Chapter 67: Rose Fragments (5)

Wen Mingwei had told countless lies to Tan Zhao and was by no means a man of his word.

The moment he walked away, the central sensory data was interrupted. All the "sensations" originating from him were abruptly drained from Tan Zhao's body, and the equipment emitted a beeping electronic tone to signal the end of the connection.

Wen Mingwei walked naked into the bathroom and took a shower. When he came out, Tan Zhao was still sitting blankly on the bed, his sensory patches still attached, resembling a powered-down bionic human, rigidly waiting for the next recharge to begin.

Wrapped in a white bathrobe, Wen Mingwei dried his hair in front of the vanity mirror.

Amidst the annoying noise of the hair dryer, Tan Zhao finally moved. He raised his head, looked at Wen Mingwei, and said, "Actually, I just wanted to know what you were thinking."

His voice was too low and lost to the noise of the hair dryer. Wen Mingwei turned off the switch and motioned for him to repeat himself.

Tan Zhao said, "Even if you don't love me, it shouldn't be that hard to say out loud. What would happen if you just told the truth?"

"..." Wen Mingwei fell silent for a few seconds, switched the dryer back on, and continued drying his hair.

When it was about half dry, he set the dryer down nearby. When he turned back, his emotions were already calm, bordering even on gentle: "Nothing would happen if I told the truth. What reason do I have to lie to you?"

"Yet you are lying to me." Tan Zhao got out of bed, grabbed a shirt, and threw it over his shoulders.

Data fluctuations are truer than facial expressions. Although data can also err, this was the closest moment to the truth—

Tan Zhao had a vague feeling that he had once been close to it as well, yet Wen Mingwei remained sometimes near and sometimes far, half-real and half-fake. It seemed as though he didn't love him, yet not entirely without love either, drifting and lingering around him like a fog—visible, yet impossible to grasp in any concrete form.

Sometimes Tan Zhao wondered if he was doing it on purpose.

Was this a method of toying with human hearts, leaving his lover to suffer and undergo emotional collapse, only for him to look down from above with a smile and bestow a merciful embrace: "Why are you crying? I've been here all along."

Tan Zhao wasn't crying.

Though he did feel a bit like crying.

Trying to have a heart-to-heart with Wen Mingwei felt like punching a pile of cotton—utterly devoid of feedback or leverage.

"...I feel insecure."

Tan Zhao refused to believe he didn't understand. "I live in your house, Wen Mingwei. Your house is my only home."

Perhaps the word "home" finally touched him, as Wen Mingwei took the initiative to step closer. He hugged Tan Zhao and patted his shoulder, a preparatory gesture like someone opening up their heart, but instead he said, "I've tried my best, Tan Zhao."

"..." What did "tried his best" even mean?

He said, "Actually, I'd also like to ask you: what is it that you love about me?"

Tan Zhao was slightly stunned, unsure how to answer. Wen Mingwei continued, "Is it because of insecurity that you cling on so desperately? The more unfathomable a person is, the more you want to figure them out? Add to that a bit of awe for status, power, and authority, plus the physical stimulation brought by a fine appearance... Combine all these together, and that's what you call love?"

Tan Zhao listened in a daze.

Long ago, they had discussed similar topics. Wen Mingwei had always believed that love was merely a product of hormones, so his love for someone was "loving when he felt like it, and stopping when he didn't." After all, he was someone who used medication to control his body's responses. Tan Zhao wanted to capture the genuine emotions in his heart, but he possessed no such thing as genuine emotions to begin with.

"I find it hard to experience the feeling of being loved," Wen Mingwei murmured. "From your perspective, what does it taste like to be loved?"

"..."

"To regard the other person as your own safe zone, where you can act unreasonably and throw tantrums out of being pampered? To demand things with absolute peace of mind?"

By such a standard, Wen Mingwei once felt he had been loved by Jian Qingzheng, even though that person had never confessed his feelings.

