Chapter 53: The Answer

Fu Yanzong said nothing as he bent down, his knees pressing against the icy ground. He dragged the body half-submerged in the water onto dry land. The frigid lake water clung reluctantly to his wrists, bubbling up in broken foam as it receded.

The drenched Song Linyu lay astonishingly still against his lap, his eyelashes heavy and darkened by the water, casting deep black shadows across his pallid skin. Water droplets traced the line of his jaw, slipping over lips tinged faintly blue before vanishing into the sodden collar of his shirt, carrying with them a chill that sent shivers down the spine.

He looked like a dying bird with broken wings, fragile as a waterfowl.

Fu Yanzong leaned in, his knuckles lifting Song Linyu’s chin. With his other hand, he parted the lips and slipped two fingers inside, trying to clear away the lingering grit and water from his mouth. When his fingertips brushed the root of the tongue, Song Linyu shuddered violently, his throat emitting a series of ragged coughs.

Fu Yanzong didn’t pause. His knuckles were cold, like the slender bowl of a silver spoon, stirring precisely and with restraint through the muddled haze of Song Linyu’s waterlogged consciousness.

A salty, metallic tang of blood escaped from the corner of his lips. Song Linyu instinctively tried to bite down, but Fu Yanzong calmly gripped his jaw, his voice low and patient, almost coaxing. “Don’t move.”

Song Linyu’s breathing hitched for a moment, then stilled.

The inside of his mouth was the only part of him that held any warmth—a sticky, feverish heat. Fu Yanzong’s fingertips grazed the tip of his tongue before withdrawing quickly. Only when Song Linyu finally coughed up a ragged gasp did he release his hand.

The persistent drizzle continued to fall. Song Linyu blinked his eyes open in a daze, staring at the man before him.

Fu Yanzong’s soaked hair clung to the side of his neck. Rain had washed the color from his face, leaving it ghostly pale, his lips nearly colorless. He looked uncharacteristically disheveled.

The custom Maison Lévant black suit on his body was marred by a massive dark stain of water. In Song Linyu’s vision, Fu Yanzong gradually blurred into a faded photographic negative, reduced to flickering gray-white light spots.

Song Linyu’s memories felt hazy and indistinct. He couldn’t tell if this was reality, a dream, or some hallucination brought on by his episode.

…Why was I in the lake? Why does Fu Yanzong look so bedraggled and frantic? I must have done something wrong.

Song Linyu had no idea how terrifying he looked in that moment. He simply clutched at the corner of Fu Yanzong’s clothes, apologizing to him with genuine sorrow, helplessness, and sincerity.

But when the words “I’m sorry” finally escaped his lips, Song Linyu realized how hoarse his voice had become—like a bandsaw blade had smoothly and steadily sliced through his throat or esophagus. It ached with a numb, searing pain, nearly voiceless, as if his flesh had been mangled.

Fu Yanzong pressed a hand to his lips, unable to hold back any longer as he demanded, “At a time like this, can you stop saying you’re sorry?”

Can’t you just tell me it hurts, that you’re in pain, that you need me? Is that so hard?

You’ve cried in front of me so many times—haven’t you learned to ask for help? Why do you never put yourself first? Why do you always shoulder everything in silence?

Song Linyu’s expression was dazed and panicked. Fu Yanzong couldn’t meet his gaze like this. Helplessly, he lowered his eyelashes, his voice laced with an indescribable weariness. “Forget it. You just answer my questions. Nothing else.”

Song Linyu nodded immediately.

But he still wanted to tell Fu Yanzong not to stand in the rain. He’d get sick—even if it was just a light drizzle.

The silken curtain of rain hung persistently between them, rising in damp mist. Song Linyu struggled to grasp Fu Yanzong’s wrist, desperate to voice that one last thought. But Fu Yanzong spoke first. “Why were you by the lake? And why did you fall in? Who did this to you?”

“Tell me, Song Linyu. Tell me everything that happened, exactly as it did.”

