Chen Zemian suspected Lu Zhuonian had realized he was the protagonist.
But he had no proof, and asking outright was impossible.
So he pretended nothing had happened.
Except it wasn’t nothing. He’d escaped, yes—but the elevator cable had scraped the palm of his right hand raw. Cleaning the wound nearly made him black out.
The foreign doctor spoke fast, spouting technical jargon. Chen Zemian couldn’t follow a word.
Lu Zhuonian stood nearby, solemn. He nodded from time to time, offering clipped responses. “OK, I understand.” “I’ll keep observing.” “Yes.” “No.” “Anything I should note?” “He’s in pain.” Clear enough phrases, but none revealed what truly mattered.
Chen Zemian’s nerves prickled. His heart thudded. Fear crept in.
Why did Lu Zhuonian look so serious? Was his injury severe?
Was he… useless now?
And what were these two discussing so intently? Couldn’t they speak Chinese?
He leaned forward to grab his phone and open the translation app, but Lu Zhuonian’s hand shot out and pressed against his neck.
“Don’t move.”
This time, he spoke in Chinese.
Chen Zemian grew agitated. He grabbed Lu Zhuonian’s sleeve. “What are you two talking about? What’s wrong with my hand? Can it be fixed? Will it affect my life? Can I still write? Eat?”
Lu Zhuonian glanced at him, face unreadable. He ignored the questions. “Now you’re scared.”
Chen Zemian had been scared. He’d relied on his right hand since childhood. Losing it would be more than inconvenient—it would ruin everything. Even daily life would become a chore.
But Lu Zhuonian’s words eased him.
If something were truly wrong, Lu Zhuonian wouldn’t have the presence of mind to be sarcastic.
He leaned back in the chair and exhaled. “I’m not scared. Who’s scared? It’s just a hand—still attached, not mangled. Doesn’t even mess up my looks.”
Lu Zhuonian said nothing. He took the report from the doctor and signed it without a word.
Though he couldn’t understand spoken English, Chen Zemian could piece together parts of the report on paper.
“The tendon is ruptured,” he mumbled, chin resting on Lu Zhuonian’s shoulder. “No wonder it hurts when I make a fist.”
Lu Zhuonian turned his head, brushing his nose against Chen Zemian’s cheek. “The doctor said it’s a partial rupture. It won’t affect daily life. You don’t need surgery, but you do need rest. Avoid making it worse. If it tears further and you lose flexion, then surgery’s needed.”
Chen Zemian stared at Lu Zhuonian’s mouth as he spoke, swallowed, then glanced at the foreign doctor. Banking on the man’s inability to understand Chinese, he whispered, “Your right hand needs to rest. If you get frisky tonight, I’ll help—with my left hand, Master Lu.”
Lu Zhuonian’s breath hitched. His expression darkened. A second later, he shoved Chen Zemian’s head away. “Even if I were sick, I wouldn’t need you. Wait till you’re healed.”
Chen Zemian recognized the anger. He grinned, voice playful. “A broken hand doesn’t stop me from working. Use me. I’m ready.”
Lu Zhuonian paused. “We’ll wait and see.”
Chen Zemian chuckled but winced almost immediately, recoiling. “Ow, ow, ow.”
The surgeon pressed his wrist. “Don’t pull away. I’m disinfecting.”
“I wasn’t ready!” Chen Zemian snapped in English. “Why didn’t you warn me?”
“I did. You nodded,” the doctor replied.
Chen Zemian: “…”
After disinfection, his right hand was wrapped like a zongzi. Half his independence, gone.
At home, Lu Zhuonian gave him a bath.
“Unreal,” Chen Zemian muttered from the tub, right hand in plastic wrap. “I never thought I’d be bathed by Master Lu.”
Lu Zhuonian wiped his face with a wet towel. “You think this is funny? Do you know how dangerous that was, Chen Zemian?”
Still basking in the memory, Chen Zemian leaned back. “When I fell, did you think I was dead? But I grabbed that cable like a reflex. Pretty cool, right?”
“Sit up. I’m washing your hair.”
“I wanna lie down.”
Lu Zhuonian stepped into the tub, unbuttoned his pajama top. Chen Zemian slid into his arms and let him wash his hair.
Their bodies were close. Warm water, warm skin. Chen Zemian, half-soaped, leaned in with closed eyes, kissing Lu Zhuonian just as he reached for a towel.
Lu Zhuonian lathered soap on his back. “Be still.”
Chen Zemian’s skin slipped under his hands. He pressed closer. “I’ll wash you, too.”
Lu Zhuonian rinsed him off without reacting. “Can’t you behave?”
Chen Zemian blinked. “Seriously? No sexual impulse?”
Without a word, Lu Zhuonian wrapped him in a towel, carried him out of the tub, and laid him on the bed. “Not in the mood.”
Chen Zemian reached down. “Really?”
Lu Zhuonian dried his hair. “Stop thinking about that. Not tonight.”
Chen Zemian sighed. “Why not?”
Over the hair dryer’s hum, Lu Zhuonian answered, “I’m not stable right now. I can’t control it. I might hurt you.”
