Chapter 27: Whose Wet Dream Is Ming’s Nightmare?

A six-second voice message.

Ming Ying tapped it open.

XI: “Ming, home yet? Message me once you’re home.”

Ming Ying: “…”

The voice had a faint electrical crackle, Silas keeping his voice very low, as if on purpose.

Ming Ying listened. Hard to explain, but it made his skin prickle.

Not because Aston’s voice was ugly — quite the opposite, it was way too pleasant. If it had actually been ugly, he might even have laughed.

As it was, what was this…

After seeing Ming Ying off, Silas was on his way back to the airport when he received a reply — only three words.

Mingo: I’m home.

Silas raised an eyebrow.

XI: Shall we call, then?

Fuck. Pushing it!

Ming Ying silently exited the chat screen.

He tossed his phone aside, buried himself in the sofa like a dying man, and then suddenly remembered what he’d said earlier.

“Ming, how do you communicate with people you have a physical relationship with?”

“Chat, phone calls, voice messages.”

…

What kind of idiotic answer was that…

Ming Ying was wracked with regret.

Wait —

Ming Ying stared at his phone, thinking, Could it be that Mr. Aston actually wanted to… you know… with him????

No, that was too insane.

Ming Ying still leaned toward the theory that the guy was just messing with him.

So he didn’t reply to that message. Thankfully, XI didn’t send another, nor did he just call out of the blue — Ming Ying hated it when people called without warning.

If he had, Ming Ying really would’ve deleted him.

But XI hadn’t. And… damn it, Ming Ying almost couldn’t bear to delete him.

It had nothing to do with who the other person was. XI was, arguably, the person he’d chatted with most since arriving in this unfamiliar country.

Ming Ying scrolled back through their chat history. Setting aside the photos and the flirtation, what they’d actually talked about most was just… little everyday things…

Like some complaints about the weather:

Mingo: The weather in New York is so crappy today, raining again…

XI: There’ll be a rainbow tomorrow.

Mingo: Teacher, I want to see it with you.

XI: Sometime in the future.

Mingo: Then I also want to go to 42nd Street to see Manhattanhenge!

Mingo: [Puppy Peeking Sticker]

XI: Mm.

…

Or discovering some shared interests…

Mingo: Watched the game today, my team lost again tvt

XI: That’s normal, football is round. You’ll win it back next time.

Mingo: Teacher, do you watch football?

XI: You mean last night’s Premier League?

Mingo: You actually watched!!!

XI: Mm. I did.

XI: Chelsea won.

Mingo: ???

Mingo: No way! You’re a fan of my mortal enemy!!!

Mingo: I don’t like you anymore!

XI: Ming.

Ming: Just kidding orz

…

And then, even in the middle of flirting, they’d occasionally discuss some serious literature…

Mingo: Teacher, have you read One Hundred Years of Solitude?

XI: No.

Mingo: Why not, I thought you were so cultured.

XI: Couldn’t get through it.

Mingo: Okay [crying laughing]

XI: You read it?

Mingo: Actually no [facepalm laugh]

XI: So why did you ask?

Mingo: I wanted to sound all cultured and deep [poking fingers]

XI: Mm. You succeeded.

…

Just from the chat logs, XI and he seemed to have no cultural gap, no age gap either. Sometimes he felt like someone listening to his stories, other times like an old friend. Ming Ying truly couldn’t bear to delete him — at the very least, he couldn’t delete these chat records.

Being able to share little snippets of life and having the other person respond — that was genuinely precious to someone on their own in a foreign country.

Fuck. Why was he this unlucky.

A faint dejection welled up in Ming Ying. From the moment he’d learned who the other person really was, he hadn’t just lost an online love interest. He’d lost a friend too.

Ming Ying sat there for a bit, then glanced over at Mark’s room — no movement.

Mark was just that kind of elusive creature; you couldn’t count on him.

Ming Ying coughed, got up, and decided to find something to do.

Read comics, binge shows, game, watch sports. He always had plenty to keep himself busy.

If all else failed, there was studying.

But unfortunately, that faint dejection didn’t fade with these activities. It hung over him, persistent. Because of it, Ming Ying even hid his chat with XI, afraid he might accidentally send a message to the wrong person.

However, the consequence of not sending XI messages was that XI himself might come looking.

It was Friday afternoon. Three days had passed since Tuesday, when Ming Ying had been so publicly pulled out of class by Mr. Aston. For the first time ever, Ming Ying didn’t arrive exactly on time — he came half an hour early and staked out an inconspicuous spot.

The class went smoothly, as if that whole storm had blown over and no one even cared about Ming Ying anymore. He exhaled in relief, and the moment class ended, he packed his bag to leave.

Right then, he got a message from Mark, asking if he wanted to go hang out.

Ming Ying asked where. Mark said anywhere, he’d noticed Ming Ying seemed down lately.

That Mark. Sometimes a total flake, other times he sort of came through.

Ming Ying thought it over and agreed. He really didn’t have anything going on Friday night anyway.

Before, Friday nights meant working on the “thesis project” XI gave him…

Shit. Why was he thinking of him again!

