The Sickly Double Doesn't Want to Be Spoiled - Chapter 24.2

Chapter 24.2

Over time, the household got used to preparing meals according to his appetite so that Meng Yuan could eat happily without wasting anything.

It was the same with the strawberries before; Meng Yuan had no intention of wasting even a single bit.

If the allergic reaction hadn’t come in time, he certainly would have eaten that entire plate of strawberries, leaving not a single one.

If that had happened, even a reincarnated Hua Tuo probably couldn’t have saved him.

Lu Cong remembered the first time he saw Meng Yuan.

Aside from the initial photos in the files, Meng Yuan’s first appearance was in the footage of a surveillance camera.

A camera that had been sealed for a long time and forgotten in a corner suddenly captured the presence of a living being before its last bit of power was exhausted.

The infrared function sensed a heat source, and the warning light turned on.

In Lu Cong’s office, that monitor that no one had ever touched suddenly began to flicker in the corner. As the screen lit up, it also illuminated Lu Cong’s eyes.

Meng Yuan quietly ate the food Lu Cong had prepared for him.

He didn’t speak and ate very seriously. The amount of food wasn’t much; barring any accidents, Meng Yuan would quietly finish it all.

But he suddenly stopped.

Out of the corner of his eye, Lu Cong saw him bowing his head, holding a spoon in one hand as if he were frozen.

“What’s wrong?”

Meng Yuan didn’t speak.

He had only taken a few sips of the porridge when he suddenly felt something dripping down his nose.

He was stunned for a moment, then raised his hand to wipe it.

Red.

Blood.

Before Meng Yuan could react, Lu Cong made a move first.

He stood up abruptly, as if he had just snapped out of some fantasy. Looking at the blood on Meng Yuan’s face, his eyes were filled with both shock and dread.

Before Meng Yuan could see clearly, that expression vanished, returning to his usual calm.

“Lower your head.”

Lu Cong pressed down on the back of Meng Yuan’s neck with one hand and used the other to press a tissue against his nose.

“Hold it yourself.”

Meng Yuan obediently pressed it, keeping his head down and rolling his eyes upward, only able to see Lu Cong’s chin and tightly pursed lips.

He began to feel dizzy, with waves of heart palpitations. His sternum and back also started to ache, and cold sweat seeped from his palms.

Lu Cong turned into the bathroom and returned quickly with a towel soaked in cold water.

He nudged Meng Yuan’s hand aside, placed the towel on his forehead, and pulled out several new tissues to wipe the blood off his face and hands.

Meng Yuan kept his head down, not daring to move.

He could feel Lu Cong’s fingers occasionally touching his face; they were cool and carried a pleasant scent similar to a blend of flowers.

“Give me the paper,” Lu Cong said after a while.

Meng Yuan handed him the crumpled tissue that had been pressed against his nose. As soon as he looked down, more blood dripped out.

Lu Cong quickly caught it with a new tissue.

With his eyes downcast, Meng Yuan saw his blood on Lu Cong’s hand.

That hand was well-defined and good-looking. Usually, it could steadily carry him, but right now, it seemed to be trembling slightly.

“Why is it still bleeding?”

Lu Cong’s voice came from above, as if he were asking a question or talking to himself.

Meng Yuan was focusing all his energy on fighting the dizziness and did not respond. His vision was already somewhat blurred.

He grit his teeth, closed his eyes, and endured for a while. The palpitations subsided slightly, and he could see things clearly again before looking up at Lu Cong.

The slight tremor in Lu Cong’s fingers had only lasted for a brief moment; right now, his expression looked no different from usual.

It was probably a hallucination.

Meng Yuan breathed a sigh of relief. He had been so dizzy just now that he couldn’t see anything clearly; how could he have noticed such things?

“Okay, it’s fine now,” Meng Yuan said softly.

His platelet count was low, and sometimes bleeding would last quite a while. Meng Yuan was used to this.

But Lu Cong wasn’t with him often; this scene might have startled him.

“I’m really okay now,” he smiled at Lu Cong, his face still a bit weak. “You go ahead and get busy.”

Lu Cong didn’t speak.

He maintained his posture and continued to stand there for a while until he confirmed that the nosebleed had slowly stopped.

He threw the blood-stained tissues into the trash, flipped the towel over, and reapplied it to Meng Yuan’s forehead.