Chen Zemian thought he looked plenty stable. He hooked his neck and kissed him. “I’m not afraid.”
Lu Zhuonian pulled him close, arms firm. “But I am.”
Chen Zemian nuzzled along his jawline, whispering near his ear, “But I really want to, okay? Please, Lu Zhuonian.”
His breath sent shivers through Lu Zhuonian’s spine.
Lu Zhuonian’s gaze turned molten, but his tone stayed cool. “You’re like a cat begging for canned food.”
Chen Zemian grinned. He loved this contrast in Lu Zhuonian.
He laid his gauze-wrapped hand on Lu Zhuonian’s stomach, grabbed the other’s hand, and placed it on himself. “Want to pet your cat?”
Lu Zhuonian stared down at him. “Greedy cat.”
Chen Zemian trailed his fingers along his back. His thoughts drifted.
He leaned against Lu Zhuonian’s shoulder. Pale skin, long neck. The red mole at his throat stood out.
Lu Zhuonian cupped his neck, covering that dangerous color.
Chen Zemian knelt on the bed, tongue brushing Lu Zhuonian’s lips before trailing kisses down his neck.
Even if Lu Zhuonian wasn’t usually impulsive, no one could resist that.
He closed his eyes, chest rising fast, and warned through gritted teeth, “I can’t hold back. Your hand’s injured. Once we start, we can’t just stop.”
“Don’t stop.” Chen Zemian pushed him onto the bed. “You think I’m weak? Last time, we went three days. I didn’t want it to end.”
This time could be longer.
And it was.
The intensity wasn’t the same. Lu Zhuonian was gentle, careful. When they finished, Chen Zemian wasn’t sore at all. He cleaned up, got dressed, and went to campus to find Xiao Kesong.
He planned to tell him Lu Zizhen had left, so there was no need to pretend to work part-time.
The injury didn’t affect finger movement, so he thought he could drive. But halfway there, he stretched the wound. Blood soaked the gauze.
Panicking, he went to the hospital alone to get it redressed. The moment he entered, his phone rang.
It was Lu Zhuonian.
After the re-bandaging, Lu Zhuonian came to take him home.
“I trusted you,” he said. “You couldn’t last four hours without tearing it again.”
His face was calm, voice unreadable. “You’re grounded until it heals.”
To prevent another tear, he put on a wrist fixator and took two weeks off. Every day, he stayed home and kept watch.
Chen Zemian, under house arrest, lost the use of his right hand. He struggled with the computer, even his phone.
He tried watching TV, but every channel was in English.
When Xiao Kesong had no classes, he often came to play with him. The three of them played Landlord for a while, but Chen Zemian found he couldn’t even hold the cards with one hand.
After a few days working at a restaurant, Xiao Kesong had picked up some service skills. At noon, he insisted on serving Chen Zemian. While laying out dishes and pouring water, he explained the etiquette of a proper waiter.
Chen Zemian leaned back, watching his performance with lazy amusement.
Before pouring the water, Xiao Kesong held up the kettle and began his lecture: “The waiter’s hand shouldn’t touch the cup’s mouth. Usually, we pour until it’s seventy percent full. The spout shouldn’t face the guest.”
Chen Zemian nodded slowly. “Great, great, great.”
Xiao Kesong picked up the cup and turned sideways. “To keep water from spilling on the table, we always lift the cup.”
He was so caught up talking that he didn’t check the water level. The stream landed squarely on Chen Zemian’s bandaged right hand.
The very hand that had caused so much trouble.
Because of the gauze, Chen Zemian didn’t feel the wetness at first. But when Xiao Kesong turned and saw it, he panicked and slapped a hand over Chen Zemian’s mouth.
“Don’t scream,” he whispered. “Don’t make a sound.”
Only then did Chen Zemian realize what had happened.
“This how your restaurant trains staff?” he asked, looking at the dripping gauze. “Kick the cripple’s bad leg harder.”
Xiao Kesong, unrepentant, placed the water cup directly on the wounded hand. “Well, at least it didn’t spill on the table.”
Chen Zemian gave him a look and called for Lu Zhuonian to help him change the bandage.
Guilty as a thief, Xiao Kesong fled before Lu Zhuonian arrived, tossing the kettle aside. He didn’t dare show up for several days.
When Chen Zemian asked him to come over again, he suspected it was a trap.
That kind of trickery—using all his schemes on his own people—was just like him.
Chen Zemian spent another two days stuck at home. Bored out of his mind.
After watching a few movies in the audio-visual room, he came to a conclusion: people shouldn’t wait for death. They should learn to entertain themselves.
He held a bucket of popcorn and turned to look at Lu Zhuonian.
Lu Zhuonian, attuned to him, paused the movie as soon as he noticed the gaze. “What is it? Hand hurting? Want some fruit?”
Compared to the unreliable Xiao Kesong, Lu Zhuonian was meticulous, considerate. A textbook young master. He took good care of Chen Zemian.
The wound came from friction with steel wire. Rough, uneven. Easy to infect. It had torn once already, then been soaked in Xiao Kesong’s tea. But somehow, after all that, it hadn’t festered.
