Chapter 31: Acceptable

Song Chengfeng fell asleep with his head on a cushion, only half his body on the sofa. The little creature was curled up head-to-head with him, also fast asleep.

The candle went out, leaving only a pool of wax tears that had flowed while it burned. Yan Zhuo draped a blanket over the little creature and returned to his room, a thin trail of wax caught between his fingers.

He bumped into something as he pushed the door open, making a soft clatter. He didn't pay it much mind, but a second later, he froze in place.

The wax fell to the floor. Yan Zhuo verified it once more: he hadn't mistaken the room; this was indeed his own. But why was Qu Yan here?

Qu Yan was sitting in a wheelchair. In the darkness, only the outline of Yan Zhuo was visible. Qu Yan’s tone was natural: "It's so dark. Are there any more candles?"

"Yes, I'll go get one."

Even though the darkness could not hinder his sight, his toes caught on the wall. Yan Zhuo stumbled, nearly falling.

Behind him, Qu Yan seemed to chuckle, though it might have been imagined. By the time he returned with a candle, Yan Zhuo was still wondering if he had misheard.

This bedroom appeared to be a child’s room, with a warm color palette and furnishings full of childlike charm, though the bed was far too small. By the candlelight, Qu Yan surveyed the room.

Yan Zhuo stood in the doorway, only half his body inside. Gripping the doorknob, he asked, "Should I go to another room?"

Qu Yan bent down and picked up the wax that had fallen earlier. It felt slick and still warm to the touch. He countered, "Do you want to?"

Of course he didn't.

His grip on the doorknob tightened. Yan Zhuo closed the door. "Can I stay?"

Qu Yan toyed with the red wax between his fingertips, flipping and dancing it between the gaps. Yan Zhuo’s gaze was drawn to it. He repeated, "I don't want to go."

"Then don't." Qu Yan leaned an arm against the armrest of the wheelchair, his eyes looking like hooks. "You have to say it out loud for me to satisfy you. Understand?"

Yan Zhuo nodded. "I want to kiss you."

He was truly an excellent student; once the teacher taught him, he grasped the essence immediately.

Qu Yan tilted his chin up, his expression one of clear agreement.

Encouraged by this look, Yan Zhuo’s breathing grew ragged. He stepped forward, bending down almost impatiently.

At this moment, he was a clumsy student again. Despite the many times they had kissed, his technique remained raw and inexperienced.

But that could not be blamed on him—not when Qu Yan’s wicked nature took hold, never allowing Yan Zhuo to move on his own.

Qu Yan’s lips grew increasingly flushed. Yan Zhuo’s strength was great, but his kisses were light, falling in a chaotic, dense flurry. Qu Yan became a delicious cake, pecked at again and again.

If this continued, his lips would swell even if the kisses were light.

The hand caressing the back of Yan Zhuo’s neck applied slight pressure. Qu Yan turned his head to create space, his breathing uneven. "Too clumsy."

Too clumsy.

Yan Zhuo’s mouth parted slightly. It took a few seconds for him to grasp the meaning. He accused, "You didn't teach me."

He cupped the back of Qu Yan’s neck to make him look up, leaning in to murmur, "Teach me."

His lowered voice was muffled, like a dog begging for affection.

Qu Yan couldn't help but think: if he were ten years younger, could he have withstood an Yan Zhuo like this?

Probably not.

"Just this once," he finally conceded.

A qualified teacher must not only teach a student theoretical knowledge but also lead them through practical activities. Qu Yan had been diligent since childhood, and teaching someone to kiss was no exception.

When another drop of wax slid down, the sounds that made one’s ears flush and heart race finally ceased.

The opening act was well performed; the subsequent developments followed naturally. Qu Yan had cast a long line to catch a big fish, and Yan Zhuo had already taken the bait. He decided it was time to pull the net in.

But Yan Zhuo was not satisfied. Having just learned to kiss, how could he let go of his only subject for practice?

Qu Yan pressed his chin to push him away. "Do you remember what you promised me? Do it for me now."

His tone was light, as if he were speaking of something trivial.

Yet this was clearly something Qu Yan had merely said to himself at the time, now twisted into a promise Yan Zhuo had made.

Yan Zhuo’s mind was not clear enough to spot the loophole in this statement, nor could he find the words to argue.

Such a shameful thing—just thinking about it made him feel like he would explode. The wolf ears on his head twitched, and the tail behind him emerged, though he didn't know when.

Qu Yan did not urge him, waiting with infinite patience.

Everything that had happened in the living room was something Wen Xi had deliberately put on display for him. Qu Yan could see that, of course, and he was one hundred percent certain that there were no romantic feelings between Yan Zhuo and Wen Xi. But knowing that was one thing; feeling repulsed by the scene was another.

In the end, it was an over-inflated sense of possessiveness. He didn't just need Yan Zhuo’s affection; he needed his submission, and submission had to be proven through action.

