Why is This Clingy Snow Leopard Acting So Innocent? - Chapter 34

Chapter 34: Bad Boy—You Shut Your Mouth!

If we’re talking about who’s “bad,” it is hard to tell who truly deserved the title.

When the cameras were rolling, Su Wen was all sweetness and light; the moment they stopped, his face changed faster than someone flipping through a book. Actually, you have to read a book page by page—Su Wen’s face changed in the blink of an eye.

Yun Shu felt deeply aggrieved. He didn’t know what game Su Wen was playing, nor did he know exactly what he had done wrong.

Operating on the logic of “apologize first, regardless of fault,” he started looking for someone as soon as filming ended.

“Huan-jie.”

Lin Zhihuan looked up from her screen. “Hmm? What is it?”

“Have you seen Su Wen?”

“No…” Seeing the rare low pressure emanating from him, Lin Zhihuan looked him up and down with curiosity. “What’s wrong? Did you guys have a fight?”

Yun Shu pursed his lips. “No.”

“Oh?” Lin Zhihuan couldn’t resist a bit of gossip, her voice dropping an octave. “Then why do you look like your dog died?”

Yun Shu didn’t know how to explain it, but he knew his own brain wasn’t enough to solve this problem. After thinking it over for a long time, he took advantage of the fact that the observation hut was temporarily empty and sat down.

“I have a friend…”

“Mhm, a ‘friend,'” Lin Zhihuan said, continuing to calibrate her data while handing him a stack of documents for categorization and entry. She assumed her “wise older sister” persona. “What’s wrong with your friend?”

Yun Shu lowered his head to work on the documents. After a long silence, he continued, “He has someone he likes.”

Another long silence followed.

Eventually, Lin Zhihuan turned her attention away from the computer and looked at him. “Why are you talking in fragments?”

Yun Shu hesitated for a long time before finally deciding to go on. “It’s like this: he has someone he’s liked for a very long time, but the person he likes has forgotten him…”

“So what do you want?” Lin Zhihuan asked. “Do you want to make them remember you and then confess, or what?”

“No, now that person says they like me,” Yun Shu suddenly realized his slip-up. “I mean… that person his friend likes said they like him back.”

Schrödinger’s friend. Lin Zhihuan gave him a meaningful look, deciding to save him some face. “Mhm, well, isn’t that great? They like each other. They should just be together.”

This would be huge news if she was right. A movie star’s romance scandal—and between two men? Just the thought made Lin Zhihuan’s blood boil with excitement.

Driven by her “research-based” gossip instinct, she started fishing for more: “Why aren’t they—I mean, your ‘friend’ and the person he likes—together? If the feeling is mutual?”

Yun Shu lowered his head, organizing the papers into boxes while entering them into the digital system. By the time everything was tidy, he still hadn’t figured out how to put it into words. Two groups of people had come and gone from the hut, and he still hadn’t spoken.

While his mind was a chaotic mess, the biting wind of the snow mountain carried a familiar, faint fragrance into his nostrils.

Yun Shu instinctively looked back, counting in his head: 1… 2…

3… That person appeared at the door.

The moment their eyes met, Su Wen’s lips curled into a smile—but it wasn’t for him.

Su Wen stepped inside, gave Yun Shu only a casual glance, and turned to Lin Zhihuan. “Dr. Lin, the rescue center needs the complete video data for the past week, plus a rough map of the leopard’s activity routes.”

“Oh, okay.” Lin Zhihuan immediately turned to the small screen to start compressing the videos. In the gaps between tasks, she kept glancing back and forth between the two of them.

Su Wen turned and left, his back looking incredibly dashing as he walked away.

Lin Zhihuan blinked, suddenly having a flashback to a romance movie Su Wen had starred in called Spring Breeze Doesn’t Cross. It was a story about two men. The promotion at the time called it the “Golden Dragon Best Actor’s new foray into gritty territory,” but it flopped. The emotional performance was too stiff, the acting too obvious; you couldn’t see the love.

The most famous frame of that movie was when the two leads broke up, and one of them turned to walk away with that exact same dashing silhouette.

Lin Zhihuan now realized he had been playing himself.

The reason she remembered it so clearly was because a wealthy junior in her department—nobody knew who—had booked out three entire screenings. By a stroke of luck, her friend was given two tickets, and she went along for the ride. It left a deep impression.

“Hey, Yun Shu.”

The man was long gone, the tent flap fluttering in the wind. Yun Shu withdrew his gaze dejectedly. “What is it?”

“What do you mean, ‘what is it’?” Lin Zhihuan was exasperated. “You haven’t answered me. Why not just agree to be together if you both like each other?”

After a long pause, Yun Shu replied, “I don’t know.”

Lin Zhihuan: “…So, do you still like him?”

She was about to correct her phrasing, but Yun Shu seemed to have completely given up on the charade: “I do, but…”

“But you feel uncomfortable that he forgot you? Or do you feel betrayed?”

Yun Shu looked at her, then quickly looked away, pressing one hand to the left side of his chest. His heart felt like it was skipping beats, followed by inexplicable, sharp twinges of pain.

“No, it’s not that, it’s just…” He searched for the right words, assembling them into a complete sentence. “Is a memory that only one person remembers still a memory that belongs to two people?”