Fu Yanzong gently clasped Song Linyu’s icy hand in return. That small patch of skin felt an almost scorching warmth where it was enveloped—hot enough to startle.

Fu Yanzong watched him with eerie calm, his dark pupils like an overturned deep lake: thick, damp, and profoundly shadowed.

Song Linyu had no doubt about his concern and care. He knew that if he named the culprit, Fu Yanzong would track them down without mercy.

But who hurt me?

Who pushed me in?

Why can’t I remember?

Is it really that I can’t remember…?

A crushing pain burned from his throat through his chest and into his viscera, inflicting unbearable torment. Song Linyu realized that a chunk of his churning memories had been brutally erased. This sensation—this hollow emptiness where words failed—had haunted him for over a decade. He knew it all too well.

It was Su Tang.

He hadn’t vanished from Song Linyu’s world after all. He was right here, the cause of this accident.

How could Song Linyu ever tell Fu Yanzong his name? How could he risk letting Su Tang anywhere near him?

So when Fu Yanzong pulled his hand away, all he heard was Song Linyu’s parched, labored breathing, dragging on for so long he lost track of time. Finally, the man in his arms rasped, “It was me… I wasn’t careful.”

“I don’t remember the details clearly, bro. I was just asking for directions earlier, and then I accidentally hurt myself.”

“Accidentally, to the point of nearly drowning?”

Fu Yanzong countered coldly.

He watched as Song Linyu strained to lift his head, those eyes gazing up at him. Fu Yanzong had forbidden more apologies, but those damp amber eyes brimmed with guilt—quiet, silent, even despairing as they reflected his own face.

Song Linyu nodded with difficulty, acknowledging the absurdity they both knew it to be.

Fu Yanzong let out a sudden low chuckle.

For some reason, it reminded him of something he’d read ages ago in a fit of boredom. In a book called Essential Knowledge for Actors, there was a common yet often overlooked term: “lip-sync mismatch.”

This desync didn’t just plague movie screenings. It cropped up constantly in real life too.

Lip-sync mismatch referred to when audio and visuals fell out of step in videos—something everyday in films, streams, or video calls.

Yet this basic glitch had shadowed the entire history of moving images, from the reel era to streaming, infiltrating homes everywhere.

Back then, worn projector gears caused films to slip with a faint rasp, creating tiny delays. Now, network glitches or codec errors did the same.

It seemed that whenever images were shared, misalignment followed. No tech upgrade ever fully fixed it—just as humans could never fully bridge the gap between expression and understanding. Misinterpretation was the expresser’s eternal fate.

But Fu Yanzong had never wanted to be out of sync with Song Linyu.

He always had the patience to watch a film through to the end, immersing himself in others’ joys and sorrows. He was even more generous with his patience for the man he loved.

So if you speak, I’ll listen.

Even if it’s delayed or mismatched.

With that, he scooped Song Linyu up seamlessly into his arms and headed toward the villa where he was staying. It was only a short walk, but the man in his embrace felt both featherlight and crushingly heavy. Endless rivulets of water trailed from him like tears.

Fu Yanzong accepted his earlier answer.

Then he asked, “Can you give me the answer to the second question?”

“Song Linyu, you flew all the way to Paris and asked if we could meet. What were you planning to tell me?”

Song Linyu looked up from his arms. Fu Yanzong’s profile, shrouded in the night, was hazy as winter dawn mist. But the question hit like thunder crashing in his ear.

In that instant, he almost wished he’d drowned in the cold water.

Song Linyu realized Su Tang would haunt him forever—and Fu Yanzong would never be safe until one of them was dead.

The words he’d longed to say turned salty and bitter on his tongue, like tears or absinthe. He pressed a hand dazedly to his chest, as if confirming his heart still beat amid the pain, rather than having stalled.