On the deep blue bedspread, which featured a group of mischievous yellow puppies—some dancing, some balancing balls—Yan Zhuo sat huddled. He was one of them, yet his movements were stiff, his face flushed.

His wolf tail swayed restlessly, but he had no mind to care. The zipper pressed against his wrist, a negligible pain.

His wrist moved only once, and he looked up to steal a glance at Qu Yan.

"Very good," Qu Yan leaned back in his wheelchair, offering praise at the right moment.

His brain felt dizzy and swollen; everything around him seemed to have a thick, blurry filter. Yan Zhuo stared intently at Qu Yan, finally letting out a stifled groan from his own torment.

He couldn't do it...

His T-shirt was soaked with sweat; the sweat from his brow slid into his eyes, turning into tears as it flowed out.

His face and ears were red, and so were his eyes. In a room so full of childlike innocence, desire had become a demon to capture him. He surrendered to the demon, yet he presented an eerie purity.

It was beautiful.

Qu Yan felt his mouth go dry. The hand gripping the wheelchair’s armrest tightened, and sweat beads appeared on the tip of his nose.

"Qu Yan..."

Every syllable he uttered was thick and viscous, like a rainy summer day. Yan Zhuo firmly remembered what Qu Yan had said.

Only by saying it out loud would he be satisfied.

"...Teach me, okay? Teach me one more time..."

This was something Qu Yan could not teach; his own expertise in this subject was clearly lacking.

The candle on the low table had burned halfway down. The overly long wick was tilted, emitting black smoke. Qu Yan had to move the wheelchair closer, the candlelight flickering with his movements.

Yan Zhuo stared at him, his burning gaze almost searing right through him.

The raised wrist was thin and pale. As his slender fingers touched the candle, the wick remained untrimmed, but the wax rolled down first. Qu Yan was burned, his skin turning red instantly.

Yan Zhuo’s breathing grew heavier. His excellent vision allowed him to see the entire process of the wax sliding down.

The bright red wax wound its way down, hitting the skin without pause. Qu Yan flinched in pain, the scar on the web of his hand trembling along with him.

Yan Zhuo knew all too well how that scar had come to be—he had bitten it, back when he was a wolf.

It was the mark he had left on Qu Yan.

Yan Zhuo exhaled, feeling every inch of his skin trembling.

Perhaps every mountaineer feels excitement and joy when they are about to reach the summit.

The yellow candlelight swayed and swayed. The hand holding the candle seemed frightened by the heat; the fingers moved slowly, rubbing against the candle lightly and gently, like a cautious kiss.

A magnificent, giant firework exploded before his eyes. The candle went out with a *puff*. Yan Zhuo collapsed onto the bed, his chest heaving, murmuring softly: "Qu Yan..."

Memories blurred. The scent lingering in his nose and his feverish body made Yan Zhuo believe he had returned to some afternoon in high school.

Thick, light-blocking curtains hid everything from the outside world. He and the phantom Qu Yan sank into the cramped bedroom, the messy bed covered in treasures he had stolen.

He lay atop these treasures, hooking his arm around Qu Yan’s waist, kissing his shoulder ever so lightly.

"Yan Zhuo?"

His arm was nudged. In his daze, Yan Zhuo thought it was still a hallucination. He struggled to sit up, asking happily, "Qu Yan, can you like me?"

The Qu Yan in the hallucination would always nod without hesitation and say, "I like you the most."

Yet this was no hallucination. Qu Yan raised an eyebrow in the darkness, pondering what answer to give.

After a long silence without an answer, Yan Zhuo didn't care. He still smiled foolishly, then leaned in, his mouth brushing against Qu Yan’s shoulder.

The moment he touched him, he sobered up. This wasn't a hallucination; it was the real Qu Yan.

What his lips touched was not bare skin, but thin fabric.

He thought again: no wonder he didn't get an answer. Because the real Qu Yan didn't like him.

Qu Yan couldn't see anything, but he could feel the shift in Yan Zhuo’s emotions. A moment ago, he had been a happy little dog; now, why did he feel like he was about to cry?

Because he hadn't said he liked him?

Qu Yan admitted he was indeed very interested in Yan Zhuo, but to call it "like"—that seemed far off. It wasn't hard to lie; he could easily coax Yan Zhuo into happiness. But in that moment just now, he suddenly didn't want to lie to Yan Zhuo.

"Do you like to see me... like this?" In the silence, Yan Zhuo suddenly spoke.

Qu Yan hummed, admitting it openly.

Yan Zhuo leaned in closer, his eyes shining where Qu Yan couldn't see. "Keep teaching me. You can do anything to me."

Qu Yan’s expression grew strange. He always felt as if he had made Yan Zhuo turn into something odd.

Qu Yan liked Yan Zhuo.

Qu Yan liked Yan Zhuo’s body.

It was only three words away. Yan Zhuo felt he could accept that.