Ming Ying feigned surprise.
He pinched the corner of the pornographic magazine, frowning. “Uh, who put this in my suitcase? Don’t try to slander me!”
Silas let out a laugh.
Ming Ying: “It was you, right? You planted it?”
Silas didn’t argue with him: “If you say so.”
Ming Ying stood up. “I knew it. I love studying so much. How could I possibly… You’re my Boss, stop being a bad influence on me all the time.”
Silas’s expression remained unchanged. “Mm, I’m a bad influence.”
Ming Ying nudged him aside. “I’m going to tidy up now. I need to get everything sorted, don’t bother me.”
Silas obligingly shifted to the side.
By the time Ming Ying finished organizing everything, it was already past midnight.
Mark and Alex still hadn’t returned, off who knows where. Ming Ying stuffed his things into Silas’s car, left a note for Mark, and sent a text message.
He hadn’t expected Mark to reply instantly.
Mingo: Mark, I’m moving out, but don’t worry, as a loyal bro, I’ll still pay my share of the rent. Live easy, and may you and Alex have a blissful union for a hundred years.
Mingo: [Puppy bowing.jpg]
Mingo: [Puppy tossing flower petals.jpg]
Mark: Ming, you’re going to live with Aston?
Mingo: Classified.
Mark: [Fist clasped in respect]
Mark: Ming, as your best friend through thick and thin, I promise you, a room will always be kept for you in this apartment, whether you pay or not.
Seeing that message, Ming Ying was suddenly touched, and even felt a little guilty. He covered his face.
Mingo: Thank you Mark!!! Thank you so much!!! But if you find a new suitable roommate, or if Alex wants to move in, don’t consider me at all!
In the driver’s seat, Silas noticed Ming Ying’s odd expression and turned his head. “What’s wrong?”
Ming Ying was just about to sing Mark’s praises to the Board Member when his phone suddenly buzzed with a vibration.
Swiping open the screen, he said, “Oh, it’s just my good roommate—”
Mark: I’ll keep it for you, just in case you have nowhere to go when things end between you and Aston.
Mark: [Pat pat]
Ming Ying: “…”
The corner of Ming Ying’s mouth twitched. “A really good roommate, always giving me such wonderful advice.”
Mingo: Thank you!
Mingo: [Swinging a hammer.jpg]
…
It was past two in the afternoon by the time they got home.
As soon as he got out of the car, Ming Ying declared, “I’m gonna unpack.”
He had packed up two suitcases and several cardboard boxes from the apartment, basically moving everything he owned except his bedding set.
The moment he stepped into this living room, he couldn’t wait to shove all this stuff in and clutter up this neat and orderly house.
Meanwhile, Silas paid no mind to Ming Ying’s mischievous intent. He pulled out the rose wrapped in paper, added some water to the vase in the entrance hall, arranged the flower inside, and only then turned back. “No rush. Are you still hungry?”
Ming Ying had eaten pastries on the way and was currently stuffed. “Not hungry. I want to unpack.”
Silas didn’t know what the rush was but had no objections. “The stuff is in the car. I’ll go get it.”
Ming Ying: “I’ll come with you!”
So the two of them went back out from the living room to the yard.
The sun was bright, the grass in the yard lush and green. As Ming Ying walked, he suddenly looked up at the nearly transparent blue sky and silently noted the date.
In that instant, another thought struck him. He went back inside to grab two sodas, then jogged to the garage. “Boss, what was the code to your front door again?”
Silas had just opened the trunk. At the question, he turned his head, their eyes meeting.
Ming Ying handed him one of the drinks.
Silas took the soda, twisted it open—bubbles rushed forth—and took a sip with his head tilted back before asking, “What do you want to change it to?”
Ming Ying burst out laughing. He took a sip of his own soda. “What are you doing? Who said I wanted to change it? I was just asking, don’t slander me.”
Silas’s lips curved. He recited a string of numbers: “20090611.”
Ming Ying frowned. “Your son’s birthday?”
Silas looked at him. “Ming, were you born in 2009?”
Ming Ying prodded Silas’s waist with his drink bottle. “What’s with you, man? No sense of humor at all.”
Silas laughed obligingly. “That was my graduation date.”
“Ah…”
That reminded Ming Ying of a photo—the one he’d seen in the study, of a younger Mr. Aston.
Thinking it, he said it aloud: “Oh, that time when you were young.”
The moment the words left his mouth, something felt off.
Silas watched him without speaking.
Ming Ying winced inwardly. No matter how you interpreted it, there was a lingering implication of “you’re not so young now.”
So comrade Ming Ying quickly corrected his posture. “You’re still in your prime right now. I mean, your most, most, most prime time. Boss, don’t misunderstand me.”
When facing such issues, a logic like “large, extra-large, maxi-large” often solved things.
After saying this, Ming Ying stole a glance at the Boss’s expression. Fortunately, Silas was magnanimous and wouldn’t quibble with a little nobody like him.
Silas leaned against the car and asked again, “What do you want to change it to?”