“Lie down,” Lu Cong said.

Meng Yuan obediently lay down.

Lu Cong stood by the bed looking at him for a few seconds before suddenly raising his hand to touch Meng Yuan’s forehead with the back of his hand.

“I don’t have a fever,” Meng Yuan said.

“Mhm.” Lu Cong withdrew his hand, his face expressionless.

Meng Yuan looked at him from under the blankets. His eyes were still a bit red. It was unclear if it was from the nosebleed or from being muffled in the blankets just now and he looked pitiful.

Lu Cong’s hand paused for a moment.

He suddenly thought of the hospital for the first time.

Counting it out, several months had actually passed, yet those images were still very vivid in his mind.

He had expected to see a spoiled young master who was irritable because of his illness and therefore had no reverence for life.

Instead, Meng Yuan had just been lying there, lost and helpless, the oxygen mask covering half his face, revealing a pair of eyes that wanted to live.

It was as if he had tasted every bitterness and had crawled out of a place that had broken his heart, using all his strength to grasp that fading sliver of life.

That kind of gaze was still burned into Lu Cong’s heart even now.

He took a deep breath and turned his head away, no longer looking Meng Yuan directly in the eye.

“Don’t go out today,” he said. “Rest in the room.”

“Mhm…”

“If anything happens…” Lu Cong paused, “Call Qin Qing.”

“Okay,” Meng Yuan nodded muffledly. “Thank you.”

Lu Cong stopped looking at him. “The water is cold. I’ll get you a hot cup.”

Lying in the blankets, Meng Yuan watched Lu Cong walk out and watched the door close.

He touched his own forehead; the skin still held the coolness of the cold towel. He touched his nose again; the bleeding had stopped.

Even though the blood had stopped, Meng Yuan’s face remained white.

He turned on his side and buried his face in the pillow, his brow slightly furrowed; he still felt unwell.

Stomach ache, dizziness, and nausea.

He closed his eyes to rest, trying to endure this bout of discomfort. He had taken the medicine long ago, but it didn’t seem to have much effect.

It seemed to be getting more serious, Meng Yuan thought groggily.

Yes, it had been nearly half a year since he arrived in this world. Time went by so fast.

Meng Yuan felt empty inside.

About two or three minutes later, he heard the bedroom door open again. Lu Cong’s footsteps approached his bed from far to near.

“Meng Yuan.” Lu Cong called him softly. “Come drink some water. You need to rehydrate.”

After a few seconds, Meng Yuan slowly sat up.

Lu Cong saw that his complexion was even worse than before.

His brow twitched what was going on? Hasn’t the nosebleed already stopped?

Meng Yuan closed his eyes to steady himself and obediently reached for the glass. Just as he propped himself up, his movements suddenly froze.

Lu Cong saw his expression change.

Meng Yuan’s brow furrowed slightly, his lips pressed tight, and his throat moved as if he were suppressing something.

The change was subtle, but Lu Cong still captured it acutely.

“What’s wrong?” He leaned down, trying to see Meng Yuan’s face more clearly.

Meng Yuan didn’t speak.

He maintained that semi-propped position, motionless, as if fighting against something.

After a few seconds, his throat rolled forcefully. He covered his mouth and made a move to run toward the bathroom.

“I want to throw up…”

Lu Cong’s movements were faster than his words.

Before the words even landed, he had already leaned over to grab the trash can by the bed and thrust it in front of Meng Yuan.

“Just do it here.” He pressed down on Meng Yuan’s shoulder.

Meng Yuan felt terribly sick in his stomach. He struggled twice, but couldn’t withstand the wave of nausea. He leaned over the edge of the bed and began to dry heave into the trash can.

Nothing came out.

His shoulders shook, and his back was as tense as a drawn bow.

The more he couldn’t throw up, the more his stomach hurt. Meng Yuan gripped the edge of the trash can tightly, his knuckles turning white. His face was flushed, and the veins on the side of his neck bulged.

Lu Cong crouched down, supporting Meng Yuan’s shoulder with one hand while the other pressed against his back.

Through the soft cotton pajamas, he could feel the skin was hot and shivering with waves of spasms.

“Steady, Meng Yuan,” Lu Cong said, his voice lower than usual. “Doing this makes it harder to throw up, and it hurts your stomach.”

Meng Yuan couldn’t hear what he was saying.

