ADTCP Ch42

It had only been ten hours since they separated, not even a full day, yet Zhu Wensheng was already restless.

He had never realized waiting could feel so unbearable. It was as if he had ingested some addictive substance: the moment he was away from Tao Zhen, it felt like ten thousand ants gnawed at his heart, leaving even his breathing uneasy.

But hadn’t he long grown accustomed to loneliness and pain before he met Tao Zhen? Why now did the sour, itchy ache in his chest feel impossible to endure?

On the other end of the line, Tao Zhen seemed to notice something as well. But instead of being irritated by this inexplicable attachment, he chirped cheerfully, saying soothing words again and again.

The boy’s voice was bright and gentle, lively and playful in tone, smoothing away all the restlessness that had just clogged Zhu Wensheng’s chest.

Zhu Wensheng closed his eyes, slowly calming down. After a few more words with Tao Zhen, Jiang Long came out to call him for dinner. He hung up, staring at the black phone screen for several seconds.

Jiang Long sensed something was off, though he couldn’t put a finger on it. He simply served food into Zhu Wensheng’s bowl while asking about the end-of-month match.

When it came to business, Zhu Wensheng indeed sobered, discussing seriously with him.

Though the end of the month seemed far away, once training began, there was never much time. The real ordeal would be the week before the match: frenzied dehydration to make weight, followed by rapid recovery within just a day or two. It was about pushing the body to its absolute limits—only then could a fighter enter the cage like a beast in the Roman Colosseum.

And his upcoming opponent, the “Siamese Leopard,” was formidable.

The “Siamese Leopard” was the most famous fighter of Jiangzhou’s RED Club, a hopeful for signing with UFC. Dark-skinned, swift, and vicious like a leopard, he had earned his nickname.

Though older than Zhu Wensheng and less physically optimal, his rich underground fighting experience more than made up for it.

Zhu Wensheng’s strengths had always been raw physical power and ground grappling. Yet many called the “Siamese Leopard” the nemesis of ground techniques.

This fight was destined to be thrilling and bloody.

If Zhu Wensheng didn’t want to lose, he had to give everything.

On New Year’s Day the club was empty, so Zhu Wensheng stayed at Jiang Long’s place for specialized training that night. With his master’s guidance, he corrected several subtle flaws in his grappling. The next morning, he returned to the club. While training, he listened to Tao Zhen’s livestream in the background.

He trained alone like this until the fifth day of the New Year, when the others finally trickled back.

Most of them hadn’t yet recovered from the holiday indulgence. Many were several pounds heavier, faces puffy from overeating, and the nutritionist was forcing strict diets. The training hall echoed with groans.

When Zhao Zhao arrived, he thought he’d walked into a slaughterhouse by mistake. He even stepped outside to check the sign before coming back in.

He bypassed the wailing fighters and spotted Zhu Wensheng, calm and detached, completely out of place among them. He couldn’t hold back a laugh, dropped his souvenirs from a recent trip nearby, and clapped his brother’s solid shoulder.

“Bro, why are you so different from the rest? Don’t tell me you’ve been here training the whole holiday? Didn’t you go out and have some fun?”

Zhu Wensheng was finishing the last few reps of his bench press, pale handsome face flushed faintly red. He glanced over without a word.

Zhao Zhao didn’t mind the silence, chuckled lazily, and sat down nearby.

Of course, he already knew the answer. He knew Zhu Wensheng was never happy around the New Year, and had only come to joke around, hoping to distract him from family troubles. If only

Zhu Wensheng could live like him—a carefree, pleasure-seeking rich kid—maybe he’d be happier.

But deep down he also understood. Every year was the same: Zhu Wensheng was never happy during New Year. This time was no different.

“Hey, wait, you’ve got Bluetooth earbuds on?”

Zhao Zhao suddenly noticed, curiosity sparked. He leaned forward toward Zhu Wensheng’s phone. “Who are you talking to? Or… wait. What are you watching?”

Zhu Wensheng had just set down the barbell and hadn’t put his phone away when Zhao Zhao snatched it up and lit the screen.

There on the screen was a livestream. A strikingly pretty blond boy was smiling brightly into the camera, sweet and adorable.

“…”

Zhu Wensheng: “Give it back.”

With ease, he took the phone back from Zhao Zhao. But it was too late. Zhao Zhao was already grinning, a knowing, mischievous look in his eyes.

“Damn. Didn’t expect that from you, Zhu Wensheng.”

“That blond kid earlier, that’s the little sugar daddy of yours, right? My god, does being ‘kept’ mean you have to dutifully watch your patron’s livestream?” Zhao Zhao’s tone was exaggerated.

“Or… has my good buddy already—fall-en-in-lo-ve—?”

It was the first time in so many years that he’d seen Zhu Wensheng fall, and fall this hard—utterly crazy over one boy. So he put on an insufferable expression.

But Zhu Wensheng drew in a deep breath, suppressing the urge to punch him, closed his eyes, and said seriously:
“…Yes.”

He really had fallen hopelessly, irrevocably in love.

“?”

Now it was Zhao Zhao’s turn to be stunned. He swallowed hard, incredulous. “Huh?”

Zhu Wensheng didn’t give him the chance to recover. He lit up his screen, stared at the blond boy for a while, and, as if falling into memory, said softly:

“And I wasn’t always at the club these past days. I went to Xuancheng to see Tao Zhen. On New Year’s Eve, I spent it with him.”

