Chapter 27

Since Qi Liangqin had binoculars, he could openly and unabashedly watch Yan Bozong—and he certainly wasn't about to let this opportunity slip away. He adjusted the focus, shifted his field of vision, and the moment Yan Bozong started riding back, he aimed straight at his lower body.

At the place he would soon be touching.

As an utterly shameless book, The Male Pan Jinlian loved to describe certain indescribable body parts and say certain indescribable things.

So, Qi Liangqin comforted himself—this wasn't him looking.

This was Qi Liangqin in the novel looking.

And why was Qi Liangqin looking at such improper places? Naturally, because his heart was stirred, and his desires were restless.

Really, though, there was no need to doubt or test Yan Bozong's abilities in that regard.

As a near-perfect top, Yan Bozong was the embodiment of "a gentleman in demeanor, a stallion in physique."

He was like a towering pine, majestic and unshakable, standing tall against the sky, brimming with boundless, flourishing vitality.

And Qi Liangqin knew—some parts of him were just as strong and upright as a towering tree.

Worthy of admiration.

It seemed that gay men had an even stronger instinct for phallic worship than women.

Even though too big wasn't necessarily a good thing, they still yearned for something that would make them feel an instinctive sense of submission at first glance—something that radiated raw, masculine power.

Back when Qi Liangqin was still ignorant and inexperienced, his education in this regard had come almost entirely from novels.

He still remembered when he first started reading those stories—the tops in them were always, without fail, twenty centimeters long.

So much so that one time, when he came across a character who was only eighteen centimeters—

He actually felt a little disappointed.

The turning point came one day when he suddenly wanted to know exactly what 18 cm and 20 cm looked like.

So, he decided to measure a few objects around him.

As it happened, he was drinking from a plastic bottle of Coca-Cola at that very moment.

So, he measured it.

And that bottle of Coke—

It was exactly 18 cm.

He was stunned, staring at the bottle in his hands.

For the first time, he had a real, tangible sense of what 18 cm actually looked like.

From that day on, anything above 15 cm made his heart tremble in fear.

And as for Yan Bozong—the quintessential perfect top—of course, he had to fit the internet's so-called ultimate male standard:

180 mm, 180 cm, 180 m².

——

After the race, the Yan brothers finished almost neck and neck.

Yan Songwei, still exhilarated, waved at him and took off his helmet, shouting, "How was that?"

Qi Liangqin stood up, smiled, and flashed a thumbs-up.

He felt like the worst kind of scumbag.

Because truthfully, Yan Songwei's riding skills were every bit as good as Yan Bozong's. Sometimes, he even won against him.

But what could he do?

His eyes only saw Yan Bozong.

The more his heart was drawn to him, the more his gaze avoided him—like an instinctive act of self-preservation.

He handed Yan Songwei a bottle of water.

Yan Songwei, in turn, handed it to Yan Bozong first.

Only after he grabbed another bottle did Yan Songwei finally twist his open and take a drink.

Everyone was drenched in sweat.

Horseback riding was no easy feat.

Everyone went off to shower. By the time they returned, evening had fallen, and Yan Songwei had organized a barbecue.

A cool early summer night, grilled meat sizzling over an open flame, cold beer in hand—life truly couldn't get any better.

Qi Liangqin leaned back on a bench, a bottle of beer in his hand.

He couldn't handle baijiu, but he could drink beer like a fish.

Years of socializing at work had trained him well.

He still remembered—fresh out of college, he couldn't drink at all.

One time, he had a bit too much and stumbled home alone, only to fumble in his pockets for what felt like forever, unable to find his keys.

They were in his jacket the whole time.

But in his drunken haze, he just couldn't find them.

And somehow, he ended up falling asleep right there at his doorstep.

Luckily, the hallway wasn't too cold that night.

The next morning, he was startled awake by the sound of his neighbors chatting.

Opening his eyes, he saw his neighbor stepping out of their apartment, staring at him in shock.

He scrambled to his feet, hastily pulled out his keys, and unlocked the door.

The first thing he did was rush to the bathroom.

Shoes still on, he walked straight to the sink.

In the mirror, he saw his own pale, haggard face.

A lonely man should learn to hold his liquor.

Because living alone—if you get drunk, if you collapse at your own doorstep—how pitiful is that?

He saw it all, reflected in the mirror.

Back then, he'd been so naïve.

He hadn't yet been hardened by life.

Hadn't tasted its solitude, its bitterness.

Hadn't learned the quiet resilience of a heart that keeps its grief to itself.

He had washed his face that morning—

And choked up as he did, his chest tightening with unspeakable frustration.