Ming Ying hurriedly said, “I really don’t want to change it.”
Silas: “Mm.”
Ming Ying: “Mm?”
Silas: “Mm?”
Crap.
Outwardly, Ming Ying said: “No change means no change.”
Inwardly, Ming Ying wailed: Why didn’t he ask me a third time!
Silas chuckled softly, ruffled his hair, and said, “Mm. Wait until your graduation day, then you can change it.”
“…”
At those words, all his temper vanished instantly. He didn’t even mind his head being ruffled.
Waiting until he graduated—that was a timeframe measured in years.
A faint sweetness welled up in Ming Ying’s heart. He knew what that feeling was. It wasn’t just about enjoying the present, but also about looking forward to the future.
A future with the Old Bastard.
Ming Ying also deliberately gave a cool “Mm.” “Alright, I really need to unpack now, or I won’t get it done in time.”
They lingered and bantered a bit more in front of the garage before Silas helped him pull out the suitcases and boxes and carry them inside.
Logically, they didn’t need to do this themselves; they could simply hire someone. But Silas didn’t.
Partly because he had to go on a business trip tomorrow and wasn’t going to campus today, with nothing else to do. Partly because Silas didn’t really like strangers entering this house of his—even the cleaner only came once a week. And also, spending time helping Ming Ying organize his things actually felt rather nice.
Although the kid didn’t have any large furniture, his smaller things were numerous and scattered.
Aside from clothes, there were collectible DVDs, complete Japanese anime collections, a high-end audio system, various game consoles… Ming Ying had even brought his football cleats all the way from back home and moved them into Silas’s house.
Once inside, Ming Ying asked where he should put his cleats.
Silas: “Entrance hall.”
Ming Ying looked back at the entrance. There was no special glass cabinet, no display podium. He asked, “Why there?”
Silas looked at him. “Ming, shoes should stay where shoes go.”
“…”
Ming Ying sneered, deeply unsatisfied with the Old Rogue’s teasing. “No way. I want them in your display cabinet.”
Silas’s living room had a display cabinet holding architectural models of classic world landmarks.
Ming Ying walked over, found an empty spot, and placed his cleats there, next to Mr. Aston’s various models.
He stepped back slightly, looked back at Silas, and asked very sincerely: “That’s not too much, is it?”
Silas glanced at it, was silent for a long moment, and said: “Mm. At least it’s not on the dining table.”
…
Having gained Mr. Aston’s implicit approval, Ming Ying grabbed his belongings and ran all over the house.
During this exploring, he discovered for the first time that there was a piano in the storage room on the first floor.
Ming Ying called out for Silas. “Boss— Boss— Baby—”
The man outside appeared right on cue, holding a cup of coffee.
Ming Ying sidled over leisurely. “Give me a sip.”
Silas lowered the cup.
Ming Ying tasted it. “So bitter. Didn’t you add sugar?”
Silas laughed. “What did you call me for?”
Ming Ying pointed at the piano, which was covered with a cloth dust cover. “Is that piano yours? Can you play the piano?”
Silas rubbed his head, nodding. “I can. How did you find this?”
Ming Ying grinned. “Can you play something for me? I’ve never seen you play.”
Just imagining it—Mr. Aston in a crisp suit, sitting before the piano, playing just for him—Ming Ying almost fainted from sheer sexiness.
But Silas pursed his lips somewhat helplessly. “Ming, I haven’t played in many years.”
He wasn’t lying. He learned the piano as a child, but where was the time after starting his career?
But the kid wouldn’t let it go and insisted on clinging to him.
Ming Ying: “Surely you know ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ or something? Just play anything, I’ll listen willingly—how about this: If I win an award at N-Cube, will you play for me? Deal?”
Since things had come to this, it would be far too unreasonable for the Board Member to refuse again. He smiled lightly. “Alright.”
Ming Ying let out a little cheer.
Like this, the household unpacking battle continued until four in the afternoon—and still wasn’t finished.
The battlefield moved to the bedroom. During this, there was a small mishap.
Ming Ying dragged the suitcase containing his clothes towards the bedroom. But since he had to climb the stairs and the suitcase was quite heavy, he struggled a bit. Seeing this, Silas said, “Ming, leave that. I’ll get it.”
Comrade Ming Ying’s straight-man radar buzzed loudly. “No need, I’ll do it myself. I can manage.”
Silas stroked his fur, so to speak. “Then let’s both carry it together.”
Ming Ying smiled. “Alright.”
However, just as Silas stepped onto the stairs, there was a click—Ming Ying’s suitcase spontaneously burst open!
In an instant, the clothes inside tumbled out, cascading down the entire staircase.
Ming Ying stood there, mouth agape, staring down. Below, Silas looked up at him.
Ming Ying: “…”
Crap.
Silas looked at his home, utterly transformed in less than a day. He was a bit helpless, but there was no alternative—he had brought this person here himself.
“Ming, next time, remember to get a better quality suitcase.”
“Oh.”