So terrifying.

Ming Ying shook his head. While walking, he sent Mark a message to meet at the café. But the second he stepped out of the classroom, he spotted a group of suits heading his way from down the hall!

Thanks to Aston, Ming Ying had developed a mild case of PTSD around that particular look.

He halted and immediately changed direction.

Silas, of course, spotted the dodging figure at a glance. Somewhat surprised, he glanced at the nearby classroom and only then remembered the kid had a class today.

Ming Ying took a few steps the other way, only for his phone to buzz.

Ming Ying sent a quick prayer to the God of Wealth and picked it up.

[WhatsApp] XI: [8′ voice message]

Damn. Ming Ying’s eyes flew open. The guy was really pulling this now, sending voice messages so casually.

Ming Ying didn’t listen right away. He looked back.

Sure enough!

Aston was actually in that crowd. He was dressed casually today, no necktie, smile easygoing — nothing like a rogue who’d harass a male student, nothing like a sharp businessman or politician. More like a refined, highly educated man.

Ming Ying recognized two people among them: professors from his own college.

They were about to walk by. Ming Ying couldn’t leave, but staying put wasn’t great either. He couldn’t exactly bolt.

So the student Ming Ying just stood there, watching the entourage pass right in front of him. Ming Ying overheard them discussing something about the Materials Laboratory.

…Thankfully, Aston didn’t so much as glance at him.

Ming Ying clutched his bag and rubbed his temple, feeling so irritated.

Once they were far away, Ming Ying shot a fierce glare at the back of that gray suit, then turned and headed for the café.

Naturally, on the way, Ming Ying caved and played that voice message.

XI: Ming, you free tonight? Let me take you out to eat.

Hearing that, Ming Ying only felt more annoyed.

What was this supposed to mean? Could the man not see how terrified Ming Ying was of him?

Or were these so-called professors and board directors all into forcing things? What a sanctimonious old pervert after all.

Eat, eat. Ming Ying was afraid that if he actually went, he’d be the one getting eaten.

Mingo: Sorry, I already have plans tonight.

Short and to the point.

Ming Ying put his phone away after sending.

He biked to the café he’d agreed on with Mark. Through the glass from a distance, he saw Mark. Mark spotted him too and waved him in.

Ming Ying flashed an ok sign. But when he walked in, he saw a girl sitting next to Mark.

Ming Ying frowned. Mark was too much — knowing Ming Ying had just broken up, and now bringing his girlfriend…

Still, basic manners won out. Ming Ying smiled and walked over. “Mark!”

Mark pulled Ming Ying into a seat and said, “Ming, this is June, my classmate.”

…Not a girlfriend.

Ming Ying looked over. June was a dark-haired Asian girl, but likely mixed-race, with striking, defined features. She greeted him first. “Hi! I’m June. My mom’s Chinese, so I can speak Chinese.”

Ming Ying smiled. “What a coincidence. I’m Ming.”

June beamed. “Ming, nice to meet you.”

And just like that, they exchanged contacts.

That evening back home, Ming Ying interrogated him. “Mark, what was that about today?”

Mark, comrade and expert wingman, said, “Ming, you’ve been so off lately. A breakup isn’t the end. Just start fresh. Girls like that, in New York? Not hard to find.”

Ming Ying thought he was spouting nonsense.

He didn’t go chat with June. If he did, he’d feel like a total scumbag. Going after someone else right after a breakup.

But clearly, while he felt he’d had a breakup, his ex felt otherwise.

At 9:30 PM, XI sent a message.

XI: Ming, free for a call?

Oh god.

Ming Ying had been writing an email. He nearly forgot how to read Chinese at the sight of this.

He quickly replied: Not really!

XI: What are you doing?

Ming Ying ground his teeth.

Mingo: I’m chatting with someone.

The moment the message sent, two blue checkmarks lit up. Ming Ying’s heart hammered.

Damn, why was there a thrill mixed with the fear? Was this normal?

Less than a minute later, his phone buzzed.

XI: Then you’re free.

The next second, the screen lit up with an incoming call from XI.

Ming Ying: “…”

Ming Ying was dumbstruck.

Pick up, or not. That was the question.

Ming Ying steeled himself and hit answer.

A beep, and a familiar voice came through.

Silas said, “Ming?”

Ming Ying stayed silent.

Silas didn’t force him. “Ming, I’m very glad you answered instead of running away.”

Ming Ying held it in for a long time, then managed a “…Mm.”

Silas paused, then suddenly asked, “So, Ming. Who am I?”

Ming Ying: “…”

Oh, Ming Ying got it now. This was his way of making him admit it.

So student Ming Ying’s little temper flared up again. Quick as a knife, he chanted “I’m a straight man” a hundred times in his head, then “smack” — he hung up.

Silas stared at the disconnected call. Whether from anger or exasperation, he still laughed.

Student Ming Ying, with his turtle-shell nature and rebellious streak, really wanted to ignore XI’s messages. But he was also afraid Aston might screw him over.

Though Aston had never actually threatened him like that, given his status, Ming Ying saw him almost like a father figure — like the second he didn’t reply, he’d be getting whipped with a belt.