But after growing up, Jian Qingzheng was no longer his "safe zone" either. Wen Mingwei disliked demanding anything from anyone—desire was a weakness, and the moment it was exposed, it would be seen through.

By now, Wen Mingwei had very few desires left, none of which could be satisfied simply by being loved.

Back when he forced Tan Zhao to be with him, he hadn't cared whether Tan Zhao loved him or not, as long as his needs were met. Besides, his needs weren't actually all that indispensable; much like love, they were things he indulged when he felt like it and dropped when he didn't.

However—

Wen Mingwei suddenly recalled the scene of Wen Mingzheng's death not long ago.

At the time, he hadn't felt gratified; instead, he felt that with Wen Mingzheng dead, there was one less person in the world connected to him.

Wen Mingwei raised his hand and almost unconsciously touched Tan Zhao's face.

Human beings and the world are inherently disconnected; connections come from between people.

Different people were like different threads, wrapping around Wen Mingwei in countless strands, yet all of them were so thin that they would snap at the slightest touch. Only Tan Zhao's thread was the one he had tied to himself with his own hands, hoping it would be a little more secure.

Several thoughts flickered through Wen Mingwei's mind before a sudden weakness washed over his limbs. His consciousness drifted away in a daze, signaling the onset of a relapse.

Suppressing the familiar sense of detachment, he continued his previous thought: "Actually, you can feel free and bold to demand things from me. Don't I rarely refuse you?"

"...Is that so?" Tan Zhao asked blankly, thinking to himself: Aren't I making demands right now? Yet have you given me anything?

The atmosphere grew silent and stiff.

After a moment, Tan Zhao asked sluggishly, "Can't you feel that I love you?"

That didn't seem to be what he meant.

Drowsily resting his head on Tan Zhao's shoulder, Wen Mingwei cut off that train of thought: "Tan Zhao, stop overthinking, okay?"

A cascade of damp, long hair spilled across his shoulders. Weakly holding him, Wen Mingwei wanted to end this protracted conversation and seal his lips with a kiss.

"..." Tan Zhao didn't entirely fail to understand those words.

Yet despite the simplicity of the speech, Wen Mingwei's attitude hidden behind those words remained shrouded in fog. Tan Zhao almost suspected he was simply too foolish; why couldn't he see through him or read his mind? Perhaps failing to eliminate the barrier and failing to become soulmates wasn't Wen Mingwei's fault, but rather his own for standing too low.

Tan Zhao finally stopped asking questions, and Wen Mingwei spoke no more.

Communication ended right there.

The bed in this room wasn't suitable for sleeping. They went to the living room to have dinner, and then retired to another bedroom to rest.

—Tan Zhao wanted to try the sensory connection one more time, but Wen Mingwei refused.

That night, Tan Zhao suffered from insomnia.

Wen Mingwei lay quietly beside him with his eyes closed, his breathing even. At some point, Tan Zhao's gaze drifted toward him involuntarily.

The curtains were heavy, leaving not a sliver of light in the room. Wen Mingwei's perfect face faded into the darkness, his breath radiating a faint warmth.

Driven by an unknown impulse, Tan Zhao reached out and touched him. His skin was pale and translucent, a delicate layer far less indestructible than the man himself.

Or rather, even an indestructible Wen Mingwei possessed nothing more than a fragile mortal shell.

Hard to understand, yet possible to touch, to master, to trap in bed, and lock within one's embrace.

"..." Tan Zhao's thoughts were in chaos.

He looked up and saw the wall clock pointing to three in the morning.

Given that not a single clock on the island kept accurate time, this hour was most likely wrong.

Yet his and Wen Mingwei's phones were left behind in the other room, so even knowing the time was incorrect, he had no choice but to use it as a reference.

Finally, when the electronic clock ticked to four in the morning, Tan Zhao closed his eyes and drifted into a reluctant sleep.