…
After tidying up that pile of clothes, they finally settled down.
Now, the two were in the bedroom. One sat on the sofa reading, the other on the rug by the bed. Numerous paper boxes, large and small, were spread out on the wooden floor before them. Dusk’s glow drifted through the window into this area.
As Ming Ying sorted his things, Silas was forced to appreciate his household treasures one by one.
From his Japanese anime, to limited-edition glowing headphones, to his football team posters.
Ming Ying gave Silas a crash course on when he’d bought everything, when he’d gotten into each fandom. Sometimes Silas laughed, sometimes he asked further questions.
Though he didn’t show it openly, Ming Ying felt quite proud inside. At least it meant Silas wanted to understand him.
Wasn’t it said that liking someone begins with wanting to know everything about them?
—Yet, clearly, this adage didn’t quite apply to a pair with an age gap almost large enough to be different generations.
Why? Because after everything was laid out, Ming Ying tragically discovered—maybe due to age, or simply different upbringings—their only two shared hobbies seemed to be architectural design and football. And regarding the latter, they were rivals. (Ming Ying’s main team was Tottenham Hotspur; Silas’s was Chelsea.)
Pulling his Tottenham poster from a box, Ming Ying snorted. He stood up holding the poster image and waved it in front of Silas’s face.
Ming Ying: “Where do you think I should hang this? How about the bedroom?”
Silas’s gaze shifted from his book to Ming Ying. When he clearly saw what Ming Ying was holding, he frowned slightly. “Choose another spot.”
Ming Ying: “What for? Not allowed?”
Silas said, “Ming, in this room, you can only choose one—it or me.”
Ming Ying deliberately grinned. “I choose it.”
Silas closed his book. Ming Ying hastily added: “You, I choose you. Boss, keep reading, keep reading.”
Silas’s lips curved. He picked up his cup and drank some coffee.
Yet, two minutes later, Ming Ying shuffled over to ask, “You like Chelsea, don’t you?”
This was one thing Ming Ying had been brooding over a little.
No football fan could calmly accept that the person they liked supported a rival team. Ming Ying found it incredibly awkward. To say that the other person had no taste—well, what did that make him, liking that person?
But Silas found this amusing. “Since when did I say I liked Chelsea?”
“Trying to weasel out of it?” Ming Ying got up, plopped down on the rug next to his sofa, took out his phone, and started scrolling through the screen. He showed Silas a chat log from a Champions League match days ago, where XI had said Chelsea won. It was practically an expression of irrefutable evidence.
Silas casually stroked Ming Ying’s face, not bothering to refute him. “Mm, I like them. So what?”
Ming Ying pocketed his phone and glanced at Silas again. “I just don’t get it.”
Silas laughed, thinking this kid’s train of thought always wound to places he didn’t expect. “What don’t you get?”
Ming Ying declared domineeringly, “…Anyway, I just find it super awkward. Our aesthetic tastes differ too much. I really can’t accept it.”
They were arch-rivals! Ming Ying didn’t even know how many times he’d cursed them out behind his computer screen.
Silas set his coffee down. “Ming, you should know why architecture needs different styles.”
Ming Ying didn’t quite understand why the topic shifted so drastically, but he obediently answered his teacher’s question: “…Because the eras are different?”
Silas looked at him. “Because if all buildings were the same, you wouldn’t notice any single one of them.”
In simpler terms: without contrast—whether in architecture or football clubs—there was little to no value to speak of.
Ming Ying: “…”
Old men had the most twisted logic.
Ming Ying got up and leaned into Silas’s embrace. “Fine, I permit you to like Chelsea. But you’re not allowed to watch matches with me.”
Silas naturally pulled the person into his arms and went back to reading. “Understood.”
Nestled against the Board Member’s chest, Comrade Ming Ying followed along reading for a couple of pages. But only a couple. He then tilted his head up to ask, “But I still want to know, why did you pick Chelsea?”
There were so many Premier League teams. Why choose them? Ming Ying wanted to understand Silas a bit more.
Who knew, Silas would only say: “Habit.”
Ming Ying: “What does that mean?”
Silas: “Stamford Bridge was close to where I used to live. Three stops on the Underground.”
Ming Ying’s eyes widened. “You’ve been in the UK—wait, you chose a team based on subway convenience?”
Silas glanced down at him. “Why else? Surely not because they played well?”
Thinking of Chelsea’s Champions League record, Ming Ying suddenly burst out laughing. Once he’d laughed enough, he asked, “So, you really have been in the UK?”
Silas: “Mm. Did a project with my advisor back when I was a student.”
Ming Ying was curious. “What project?”
Silas picked up his book. “Look it up yourself.”
Ming Ying clicked his tongue. “If you don’t want to say, just say so.”
They cuddled stickily for another moment, until Ming Ying suddenly realized something. “Hey, wait. If you don’t even like Chelsea that much, then why can’t I hang my poster?”
Silas finally said, “Ming, I just have an issue with being stared at by strangers during sex.”