Life had felt so chaotic, so unbearable.

He had no idea how he'd ended up living like that.

But over time—

He learned to drink beer.

And it no longer tasted bitter.

Sometimes, when Qi Liangqin read novels and saw the little bottoms in them—ones who didn't smoke, didn't drink, so clean and simple—he couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of envy.

Not every man loved drinking and smoking.

But not every man had the privilege of choosing whether to drink or smoke.

In his eyes, those pristine little bottoms, untouched by alcohol or cigarettes, were that way because there was a man by their side—one who shielded them from the wind and rain.

He had no such man.

He had to work hard, had to struggle to live.

Cigarettes and alcohol weren't indulgences for him.

They were necessities.

But for some people, smoking and drinking were merely personal preferences.

Like these wealthy heirs before him.

Like himself, now that he had married into a rich family.

For the first time, he was drinking purely for leisure.

He leaned against Yan Songwei's shoulder, his gaze occasionally drifting toward Yan Bozong.

The night sky was dazzling, the stars in this world especially bright.

His heart felt soft, and though he hadn't had much to drink, a hazy intoxication crept over him.

He kept avoiding Yan Bozong's eyes, trying not to let the man catch him stealing glances.

But he didn't always succeed.

Sometimes, Yan Bozong caught him red-handed.

Drinking straight from the bottle, Yan Bozong would watch him as he drank—sometimes silently, sometimes locking eyes with him mid-sip.

There was too much emotion in his gaze, too much for Qi Liangqin to decipher through the darkness.

His heart pounded like thunder.

Every time their eyes met, he lasted less than a second before retreating in defeat.

There was something wild about Yan Bozong when he drank like that.

That lean, sharp body of his seemed to contain an infinite well of power—power that could easily destroy him.

Yan Bozong wasn't always a gentleman.

Wasn't always stiff, proper, and upright.

There were moments when his bad temper slipped through.

And that side of Yan Bozong—

Made Qi Liangqin's heart race.

They played around until nearly ten at night before finally dispersing to rest.

Qi Liangqin and Yan Songwei were assigned a room together.

They were married, after all—it was only natural that they would sleep in the same bed.

Some of Yan Songwei's buddies even teased them:

"The walls in this place aren't that soundproof, you know. Don't go too hard."

"Are you kidding? I'm dead tired. Who has the energy for that?" Yan Songwei shot back, laughing as he led Qi Liangqin into their room.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside—a spacious room with a large bed.

Yan Songwei went to take a shower, while Qi Liangqin, still lightheaded from the alcohol, lay down on the bed.

Yan Bozong was staying in the room next door.

Recalling the countless times their gazes had met earlier, his face grew warm.

Yan Bozong had probably already seen through his feelings. At this moment, he was likely avoiding him like the plague.

But Qi Liangqin—taking advantage of the fact that Yan Songwei was in the shower—was going to knock on Yan Bozong's door.

He stood up, walked out, and stopped in front of Yan Bozong's room.

But hesitation crept in.

Lowering his head, he traced light circles on the floor with the tip of his shoe.

Desire was shameful—it left him feeling unworthy of facing the man he liked.

Even so, he reached out, head still lowered, and knocked.

The door opened.

Yan Bozong stood there, his expression instantly darkening at the sight of him.

"Qi Liangqin—what do you think you're doing?"

His voice was calm—restrained, even.

That same ascetic detachment as always.

Yet within it, an unmistakable authority.

"Do you even know what you're doing?"

Qi Liangqin lifted his gaze, his eyes hazy with the remnants of alcohol, laced with unmistakable guilt.

His entire being seemed steeped in liquor.

"I…"

Suddenly, he reached out and grabbed Yan Bozong's arm.

"I…"

For most people, love was simply a matter of luck.

The luck to meet the one person they loved among millions.

The even greater luck that their feelings were mutual.

Beyond luck, all it took was a little courage—

The courage to confess, to take someone's hand, to face the challenges ahead.

But for people like him—

It took a hundred, a thousand times the luck.

And a thousand, ten thousand times the courage.

Many had the luck but not the courage.

Many had the courage but not the luck.

And he—had neither.

He was just an ordinary, perhaps even somewhat pitiful, man.

A man who came home every night, fantasizing about the protagonists in his novels.

But he longed for love.

Longed to love and be loved.

Love was the most beautiful thing in this world—precious beyond measure.

His desire for sex was merely an extension of love.

Without love, sex was meaningless to him.

With love, it would consume him like a tidal wave, dragging him under.

And now—

Qi Liangqin had half the luck.

Half the courage.

And love had already taken root in his heart.

He was drowning in that tidal wave.