The private room was silent, the only sound being the crisp clinking of glass, yet it felt unusually heavy. Those troublesome alphas, seeing Zeng Lin’s expression turning worse, left one by one tactfully.
As the crowd dispersed, the once-cramped private room became vacant once more. No one spoke, the man maintained his posture on the sofa, while the young man sat slumped at the low table, swirling his glass of wine.
Shards of glass pierced Meng Chen’s palm, blood trailing down his wrist and pooling into a small drop at the bottom of the glass, splattering onto the floor.
No one spoke, the private room deathly silent. Meng Chen was beginning to feel a slight tipsiness, unknowingly revealing a hint of vulnerability under the dim lights.
Vulnerability?
It was a fresh word.
This word seemed misplaced on Meng Chen, who was always strong, whether facing a motherless childhood, an abusive father, or even that desperate night in the alleyway – he was always alone.
He had always stood alone, picking himself up, concealing his disheveled appearance, and licking his wounds clean.
Children who lack care learn to grow up quickly.
“Zeng Lin, it was you who ‘tamed’ me first.”
Meng Chen was truly a bit drunk. In moments of sobriety, these words might never have been spoken. Perhaps knowing no one would care, he had grown accustomed to silently burying the hardships life had dealt him. He recalled a book he once read, where the rose tamed the little prince, so the rose became the little prince’s rose, the one rose out of thousands that belonged solely to the little prince.
The book said:
—”You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed. You are responsible for your rose…”
—”I am responsible for my rose…”
Meng Chen was once an unwanted wildflower, but Zeng Lin “tamed” him, making him the “Meng Chen” that belonged solely to Zeng Lin.
But how could a wildflower compare to a rose? So Zeng Lin wouldn’t be responsible for his wildflower.
A dim light fell upon Meng Chen’s eyes, the wine glass swaying as the sorrow threatened to spill over.
“I tried so hard, so hard…”
“But I can’t hold onto anything.”
Before, he wanted to survive, so he saved every penny, searching for a path forward. But artificial glands were too expensive, and after saving for so long, he had next to nothing. So he eventually gave up, figuring he’d abandon hope when his glands atrophied beyond repair.
Later, he wanted someone to like him, so he endured piercing pains, reaching out even as he bled. But that person shattered his shell, trampling his dignity and affection underfoot. It hurt too much, so he didn’t want it anymore.
“Zeng Lin, you can’t be so cruel,” Meng Chen’s voice was hoarse with exhaustion as he tore off the pheromone patch on his neck, releasing a faint scent into the air.
“I could die at any moment,” Meng Chen said miserably, tears welling uncontrollably as he pointed to his scarred nape. “I need hundreds, even thousands of psychological suggestions just to approach you, an alpha.”
Meng Chen turned away, not wanting Zeng Lin to see his tears. It was just about not being liked, there was nothing to cry over, yet he felt so aggrieved. “Zeng Lin, you don’t have to accept my feelings, you can reject them. But you can’t throw them in the trash for others to trample on.”
“It’s the most precious thing I have.” He had very little to offer, all he had left to give was his sincere heart.
For an omega with damaged glands to actively approach an alpha was truly painful.
All those nights spent gasping from gland-related complications, tormented by insomnia again and again.
How did Meng Chen endure?
Zeng Lin saw Meng Chen’s gland for the first time, a long scar like a viper coiled on his nape.
He recalled the briefing on Meng Chen’s background, the dense text not daring to imagine the despair that made Meng Chen turn a knife on his own gland.
It was raw suffering and hardship, yet Zeng Lin had callously ripped open Meng Chen’s wounds, mocking his pain as a joke among friends.
“I’m sorry.” The words felt too light, insignificant before Meng Chen’s countless restless nights.
Zeng Lin reached to bandage Meng Chen’s palm, to embrace and soothe the injured omega, but Meng Chen gently pulled away.
“That day, I heard you all talking,” Meng Chen’s voice was still nasal. “This scar, it’s ugly, isn’t it?”
“I’m not that gullible, Zeng Lin. Not just anyone’s words could make me devote myself. It’s just that for you, you have that privilege over me.”
But now I want to revoke that privilege.
Zeng Lin suddenly became flustered, like a prisoner exposed on the execution grounds. He had no defense against Meng Chen’s accusations.
When Meng Chen withdrew his previous favor towards Zeng Lin, Zeng Lin realized he had already lost all leverage between them. He was a villainous scumbag who could only see his own heart after losing Meng Chen.
Meng Chen stood up, dropping his wine glass which shattered on the floor. His palm still burned fiercely as he staggered towards the exit, dizzy and trembling.
Zeng Lin approached from behind, reaching out to steady Meng Chen.
“Don’t touch me,” Meng Chen waved his hand, blocking Zeng Lin.
Zeng Lin’s hand froze in mid-air.
“Let me take you home, okay?” His voice held a pleading tenderness he couldn’t suppress.
He didn’t dare hope for Meng Chen’s forgiveness, and he couldn’t even voice, “Will you still come home with me?” as if only now seeing his own vileness, his stupidity.
He and Meng Chen were never on equal footing. So he grew accustomed to Meng Chen’s pained compliance, his accommodations. He treated Meng Chen like a passing inn, yet found himself growing attached with each visit.
Through countless nights, countless lights waiting for their return, he could no longer deceive himself – he wanted to be the fox “tamed” by Meng Chen. The one truly unable to accept leaving was him.
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