The Sickly Double Doesn't Want to Be Spoiled - Chapter 9

Chapter 9

When Qin Qing came downstairs with the thermometer gun, the subtle confrontation between the two had just dissolved.

Meng Yuan was curled up on the sofa with his head lowered, while Lu Cong stood before him in silence, wearing a peculiar expression.

Qin Qing sensed something was slightly off, but she couldn’t worry about that now. She bypassed Lu Cong, knelt in front of Meng Yuan, and checked his temperature.

“37.8°C, a slight low-grade fever,” she said in a low voice, feeling Meng Yuan’s forehead. “Xiao Yuan, you have a fever. Let’s go to the hospital and have it checked out, okay? Don’t be afraid, it’s not serious.”

Meng Yuan’s eyes were wet and glazed from the fever. He looked at Qin Qing and pursed his lips. “I’ll listen to you, Sister Qin Qing.”

“Good.”

Qin Qing gave a gentle smile and moved quickly to pack his things.

Lu Cong stood to the side, unable to blend in, feeling inexplicably strange. He felt this kid, Meng Yuan, had two faces: he was obedient and sweet to Qin Qing, yet constantly high-strung around him, as if Lu Cong were some monster that ate people alive.

Or, like just now scared and trembling, only to suddenly flash a bit of sharp fang and plunge it straight into Lu Cong’s heart, carving out a hole.

Meng Yuan was shaking continuously, his teeth chattering. It was unclear if it was from the illness or the cold, but Lu Cong didn’t think the air conditioning was set that low.

Qin Qing supported Meng Yuan’s arm, attempting to help him up from the sofa. However, Meng Yuan had no strength; his trembling nearly pulled Qin Qing down onto the sofa with him.

Qin Qing cast a look for help toward Lu Cong, only to meet his indifferent gaze.

Qin Qing: “?”

Lu Cong: “?”

“Can you lend a hand?” she squeezed out through gritted teeth. “President Lu?”

Lu Cong didn’t respond immediately. He looked quietly at Meng Yuan. “Do you need help?”

Meng Yuan said nothing.

This guy was actually stubbornly holding out, refusing to speak.

Lu Cong let out a light laugh. Amidst Qin Qing’s angry eye-rolls, he bent down and scooped Meng Yuan into his arms.

“The blanket,” he said without looking back.

Meng Yuan was in pain all over. Lu Cong’s embrace was not soft. Gritting his teeth, he instinctively shifted and leaned against the man’s shoulder.

Lu Cong paused slightly. Feeling the boy’s thin, bony shoulder blades pressing against his palm, he looked down at Meng Yuan with a hint of startled realization.

This fellow was much thinner than he looked.

Before he could process the feeling, Meng Yuan’s head was covered; Qin Qing had wrapped him tightly in the blanket. All that remained in Lu Cong’s palm was the fuzzy softness of the fabric.

…

Icy medicinal fluid dripped slowly into his vein.

Meng Yuan stared blankly at the transparent drops falling one by one. In his peripheral vision was the silhouette of Lu Cong sitting on a nearby sofa, replying to emails.

He was still dizzy and exhausted, a fatigue where all strength had been drained, making it impossible to concentrate. But he couldn’t sleep; a throbbing in his temples reminded him that he was incredibly awake.

Meng Yuan regretted it, though he didn’t know exactly what he regretted.

To get your attention… How could he have said that?

While he didn’t think Lu Cong would actually be attracted to him… what if? After all, the brains of novel CEOs were like pre-set programs. Wouldn’t that sentence hit Lu Cong right in the heart? Lu Cong would surely think he was “so special”!

What on earth was he going to do! Meng Yuan waged a battle of shame within himself.

“It’s too cliché.”

As if seeing through his thoughts, Lu Cong spoke leisurely.

A screeching brake went off in Meng Yuan’s mind. He opened his eyes in startled suspicion. “?”

Lu Cong didn’t even look up. “I’ll give you a chance to make up a new story.”

Meng Yuan’s lips began to tremble again.