He couldn’t hear anything right now; he just felt like his stomach was being squeezed by someone twisting over and over, making his vision go black.

He desperately wanted to throw something up, but his stomach was empty, with only waves of nausea surging upward.

He dry heaved a few more times. Still, nothing came out, but his eyes grew hot.

He didn’t want to cry.

But this feeling was truly too unbearable. The retching was so intense that physiological tears began to well up on their own.

Meng Yuan leaned over the edge of the bed, panting. Tears fell pitter-patter into the trash can.

“I’m so dizzy…”

He said softly, his voice muffled and hoarse, carrying a hint of a sob.

Lu Cong wiped away his tears.

He slid his hand under the blanket and pressed it against Meng Yuan’s stomach through the pajamas.

Meng Yuan leaned over the bedside, his upper abdomen pressed hard against the edge of the bed, as if trying to suppress the pain that way. He was pressing very hard.

“Meng Yuan, you can’t do this.” Lu Cong’s face darkened.

He supported Meng Yuan’s shoulder to lift him up slightly, increasing the pressure of the hand on his stomach and stroking downward slowly.

Once, twice, three times the rhythm was steady, as if trying to press down that surging nausea bit by bit.

Meng Yuan lay there with his eyes closed, feeling the temperature and pressure of that hand.

Lu Cong massaged him like this for quite a while, and the tight furrow in Meng Yuan’s brow finally smoothed out a bit.

It wasn’t that his stomach had stopped hurting.

He was still in a lot of pain; the aftereffects of the violent retching couldn’t dissipate that quickly, and his stomach was still knotted.

But Lu Cong’s hand was very warm, and the body supporting him was very steady. Meng Yuan realized that he was allowed to let go of his strength and lean on someone.

He panted and waited a while longer, feeling the cramping in his stomach subside a little and the nausea slowly recede.

“Seems a bit better…”

As soon as he spoke, he startled himself and his voice was completely hoarse.

Lu Cong helped him up and let him lean back against the headboard.

Meng Yuan’s face was deathly pale. His eyes were swollen and bloodshot, his eyelashes were wet, and his hair was damply stuck to his cheeks as he gasped for air.

Lu Cong used a tissue to wipe his face.

Meng Yuan tilted his head back to let him wipe. The skin on the side of his neck was cold-white and covered in fine sweat, rising and falling with his breath.

His eyes were half-closed, looking as if he were too tired to open them.

“Still want to throw up?” Lu Cong asked.

Meng Yuan shook his head, then nodded again, saying hoarsely: “I want to… but nothing comes out…”

Lu Cong moved the trash can to where his hand could reach it, then poured a glass of warm water and handed it to him: “Rinse your mouth.”

Meng Yuan took it, took a small sip, held it in his mouth, and then spat it into the trash can.

He repeated this twice to get rid of the nauseating taste, then leaned against the headboard, letting out a weak, long sigh.

The room fell silent.

Lu Cong stood by the bed, looking at him: “Did you tire yourself out throwing up?”

Meng Yuan’s eyes were out of focus. One hand was still hovering over his upper abdomen. Hearing this, he glanced at Lu Cong: “Why don’t you try it?”

Lu Cong said nothing and let out a cold snort.

After a long while, Meng Yuan recovered a bit. Seeing that Lu Cong was still standing there, he was stunned for a moment: “You… aren’t you going back?”

“Better now?” Lu Cong asked, ignoring the question.

Meng Yuan nodded.

Lu Cong’s gaze shifted down, landing on the hand pressing against his stomach—that entire hand was devoid of color.

“Stomach ache?” he asked.

Meng Yuan hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

“Has it been hurting all along, or did it just start?”

“Just now…” Meng Yuan recalled. “It started hurting when I was throwing up… it hurt a lot for a while, and it still does a little now…”

His voice was very soft, as if speaking for too long would pull at his stomach. Each sentence was said fitfully.

Lu Cong looked at him helplessly.

Meng Yuan shrank into the headboard, pulling the blanket up to his chin and holding it against his upper abdomen with both hands, likely afraid of letting his stomach get cold again.

Perhaps because he was a bit dehydrated, his lips were terribly dry, and the corners were white.

Lu Cong looked away and let out a long sigh in his heart.

“Lie down and rest,” he said. “I’ll have Qin Qing make a bowl of plain noodles for you.”