Lu Zhuonian had kept a close watch.
The room was dim. The blue light from the screen washed over his face, making his features seem even more defined.
Chen Zemian’s Adam’s apple shifted. He suddenly asked, “Do you know why there were so many kids in the ’50s and ’60s?”
Lu Zhuonian: “…”
From then on, Chen Zemian found a new pastime—unlocking creative ways to entertain himself.
His hand eventually healed. But his urethritis came back.
With urethritis, he constantly felt the urge to pee. But there wasn’t much urine, and it hurt to push. Holding it in felt worse. He also had a slight fever, felt weak all over, and lay on the sofa with a cooling patch on his forehead, groaning.
It was clearly his own lack of restraint, yet he couldn’t bring himself to feel guilty. Instead, he blamed Lu Zhuonian.
Too tempting, he said.
That was the first time anyone had described Lu Zhuonian that way. He stared at Chen Zemian, at a loss.
Thankfully, the illness passed quickly. A few pills, and he was fine.
Still, once the pain was gone, Chen Zemian forgot all his vows of abstinence. His body had already tasted sweetness. Alone with Lu Zhuonian, he couldn’t help but touch him. Kiss him.
Eventually, they decided to return to China. Cool things down.
Lu Zhuonian didn’t want him flying back alone. He booked a weekend international flight and accompanied him home.
Chen Zemian was moved. He’d go straight home after landing, but Lu Zhuonian had to turn around and fly back.
Over thirty hours of travel. No small feat.
Because they had to coordinate the flights, they couldn’t pick the most luxurious option. There was no private room in first class. Chen Zemian felt it was a grievance for Lu Zhuonian.
So, he stayed awake on purpose, drank two coffees, and kept him company. Whispered jokes, shared online memes.
He asked, “If you toast your boss and say ‘Thanks for your care,’ but the boss replies, ‘I didn’t take care of you,’ what would you say?”
Lu Zhuonian, deadpan: “No boss would dare speak to me like that.”
Chen Zemian gave him a look. “Don’t bring your identity into it. Pretend you’re a regular employee.”
“So what should I say?”
Chen Zemian showed him a netizen’s reply: “You didn’t trip me—that’s the best kind of care.”
A long-haired girl in the front row, wearing a hat and mask, laughed softly. She turned slightly to look at them.
Chen Zemian gave a quick apology. “Sorry, did we disturb you?”
She shook her head, looked at him, then at Lu Zhuonian. “Mr. Chen, Mr. Lu.”
Her voice was hoarse. Sounded like a cold.
Chen Zemian stared at her, puzzled, then glanced at Lu Zhuonian.
The girl removed her mask.
Beautiful. Lazy Korean-style curls. Pale skin. No makeup. She looked familiar.
Chen Zemian was still trying to place her when Lu Zhuonian spoke.
“Cheng Ziyi.”
The name clicked. She was the supporting actress from the original story, a future film queen. He’d met her once at the racing club.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m face-blind.”
Cheng Ziyi smiled and tucked her hair behind her ear. “Don’t blame yourself. I look completely different without makeup. I was in a rush, didn’t have time to put any on.”
Chen Zemian noticed the infusion patch on the back of her hand. He remembered the trending topic from a few days ago:
#Top Star Cheng Ziyi Faints During Overseas Variety Show#
“It’s hard being an artist,” he said. “Sick, and still catching international flights.”
She instinctively covered the back of her hand. “It’s nothing. Just a small fever.”
“Then rest. I won’t say more.”
Lu Zhuonian looked displeased but said nothing.
Cheng Ziyi hurried to reassure them. “It’s fine. I just thought it was a funny coincidence. Wanted to say hello. Mr. Chen, you weren’t loud. And you’re funny—I liked your joke.”
Lu Zhuonian’s expression darkened further.
Noticing the mood shift, Cheng Ziyi gave a strained smile, quickly pulled up her mask, and turned back around.
The fifteen-hour flight dragged on. Chen Zemian had planned to stay up with Lu Zhuonian, but only made it two hours.
Halfway through the flight, most passengers had fallen asleep.
Wrapped in a blanket, Chen Zemian loosely held Lu Zhuonian’s fingers. His sleep was shallow and restless.
Cheng Ziyi seemed unwell. She called for the flight attendant several times.
Chen Zemian, always a light sleeper, woke easily. He heard her asking softly for hot water.
The blonde flight attendant replied, “Miss, your face is very flushed. Do you need a thermometer or an ice pack?”
“No, I’m fine,” Cheng Ziyi said.
The attendant left.
Chen Zemian sat up, rummaged through his bag, and pulled out a cooling patch. “Fever again? Here, take this.”
Cheng Ziyi was pouring pills into her hand when she heard him. She flinched.
Her hand jerked, and the pill bottle slipped.
Chen Zemian reacted fast, catching it near the seat divider. His eyes glanced down, almost by instinct.
The label was clear:
Paroxetine.
*****
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Author: LazyHermitGal
A Lazy Hermit Gal wondering in the void and falling into the translation abyss.