Lin Zhihuan froze for a second, not quite grasping his point. She could only ask, “So, you feel that the ‘him’ who remembers those memories and the ‘him’ who lost them aren’t the same person?”

Yun Shu was stunned. He didn’t think they were two different people, but his selfish heart didn’t want to be the only one who knew their history. It felt as if a part of his soul was trapped in a cage, while the person who held the key had changed his tune and was now urging him to discard the past.

Human memory is not permanent. In his thirteenth year of being “human,” he had learned this fact for the first time. They constantly discard the past to run toward a new life.

Sometimes he thought it would be better if Su Wen weren’t Su Wen. He could be anyone—someone who liked him, someone who didn’t. Then he would have a reason to live forever in the past.

But he was Su Wen.

The Su Wen of the past said, Don’t forget me. The Su Wen of the present said, You must give up the past.

A terrifying sense of being torn in two divided him.

Yun Shu stood up. “I’m going out for a bit, Huan-jie.”

“Yun Shu.”

He paused. Behind him, Lin Zhihuan added, “One still has to live in the present.”

After a long silence, he turned back. “I know.” Then he added, “Jie.”

“Yeah?”

“The alcohol you brought from Linzhou… do you still have some?”

“Don’t you know how to drink?”

“Give me a bottle.”

Lin Zhihuan waved him off, parting with her treasure painfully. “Fine, fine. I’ll give it to you when we get down the mountain.”

…

The biting wind hit him, carrying that familiar faint scent toward him.

Yun Shu looked toward the source of the fragrance, and his heart skipped a beat.

Su Wen was leaning against a rock wall with his arms crossed. A white cashmere hat was pulled haphazardly over his head, and stray hairs were flying wildly in the wind. He tilted his head to look over, his expression weary, lazily arching an eyebrow without saying a word.

His naturally fair cheeks were flushed pink by the cold, making him look like a masterpiece meticulously crafted by a painter.

An inexplicable wave of bitterness rose in Yun Shu. He unwound the scarf from his own neck, loop by loop, and wound it around Su Wen.

Su Wen didn’t stop him. He only asked, “Aren’t you cold?”

After finishing, Yun Shu didn’t say much. He simply left a “No” and turned to walk away.

The scarf still held a lingering warmth. Su Wen nudged his face against it; it had a faint scent, like sunshine. Watching Yun Shu’s busy silhouette in the distance, he finally had a late realization—he might have gone a bit too far.

He rarely felt such direct guilt. The straightforward guilt of having done something wrong.

…

Yun Shu continued to work diligently every day. He didn’t forget to take care of Su Wen during the treks up and down the mountain, and he was always the first to hand over the hot meals taken off the stove.

Even when spending the night in the Mountain God Temple, he was used to it, pulling Su Wen into his furnace-like embrace to keep him warm. Outside the temple, the wind howled at negative fifteen degrees, but inside, Su Wen was tucked into Yun Shu’s arms, feeling not a hint of the chill.

But Su Wen had insomnia.

The person beside him was breathing steadily, deep in sleep. Su Wen turned over and hugged him back. Yun Shu seemed to be disturbed, instinctively tightening his arms in response, rubbing his head against Su Wen’s neck before drifting back to sleep.

Just like a kitten.

Su Wen gently patted his back and pressed a kiss to his head.

When dawn broke, Yun Shu was up early, sitting in the tent. Su Wen opened his eyes groggily to see him sitting there quietly, staring at him without blinking, as if he wanted to say something.

Su Wen regained some clarity but still lingered in the warm bedding, unwilling to leave. He only asked in a raspy, morning voice, “What is it, Yun Shu?”

Yun Shu didn’t speak. He placed the clothes he had been keeping warm in his arms beside Su Wen. “It’s time to go down.”

Until they finished packing and headed down the mountain that afternoon, Yun Shu didn’t say another word, as if he were retaliating for Su Wen’s behavior earlier.

Su Wen sighed. Only one thought remained in his head: You reap what you sow.

…

That evening, after dinner, Su Wen offered to wash the dishes, but he was stopped. Yun Shu took the bowls and chopsticks from his hands before he could even gather them all and carried them to the sink.

“Yun Shu,” Su Wen followed him to the side. After hesitating for a long time, he said, “I have something to tell you.”

With a clatter, a bowl fell into the sink. It didn’t break, but a small chip was knocked out of the rim.

“…” Yun Shu picked up the bowl. He didn’t look up. “I want to be alone for a bit.”

His tone was peaceful. He didn’t sound particularly sad, and there wasn’t even much grievance in his voice.

The guilt surged up again. Su Wen stood there for a long time without saying a word, then turned and left.

He lay on his bed, feeling deep regret.

After some rustling outside the door, the whole world fell silent. Su Wen waited a long time for the Snow Leopard, but it didn’t come. Just as he was drifting off to sleep, the sound of sobbing echoed in his ears.

There was also a faint, unmistakable smell of alcohol in the air.

He woke with a start, scrambled into his clothes, and got out of bed. As soon as the door opened, a scent so strong it was almost pungent hit him.

Before he could react, Su Wen was tackled onto the bed. What followed was a barrage of dense, messy kisses—though they weren’t exactly kisses. To be precise, it was licking.

Su Wen’s face and neck were covered in saliva. His anger instantly overrode his guilt. He grabbed a handful of Yun Shu’s hair and roared:

“Yun Shu! You shut your mouth!”