LA ⋆ Chapter 20: The Gentle Chains

The second time visiting Cheng Ai's home, Sheng Yao moved through it with ease.

Cheng Ai went in first and retrieved a new pair of slippers for Sheng Yao. Sheng Yao looked down—strawberry bear. Then he glanced at Cheng Ai's pair—piggy hero.

The boss's inner world was truly rich!

Cheng Ai told Sheng Yao to make himself comfortable and play for a bit, but Sheng Yao found he couldn't convince himself to just watch his boss work. He volunteered to help prep the vegetables.

Cheng Ai leaned against the counter, arms crossed, observing Sheng Yao. The small lamp in the living room cast a warm yellow glow that seemed to coat Sheng Yao's entire figure with a soft-focus filter, as if sunlight had fallen onto the surface of water.

Sheng Yao looked at the faint smile on Cheng Ai's face, and his breath caught.

Cheng Ai turned and handed Sheng Yao a pair of sleeve protectors. "Here."

Sheng Yao lowered his head and took them.

Contrary to Sheng Yao's expectations, Cheng Ai was not the type to keep his hands clean of kitchen work. On the contrary, watching him cook was a pleasure. His knife skills were solid—the potato strips he cut were neat and uniform. He was particular about ingredients; he even peeled the ginger and sliced it into pieces of consistent thickness.

In contrast, Sheng Yao probably couldn't be bothered with ginger, and if he did use it, he'd just smash it with a knife.

Cheng Ai's home had delicate, beautiful porcelain plates. Perhaps some people were simply born with the ability to live their days happily. Happiness was probably a kind of ability.

Today's dishes were varied but modest in quantity. Four dishes and a soup made it to the table in the end.

The short-grain rice gleamed white and crystalline, each grain distinct, steaming gently. Sheng Yao held his chopsticks in hand, and for some reason he wanted to raise them above his head and say a thank-you to his boss for bestowing him this food. In the end, he opened his mouth: "Thank you for your trouble, President Cheng."

"Try it quick." Go on, say it's delicious! Cheng Ai's face was full of anticipation as he watched Sheng Yao.

Sheng Yao felt uncomfortable under the gaze. He raised an eyebrow, picked up a piece of three-cup chicken with his chopsticks, and put it in his mouth. Sweet, salty, fragrant, tender, soft—very appetizing. Sheng Yao scooped up a large mouthful of rice.

"How is it?" Cheng Ai pressed.

"President Cheng," Sheng Yao swallowed, "you'd get rich even if you became a chef."

"Then come over often."

"…"

Sheng Yao remembered the first meal he'd eaten when he first came to this city at the start of his freshman year: cold skin noodles. In Sheng Yao's understanding, cold skin noodles were supposed to be freshly cut, freshly mixed, with toppings you could add yourself. But he'd received a pre-portioned box of cold skin noodles and a packet of chili oil that looked like instant noodle seasoning.

No flour aroma, no chili oil aroma. It was like a form with no substance—energy that could manifest as any number of different shapes.

Of course, Sheng Yao had accepted it quickly. Food like that was a lot like life, ha ha.

Sheng Yao usually ate with the speed of wind sweeping away clouds, but this meal unexpectedly slowed him down. The long-forgotten aroma of home-cooked food, the long-forgotten smell of freshly stir-fried dishes. It felt familiar, but he couldn't remember why.

Not until every plate was empty did Sheng Yao realize why it was familiar. His mother used to make meals this carefully prepared. As if no matter how bad life got, eating well could make you pretend you had a good life.

"President Cheng, why do you like cooking?" Sheng Yao asked.

Cheng Ai was very satisfied with the empty plates. He answered: "Ever since I was very small, my parents were often away. Sometimes when I'd pass by old residential buildings, I could see straight into their kitchens through the open windows. At mealtimes, the whole family would be busy—adults cooking, children setting out bowls for rice. The smell of cooking oil would drift far, and I thought it smelled wonderful."

Sheng Yao's mind immediately conjured that image. He knew it all too well—buildings from the eighties and nineties of the last century, with iron anti-theft grilles on the windows, the grilles over the kitchen window covered in black, grimy oil stains. His mother cooked in an environment just like that.

Sheng Yao: "I know that smell."

Cheng Ai smiled slightly. "I don't know if you've ever rented a loft, but those kinds of buildings have range hoods that backflow. I later bought a whole set just so I could smell other people's cooking at mealtimes."

The words "that's pretty perverted" almost escaped. Sheng Yao gave a dry cough to cover it: "So President Cheng just created the cooking aroma yourself."

Cheng Ai nodded. "But it was lonely, so they keep me company while I eat." Cheng Ai gestured to the plush toys sitting against the wall.

Sheng Yao looked over and said, "Them keeping you company seems to make it even lonelier."

"So," Cheng Ai suddenly stood and walked over, "Sheng Yao, thank you for keeping me company while I eat."

Because of the counter and the high stool, the height difference between standing and sitting wasn't great. Sheng Yao didn't need much movement to meet Cheng Ai's eyes directly.

He somehow felt that in that gaze was a longing for an embrace.

Cheng Ai was thanking him, but actually… he himself had been craving a dinner like this for a long time, hadn't he? For so long, he'd grown used to ignoring these small desires that didn't affect survival. Delicacies or simple fare, carefully prepared or hastily thrown together. He'd pretended not to care and drawn an equals sign between them.

How could they possibly be equal.

Sheng Yao pressed his lips together in silence, slowly leaving the high stool and standing up. Now he was very close to Cheng Ai.

Cheng Ai didn't step back. The distance between them naturally shortened. Sheng Yao lowered his gaze. He knew Cheng Ai was looking at him, but he didn't know how to respond with his eyes.

His hands reached around Cheng Ai's waist, body heat transmitting clearly through the cashmere knit sweater to the other person. Before Sheng Yao could fully gather his arms to embrace him completely, a pair of stronger arms locked around him first.

Chest to chest, the side of his neck against the side of Cheng Ai's neck. How could a person at thirty-seven degrees be so many times warmer than a thirty-seven-degree heating pad. Sheng Yao felt his back wrapped in gentle, lingering chains. He wanted to break free, and yet he didn't want to.

"Cheng Ai, thank you for treating me to dinner." For the first time, Sheng Yao called Cheng Ai by his name, whispered into his ear, very softly. Then, it seemed as if a kiss fell on his ear—soft, warm, brief, fleeting, like an illusion.

Sheng Yao's heart ached with a sudden emptiness.

How could he feel like he'd lost something when he'd never had anything to begin with? How could he desperately want to find something back.

"No need to thank me." That magnetic voice entered his ear.

Cheng Ai's hands released him. Sheng Yao tumbled from illusion back into reality. Before he'd fully come to his senses, Cheng Ai turned away from him, hastily gathering the bowls and taking them away.

For the first time in his life, Sheng Yao felt he couldn't control his own heart. On the left side of his chest, it beat wildly.