Kiss (2/2)
When he returned home, Su Zesui was still awake, lying on the bed with a competition book, waiting for him.
The boy’s pale, slender legs swung back and forth, a quiet hum escaping his lips—a cheerful tune, judging by the lightness in his mood.
As soon as Gu Yilan opened the door, Su Zesui ran up and hugged him. “Brother, you’re home!”
Gu Yilan lifted the boy, who was barefoot on the floor, and gently placed him back on the bed.
“Mm,” he acknowledged.
“Brother… what happened to your hand?”
Su Zesui loved physical contact—its warmth and reality gave him a strong sense of security. Ever since being with Gu Yilan, one of his favorite pastimes was exploring the lines and calluses on his hands.
Now, after just a couple of touches, he felt the crescent-shaped scratches on Gu Yilan’s palm.
The sensation was abrupt, with clear traces of blood. It was obvious that a great deal of force had been used at the time, as if trying to endure or suppress something.
Gu Yilan’s fingertips paused for a moment, a fleeting emotion crossing his eyes, but he didn’t withdraw his hand from the boy’s careful inspection.
He hadn’t expected to slip up at such a vulnerable moment. Pressing his lips together, he simply said, “There’s been a little problem at the company. So I’ve been busy lately.”
He had promised never to lie to Su Zesui—and technically, he hadn’t. He simply avoided the heavier truth and offered a partial explanation.
Su Zesui didn’t doubt him at all. Cradling his hand, he blew gently on it, then looked up, his eyes bright with concern. “Is it serious?”
The concern and tenderness in the boy’s gaze instantly dissolved Gu Yilan’s fatigue and irritation. He smiled faintly. “It’s manageable.”
Su Zesui sat up, puffing out his cheeks, and began firmly counting off his rules: “Then… you can’t hurt yourself with tools, can’t pinch yourself, and can’t bite yourself. But you can kiss me.”
Gu Yilan couldn’t help smiling. He leaned down and lightly pressed his lips to the boy’s. “Okay.”
Psychological illnesses are like physical ones—they require professional treatment or medication and cannot easily be fought off by sheer willpower.
After a tense flare-up in the cafe that evening, Gu Yilan inevitably succumbed later that night.
In the darkness, an unnamed fire burned in his mind, clouding his reason, a veil of blood-red mist coating his vision.
Suddenly, violent thoughts surged, his body tensing uncontrollably, veins bulging in his arms—he wanted to deal with everyone who had wronged him.
Yet unusually, despite the intensity and suddenness of this episode, he felt only the discomfort of being restrained; he had no urge to harm himself.
It seemed that over the past few days, his brain had finally learned a way to endure these episodes without self-destruction.
“Kiss me,” he murmured to the boy sleeping soundly in his arms, his voice dry and husky.
“Mm.”
Though soft, Gu Yilan’s voice carried through the darkness. Half-awake, Su Zesui blinked a few times before understanding, then eagerly wrapped his arms around Gu Yilan’s neck, pecking repeatedly on his lips. “Kiss kiss kiss.”
Gu Yilan lifted his hand to press on the back of the boy’s head, kissing his light and soft lips. Without a moment’s hesitation, he extended his tongue, prying open the still-naive lips and teeth, sweeping wantonly through the moist, soft mouth, and exchanging breaths and saliva with him.
This left Su Zesui’s tongue with nowhere to go, so he could only groggily follow the man’s rhythm, moving his own tongue and becoming entangled with his.
. . . . .
Through the boy’s earnest kiss, Gu Yilan passed the episode without injury or pain.
But life didn’t allow him sick leave. The next morning, he had to return to dealing with the fallout from the online harassment.
Though Zhou Qizhao was a minor internet celebrity, his malicious influence had amplified through thousands of naive, blind followers, eventually focusing on the person he targeted.
This was the power—and the terror—of the internet.
Over time, as the platform gained control over the public narrative, the scandal’s heat gradually subsided.
But Zhou Qizhao refused to give up. He went live, connecting with viewers and planted “actors,” releasing even more shocking rumors about Su Zesui’s private life and Gu Yilan’s complex family background.
Each explosive livestream, each trending topic, reignited the scandal.
Where Zhou Qizhao fled by plane remained unknown. His incompetent parents had failed to bring him back, forced to watch helplessly as the situation escalated, turning their family into a laughingstock in the industry.
Gu Group, too, inevitably suffered.
Even with top-tier PR skills, the company couldn’t override Gu Yilan’s decision to protect Su Zesui. He firmly rejected any suggestion that the boy appear publicly to clarify the situation, even insisting on suppressing all mentions of Su Zesui online. PR efforts were restricted, and the stock price dipped slightly.
Gu Yilan didn’t care much about the company’s losses—he had other priorities.
The cost: in just a few days, his phone was bombarded with calls from shareholders, his parents, even his grandfather.
Everyone tried to reason with him, urging him to hand Su Zesui over, or at least have the boy release a short video explaining the situation. But Gu Yilan’s resilience was unshakable; nothing could move him.