Unable to voice his desperate plea, Song Linyu silently repeated Fu Yanzong’s name in his mind over and over. His ragged breaths came like tear-choked sobs, or like a frozen river surging with hidden currents.

Let the river stay frozen forever. Those secrets could only lie buried under the ice, and you have no place in the spring thaw.

He told himself that.

Then, feigning lightness, he lowered his eyes. “I came to apologize.”

“It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have taken so much leave and left you alone. I’ll stay by your side from now on. Don’t be mad, okay?”

It was a plea for peace.

But not the truth.

Fu Yanzong said nothing.

The patter of fine rain mingled with distant thunder, shattering the night sky. His footsteps echoed steadily, unhurried—like drumbeats against the heart, relentless.

Before they crossed the gravel path past security into the warm villa, Song Linyu heard him pause. With striking calm, Fu Yanzong asked his final question.

“So, this is your final answer?”

Only belatedly did Song Linyu taste the metallic tang of blood in his throat.

He turned his head away and buried his face in Fu Yanzong’s chest. His fingertips curled in agony, bit by bit, but he said not another word.

Not a single word.

For many people around the world, 2021 was just an ordinary year. But not for Fu Yanzong and Song Linyu. At that time, they had no idea it would be their last year together.

That year, they had kissed and embraced. They had fought with cold silences between them. And finally, the accident that befell Song Linyu had drawn a close to their standoff.

Paris was still shrouded in gloomy rain then. The day after the incident, Song Linyu spiked a high fever and was confined to the villa, unable to go anywhere else.

Fu Yanzong seized the opportunity to cancel a slew of engagements. He stayed in the room, playing games while keeping Song Linyu company as he recovered. Truth be told, Fu Yanzong had no talent for caretaking. He fumbled through it all, causing no end of trouble for his patient. In the end, it was the ailing Song Linyu who had to earnestly reassure him: “You’ve done great. It’s fine.”

It was as if all their problems had been buried in that rainy night. They never again broached the secret they both knew without saying.

Fu Yanzong held an ice cream pop between his teeth as he leaned against Song Linyu, the two of them rewatching the film for which Fu had earned a nomination. But halfway through, the movie stuttered to a halt, then glitched out of sync.

Song Linyu frowned and hit pause to fix it. Just then, Fu Yanzong’s phone rang twice in quick succession.

The first call was from his agent, Ji Cheng.

“Young Master Fu,” Ji Cheng said, “I’ve finally tracked down that gem you wanted me to find. The rush processing should finish right after your awards ceremony. It’ll arrive alongside that trophy you’re all but guaranteed to win—perfectly set, no less.”

Fu Yanzong gazed out at the overcast sky and chuckled. “Sounds good.”

The second call came from his friend Anna in Paris.

This refined and courteous lady couldn’t hold back her curiosity in the end. After some small talk, she asked, “I’ve never seen any of my friends drop everything for someone like that. So, Fu, where do you and your beloved see this going?”

Girls Anna’s age still held the purest dreams of romance, even as their peers around her went through the motions of arranged family marriages. Anna didn’t even know who Fu Yanzong had met that day—what they looked like, or anything about them. She was already spinning a fairy tale of perfect love, blissfully unaware of all the ways even soulmates could still drift apart.

Fu Yanzong crunched through the mint ice pop in his mouth without replying.

His mind wandered idly: eating ice cream in this weather was a bit painful on the teeth. Maybe he shouldn’t push his luck by asking Song Linyu for another one.

In the midst of his distant silence, Anna’s chatter wound down at last. With eager enthusiasm, she ventured a guess to wrap things up: “So, are you two getting married? In Paris, or somewhere else?”

Fu Yanzong smiled faintly.

By now, the movie in the room had been fixed and was playing again. Song Linyu grabbed a throw pillow and leaned over to peer at Fu Yanzong, who stood by the window on the phone. Amid the indistinct murmur of conversation, he caught Fu Yanzong’s quiet response:

“I don’t know.”

I’ve thought about it. But I really don’t know.