Zhao Zhao staggered back, nearly tripping over a barbell before steadying himself on some equipment.

“Zhu Wensheng, you mean you and he…?” He still found it hard to believe.

He wasn’t unfamiliar with Zhu Wensheng. After being friends for so many years, he knew this much, Zhu Wensheng might look indifferent to everything, but in matters of feelings he was more loyal than anyone. He would never joke about this sort of thing. Once he decided on something, he never wavered.

Which meant, if he said so, it could only mean one thing: without Tao Zhen, he couldn’t go on.

Zhao Zhao stood dazed for a long while before muttering, “Alright then…”

Whatever the case, he would stand on Zhu Wensheng’s side.

“So how far have you two gotten? What do you plan to do next?” Zhao Zhao stepped closer, eyes sharp.

What he really meant was when are you going to be honest with Tao Zhen? But Zhu Wensheng merely cast him a cold glance, tone flat:
“Don’t ask what you shouldn’t.”

Zhao Zhao felt wrongly accused and gaped. “What do you mean ‘don’t ask what you shouldn’t’? Zhu Wensheng! Damn it, you’ve got the wrong idea! I was asking if you’ve thought about when to come clean, considering your relationship isn’t ordinary anymore, maybe think about the next—”

Zhu Wensheng: “…”

Already too much talk.

He picked up his phone and walked to the next training station. Zhao Zhao trailed after him, shouting “Hey, hey, hey!” until finally he was left standing among the groaning fighters, watching him leave.

Cursing under his breath, Zhao Zhao punched a nearby sandbag to vent, but it wasn’t enough. Thinking for a moment, he pulled out his phone, searched for Tao Zhen’s livestream using the ID he had just glimpsed, and clicked in.

At that moment, Tao Zhen was chatting with fans. Gifts flooded the screen, viewers clamoring for him to sing the song of their choice.

Without thinking, Zhao Zhao immediately sent a “carnival” gift. Bright blue-purple effects filled the entire screen.

Surprised, Tao Zhen leaned closer to the camera, reading out the username:
“Thank you, ‘Zhao Zhao’ for the carnival… What song would you like to hear?”

【Zhao Zhao Mu Mu You Cai Shen: Hello, streamer. I’d like to request a song for my friend. Could you sing it a bit louder, with more power?】

Tao Zhen usually fulfilled any reasonable request, and this was no exception. He readily agreed: “Of course, no problem.”

【Zhao Zhao Mu Mu You Cai Shen: Great, streamer. [shared music]】

Tao Zhen clicked the link—and a giant song title popped up on the screen: “Tears of a Male Dancer” (Remix).

He squinted, rubbed his eyes. “Are you sure… you want to dedicate this song to your friend?”

The entire chat burst into laughter. Zhao Zhao glanced at the training Zhu Wensheng, and, utterly calm, typed: “Sure. Please sing it quickly.”

Though baffled, Tao Zhen still obliged. He listened to the melody twice, cleared his throat, and began:

“One misstep, a lifetime of mistakes—”

“Dancing to survive, to survive—”

“A male dancer, too… with pain in his heart, but who can he tell—”

“…”

Before the song even ended, Zhao Zhao saw Zhu Wensheng stand up in the distance. He immediately bolted, sprinting faster than he ever had, shouting for the driver to go as soon as he jumped into the car.

As Light Club disappeared behind him, relief washed over Zhao Zhao. He exhaled, glanced at his phone, and after a moment’s hesitation, sent a private message to Tao Zhen:

【Zhao Zhao: Hi streamer, I was only joking earlier. That song wasn’t really for anyone.】

Tao Zhen had just finished his stream and saw the message backstage. He replied casually that it was fine. But no sooner had he closed the chat than another message popped up.

【Zhao Zhao: That’s good, haha. Actually, I’m Zhu Wensheng’s friend. He mentions you often, so I couldn’t resist coming by for a look. I was only teasing, please tell him not to mind…】

Tao Zhen froze, then perked up. Zhu Wensheng’s friend?

Truthfully, though he had been with Zhu Wensheng for a while now, aside from Li Min the club owner, he had barely met any of his friends, nor had he asked. He realized with a twinge of guilt that he didn’t know enough about him.

Quickly, he greeted Zhao Zhao. The latter introduced himself, telling Tao Zhen to just call him “Zhao-Ge.”

That confident, generous demeanor reminded Tao Zhen of that Maybach.

If that Maybach really had been lent from him to Zhu Wensheng, then maybe he also knew what Zhu Wensheng liked.

【ZhenZhibang: By the way, Zhao-Ge, may I ask—has Ah-Sheng ever told you what he likes?】

【Zhao Zhao: Hm? He doesn’t have many preferences. If I had to say what he likes… it’s probably just fighting.】

Fighting? Tao Zhen had thought of that. But fighting was a sport—no matter how much Zhu Wensheng loved it, his achievements could only be won by himself. At most, Tao Zhen could gift him something tangential, nothing essential.

Clutching his shirt hem, he thought hard, then couldn’t help asking again:

【Zhen Zhibang: Besides fighting? Is there anything else he likes?】

The username “Zhao Zhao Mu Mu You Cai Shen” changed to “typing…” The other side was silent for a long time, until finally two new messages appeared:

【You.】

【All these years, I’ve only ever seen him love two things. One is fighting. The other is you.】