Days of high-pressure work left him visibly tired, which even Su Zesui noticed, frequently asking about the company.
Gu Yilan would only smile silently, stroking the boy’s head, and say, “It’ll be over soon.”
Su Zesui’s phone had been turned off and hidden somewhere in the room, leaving him only able to watch downloaded online lessons on the tablet. The Wi-Fi throughout the large villa had also been shut off, turning it into a kind of modern-day retreat—completely cut off from the internet.
But the boy was obedient. When told he couldn’t go online, he didn’t try to find his phone or complain about being bored. Instead, he would turn to comfort Gu Yilan, wanting to kiss him or help massage his shoulders.
Multiple forces were pulling at them, and events kept unfolding.
Once the online storm had passed and public attention had completely cooled, they could take the rumor-mongers to court, and the matter would be fully resolved.
In theory, it was only a matter of time.
Yet even someone like Gu Yilan, who was used to meticulously planning and controlling everything, couldn’t help but overlook certain details amid so many complex affairs.
That night, while taking a cold shower, the phone on his nightstand suddenly buzzed, catching the boy’s attention as he watched his lessons.
The private investigator had an urgent update and had called Gu Yilan several times. Thinking the earlier calls had gone unheard, they kept trying.
When Gu Yilan stepped out of the bathroom, he saw Su Zesui lying on the bed, eyes fixed on the vibrating phone.
The boy seemed to be wondering who the contact labeled “Private” might be—whether he should bring the phone to the bathroom or answer it to let the other party know he was busy.
Seeing Gu Yilan appear, Su Zesui stopped thinking and hurriedly handed him the phone.
No sooner had the phone reached Gu Yilan than a message from the investigator popped up on the lock screen: the surveillance evidence involved the privacy of a minor and likely could not be disclosed online.
For a moment, Gu Yilan’s breath caught.
Along with the sudden fear came guilt.
Guilt at getting priorities backward—being so caught up in handling everything, running from one task to another, that he had overlooked the boy right in front of him, who knew nothing but still cared about him. Su Zesui’s preliminary competition was just a few days away; he was the one who needed care the most.
Gu Yilan set aside his tasks for the moment, silenced the phone, and the next day took Su Zesui out to relax and see their new home.
Their new home was still an empty shell.
Gu Yilan brought Su Zesui to a professional interior design firm, Imperial Haven. The firm was top-tier, equipped with all the latest tools, allowing designers to simulate any style the clients wanted using 3D technology.
With enough budget, anything—from the exotic to the extravagant—was possible.
Su Zesui’s eyes curved with delight as he tapped through the design options on the tablet, his lips never once closing as he watched the 3D renderings change before him.
Until now, the idea of a “new home” had been just a vague concept for them, something they could mention but couldn’t imagine clearly. Now, seeing a house transform in real time according to his choices, the “new home” felt tangible, real, and within reach.
“Moving is a fresh start,” Gu Yilan said with a small smile. “If we time it right, we can move in after your finals are over.”
Su Zesui clapped happily. “Great!”
Gu Yilan asked, “Do you want to try other styles? I’m free all day today. Later, we can also go check the actual house.”
“W-Wait. You pick here first. I—I’m going out to buy something,” Su Zesui said, patting the card in his pocket and pointing to the front door.
The mention of a “fresh start” made him think of the tulips a nurse had shown him when he was hospitalized. Their upright stems and delicate petals symbolized resilience, and the flowers’ meaning was “rebirth and love.”
He knew Gu Yilan had been busy and stressed lately, so he wanted to give him tulips—something to lift his spirits and mark a new beginning.
“I’ll go with you,” Gu Yilan said without hesitation.
But Su Zesui, wanting it to be a surprise, quickly stopped him. “N-No, it’s just next door. I’ll go myself. You stay here.”
Seeing the boy insist, Gu Yilan relented. “Alright, I’ll wait here.”
Only after the boy’s bouncing figure disappeared out the door did Gu Yilan return his attention to discussing finer design details with the designer.
Three minutes, five minutes… ten minutes passed, yet the boy still hadn’t returned.
And without a phone, there was no way to contact him.
“Wait a moment.” Gu Yilan frowned at the time on his phone, raised a hand to stop the still-chatty designer, and strode out. “I’ll go find him.”
The design firm was located on a bustling commercial street, surrounded by all kinds of shops.
The boy hadn’t told him exactly what he wanted to buy. Gu Yilan frowned, thinking it might be difficult to find—but then, just next door at a flower shop, he saw Su Zesui.
Amid clusters of fragrant flowers, the boy was half-squatting on the ground, his body stiff in a self-protective posture, trembling slightly as though he had seen something unbelievable. The lighthearted joy he had shown just moments ago had completely vanished.
His gaze was fixed on the phone he was holding, trembling in his hands.
Looking closely, he saw that the comment section of his social media account had already been completely overrun; at a glance, it was still full of vicious words, endless and never-ending.