After a moment, Lu Cong closed his laptop and looked at the boy on the hospital bed, whose face was alternating between red and white. His eyes held no emotion.

“It’s fine if you can’t make one up.”

He decided to lay it all out. “You could say you have amnesia, or that your memory is muddled because of the illness and medication. Or,” he raised an eyebrow, “you can stick to your guns and insist you just wanted to attract me. Anything is fine.”

He stood up, walked to Meng Yuan’s side, and leaned over to look at the boy’s pale face. “As long as you are still in the identity of ‘Meng Yuan,’ it’s fine. We were originally just the union of two identities, weren’t we?”

Meng Yuan stared at him with wide eyes, his bloodshot gaze darting around in panic.

The back of Lu Cong’s hand touched his cheek. He felt the boy’s skin was damp and cold, carrying an excessively frail tremor. His expression suddenly softened, as if he had unexpectedly developed a sliver of pity for this extremely fragile creature.

It was the kind of heart-tugging feeling one might have toward a small animal a dispensable sympathy from someone whose heart had been like stone for too long.

“Learn to hide your emotions better,” he patted Meng Yuan’s cheek. “I’m not curious about your secrets, so you don’t need to care too much about my thoughts.”

“I will treat you very well. Whatever you want, whatever you want to buy, whatever you want to play with just go ahead and do it. If you’re afraid of me, tell Song Zhen; he will arrange everything for you.”

He believed his tone couldn’t be any gentler, yet Meng Yuan still seemed terrified. He shook uncontrollably beneath him, hot tears falling like broken strings of pearls from the corners of his eyes.

He was scared out of his wits.

Lu Cong cupped his face, his thumb pressing against the corner of his eye, feeling the boy’s eyelashes trembling, wet and sticky.

“Be a bit braver, little one,” he wiped away the tears. “I don’t want my wife to always be trembling in front of me.”

Meng Yuan seemed to be lacking oxygen. Lu Cong placed the oxygen mask on him and watched his thin chest heave rapidly up and down. If this continued, something would go wrong.

Lu Cong pressed his brow, finally took a deep breath, and pulled Meng Yuan up into a sitting hug, pressing a hand to his chest. “Breathe slowly.”

“What exactly are you afraid of?” He didn’t understand. “Did I snap at you?”

Meng Yuan shook his head, his breathing still very shallow and fast, his forehead drenched in sweat.

“Then breathe properly,” Lu Cong stroked his chest. “When I say I’ll be good to you, I mean it. All you have to do is get used to it. You can even be a bit pampered; at the very least, you can’t look like someone anyone can bully when you’re out in public.”

“Do you understand? If you understand, breathe.”

Meng Yuan gasped for air, looking as if he’d been terribly wronged, tears pitter-pattering down. He looked at Lu Cong for a long time, then took a forceful breath.

He understood.

Lu Cong felt an inexplicable sense of relief. He laid Meng Yuan back on the bed, his movements not particularly gentle. The boy’s head bounced once on the soft pillow; his eyes were still full of tears, and his expression was a bit dazed.

Lu Cong: “…”

He stood up and checked the time. “I’ll leave once in Qing gets back.”

Meng Yuan didn’t reply. It was unclear if he’d been knocked silly by the pillow, but he just stared blankly at Lu Cong.

The ward door pushed open. Qin Qing entered carrying a thermal flask. Noticing the strange atmosphere between the two, she frowned and looked inquiringly at Lu Cong.

Lu Cong acted as if he didn’t see her. Adjusting his sleeves, he turned and walked away.

“Will you… still show up in the future?”

A weak voice came from behind him.

Lu Cong turned back. He saw that Meng Yuan had taken off the oxygen mask and was struggling to sit halfway up. He seemed a bit urgent, but one couldn’t tell from his expression whether he wanted the man to appear or never wanted to see him again.

Lu Cong looked at him in silence for a while.

“The oxygen mask,” he signaled to Qin Qing. “His lips are turning purple.”

He did not stop his pace.