Mingo: Sorry, bad signal.

Tossing out a lame excuse was still better than nothing.

About five minutes later.

XI: Mm.

No more mention of calling.

Ming Ying let out a breath. He kept fending off XI’s messages like this, right up until Saturday night.

Ming Ying had a dream.

In the dream, because he’d hung up on XI, Thomas had torn him a new one, and then XI, looking stone-cold, had dragged him off to his office.

The dream was terrifyingly vivid, so real it almost didn’t feel like a dream. Ming Ying could even feel the heat of XI’s palm.

He was yanked inside, the door slammed shut. Ming Ying didn’t have time to admire how luxurious the School Board Director’s office was. He just turned and saw XI’s face clearly.

Refined, sharp, brows taut with anger.

Then he heard his own voice: “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hang up on you! You know this garbage country’s signal sucks — wait, why are you taking off your belt?! Hey!!!”

He saw XI’s mouth curl slightly. “Ming, disobedient students need to be punished. Isn’t that right?”

He seemed scared out of his mind. “No! I’ll never hang up on you again! Don’t hit me, I’m begging you!”

“Louder.” XI said without expression. “Go on, call all your classmates over. Let them see how you get punished.”

Ming Ying heard himself sobbing and pleading.

Then came the click of the belt buckle, and everything went dark.

The next moment, Ming Ying shot upright in bed.

In the darkness, he gasped. After a long while, he spat out a curse.

What the fuck kind of nightmare was that. He had goosebumps everywhere.

This couldn’t go on…

If it kept up, he was seriously going to develop a split personality…

So, in the wee hours of New York time, Silas received a message.

Mingo: Mr. Aston, I think we really need to talk.

…

The next day was Sunday, not sunny at all.

The skies over New York were again smothered in gloom. On a day like this, Ming Ying — who had barely gotten any broken sleep all night (what with dreaming of being belt-whipped) — hailed a cab to the school ceremony.

On the way, Ming Ying stared at the message he’d sent the night before and rubbed his forehead with a sigh.

3 AM:

Mingo: Mr. Aston, I think we really need to talk.

5 AM:

XI: Had a nightmare?

The message startled Ming Ying so much he couldn’t help asking.

Mingo: …How did you know?

XI: Texting at 3 AM, it’s either a nightmare or a wet dream.

XI: Unless it’s the latter?

Mingo: …

Ming Ying had no words. He thought, Even if it were a wet dream, dreaming of your face would still be a nightmare!

— Wait, what was he thinking?

Ming Ying swore and quickly killed the screen.

This was too bizarre. How was he discussing this with him.

…

The ceremony was on the great lawn, a sprawling, complex affair. Even though the weather wasn’t great, the atmosphere was electric. Deans and student reps took turns at the podium.

Balloons, fireworks, streamers, mascots everywhere.

Ming Ying sat there restless and bored. He had zero interest in listening; his mind was entirely on rehearsing what he’d say to Aston later.

Soon, the program reached the final item: the School Board Director’s address.

Thunderous applause from the entire crowd welcomed that man to the stage.

Ming Ying was seated way too far back to see the stage, so he just craned his neck at the big screen.

Undoubtedly, that face, magnified so many times, was strikingly handsome, flawless beyond reproach.

And even more flawless than his face, of course, was Mr. Aston’s speech.

He leaned on the podium, keeping a poised smile. Off-script, his talk was humorous and light, no lecturing whatsoever. He even made fun of his own little blunders from his school days, making everyone chuckle.

Finally came the routine Q&A.

After fielding a few questions about N University’s motto, the camera landed on a blonde, blue-eyed student.

“Mr. Aston! I was wondering — do you support open marriages?!”

Pretty standard. Every year there were a couple of cheeky students.

Mr. Aston was unfazed. He actually raised an eyebrow and smiled. “On that question, I’m afraid I don’t have the standing to answer.”

“Then when do you expect to gain that standing?”

Aston chuckled. “Working on it.”

“Oooh.”

“…”

Trapped in the middle of the crowd, Ming Ying honestly couldn’t describe how he felt.

…Why did it inexplicably feel like he was having an affair?

Ming Ying was pretty sure he was already developing a split personality.

Once the speech ended, Aston left. The stage switched to a singer performing. Ming Ying’s phone remained stubbornly silent.

He sat there, distracted, and sent a message.

Mingo: Mr. Aston?

Five minutes later, still unread.

Just then, the guy next to him — a Black student — called over to ask if he could pass a cup of water. Ming Ying pocketed his phone.

Once the cup was passed, the guy started talking. “Hey, what school you in?”

Ming Ying said, “Architecture. You?”

“Law.” The guy puffed up with pride. “Aston’s from our school. You saw him just now, right?”

“…Ah.”

Before Ming Ying could react, his phone trilled. The ringing made both him and the guy glance down.

Caller ID: XI

Ming Ying’s eyes bulged. His thumb reflexively smashed the decline button.

Only after he did it did he realize — crap. It wasn’t Aston. Why did he hang up?

Then his phone buzzed.

XI: Come to my office.