheng Shaoyan handled work, Shen Xici used his lap as a pillow, twining the hoodie drawstring between his fingers.

After dark, the streets thinned. They went downstairs to walk along the roadside, taking in the scattered neon and far-off stars.

After seeing so much of him suited up and immaculate, seeing him now in a hoodie and work pants felt both nostalgic and new. Passing a narrow alley, Shen Xici tugged him in and stole a kiss.

They stayed in the little city for two days. There were few young people there. With just a mask, Shen Xici didn’t have to worry about being recognized. They followed their whims, retracing all the roads they’d walked and landscapes they’d seen before.

Before heading back to Ningcheng, the weather forecast showed a fiery dawn. They went downstairs before first light.

The morning air was cool, and, incredibly, it was that same apocalyptic steampunk motorcycle. But at a glance, even though it was the same bike—rusted shell, chipped paint—he could tell it had been repaired. Likely because Sheng Shaoyan seriously suspected it might fall apart on the way, he’d clearly had it worked over: the handlebar wrapped in new grips over the old burlap, many parts replaced; it no longer wheezed like it was about to die.

And somehow, after the repairs, a hint of industrial design beauty emerged.

The speed and stability were both far better than before. They rode out of the little city, winding up the narrow mountain road. Birds lifted from their roosts, the tires crackled over grit and dead branches, and they stopped by a half-suspended monolith.

Mist pooled in the hills. Sitting in front of the bike, Shen Xici was wrapped in Sheng Shaoyan’s coat from behind, their warmth fitted perfectly, not a sliver of space between.

The sky was already light. The view was wide open, wind moving the forest like waves. The sun rose blazing from the east, painting the horizon gold like a phoenix unfurling wings that screened the sky. The further east they looked, the more it resembled reddened tin foil, about to catch fire.

“A Shao, look!” Shen Xici said in delight.

They watched together as molten gold glazed the evergreen ridges, like ancient whales leaping into the dawn.

The sunrise burned bright. In that moment, ten thousand rays fell into Shen Xici’s eyes.

Kissing his cheek in the hush, Sheng Shaoyan asked, “Will you? From this moment on—many months, many years—stay with me.”

Shen Xici turned to meet his eyes, his chest aching sweetly, his voice soft yet firm. “I will. I’ve had that answer ready for a long time.”

A ring slid onto his ring finger, pressed down to the base.

Sheng Shaoyan did what he’d wanted to do that evening three hundred seventy-six days ago.

As the dawn red faded, the sky’s deep blue returned. They rode through the slate-blue hills, like points of light moving along the axis of time.

Thank you, fate, for guiding me to your side.

—Main story complete—