Song Yuzhang: Chapter 129 - New Year
Chapter 129: New Year
Nie Bonian had fallen ill again.
Winter was always hard on him — even if he stayed in a warm room every day, he still felt unwell. He didn’t have a fever, but he kept coughing and getting nosebleeds. The air in the house was too dry; even with water basins placed around, it didn’t help. The discomfort stayed the same. Being in the hospital wasn’t much better, but at least it made taking care of him easier. If anything happened, there would be less panic.
“He’s asleep.”
“Mm, asleep. He’ll feel better that way.”
Song Yuzhang stepped quietly out of the ward. Nie Yinbing followed him out and closed the door behind them.
“Are you staying here with him?”
“Yeah.”
“Is Sister Qingyun at home?”
“There’s a family banquet. She’s better at hosting than I am.”
The Nie family was no longer what it once was. In the past, they could afford to live detached from social obligations. Now, they had to relearn the art of maintaining connections — and in that, Nie Qingyun was naturally a hundred times better than Nie Yinbing.
Song Yuzhang said, “Bonian’s asleep anyway. Come have dinner with us.”
Only then did Nie Yinbing seem to remember to ask, “Why are you at the hospital?” His eyes swept over Song Yuzhang slowly. “Did you get hurt?”
“Not me — my eldest brother,” Song Yuzhang said with a smile and a shake of the head. “It’s a long story.”
It was the New Year, and most of the hospital wards were empty. Song Yuzhang asked for a vacant room, and everyone gathered together for a makeshift New Year’s Eve dinner.
Song Qiyuan still felt uneasy around Nie Yinbing. He truly admired Song Yuzhang — how the man could face Nie Yinbing as if nothing had ever happened, even cheerfully picking up food for him.
There was one thing, though, that Song Qiyuan had never digested — that one line from Song Yuzhang: “Xueping only saved me.” The tone had been calm, almost indifferent, yet the words had struck him deeply.
He dared not think too much about it; the more he did, the more unbelievable it seemed.
“President Song, your family’s chef really has great skills.”
Liu Chu was chewing happily, full of praise for the Song family’s New Year dishes.
“The master chef is decent — not quite the best, though,” Song Yuzhang replied fairly.
“This still doesn’t count as the best?” Liu Chu said, smacking his lips. “Then you’ve got to try Old Liu’s cooking sometime.”
Song Yuzhang laughed. “Didn’t Old Liu make these fine cakes?”
“You don’t know, President Song,” Liu Chu said, rolling his eyes. “When I first started living with Old Liu, he made steamed buns every day. I nearly got sick of them! I begged him to change it up, so he started steaming cakes instead. Later, I realized — that’s all he knows how to make. Steamed buns and cakes, nothing else!”
That final “hmph” carried all his righteous indignation, and the sidelong glare he shot at Liu Chuanzong was practically a dramatic performance.
Song Yuzhang glanced at Liu Chuanzong and said with amusement, “Didn’t think there’d be something you can’t do, Old Liu.”
Liu Chuanzong nodded stiffly. “I can’t cook.”
“If you can’t, then let Liu Chu do it,” Song Yuzhang said, eyeing the boy. “That’s what sons are for — to boss around.”
Liu Chu grinned. “Old Liu wouldn’t let me.”
Song Yuzhang hadn’t expected Liu Chuanzong to be so indulgent with his son. He thought to himself — since Liu Chuanzong liked children so much, why hadn’t he had one of his own? He wasn’t too old for it yet… unless—
Never mind. It was the New Year — not a time for brooding thoughts.
Song Yuzhang raised his glass. “Another year gone — for better or worse, let’s drink and wash away the past.”
“Well said,” Song Qiyuan echoed, lifting his own glass. “Drink away the past.”
Everyone clinked glasses and began to truly drink.
A night of pure, thoughtless drunkenness on New Year’s Eve — how wonderful.
Even Liu Chu, though still young, demanded to drink wine. No one objected, and he was the first to get drunk — followed closely by Song Qiyuan, whose poor tolerance surprised Song Yuzhang.
Song Yuzhang himself had a vast capacity for alcohol; in social circles, few could match him. Nie Yinbing and Liu Chuanzong drank quietly, one cup after another, speaking little.
Amused, Song Yuzhang reclined halfway on the hospital bed, pouring himself another glass.
He liked drinking — liked being drunk. When he drank, his mind didn’t blur; rather, his chest seemed to open wide, so wide it could smooth out all his tangled insides and lay everything bare — open for viewing and cleansing.
Suddenly, he said, “Old Liu.”
Liu Chuanzong grunted in acknowledgment.
“Come here. Let me hug you.”
Liu Chuanzong sat stiffly for a while before finally scooting over. Song Yuzhang put an arm around his shoulder.
Liu Chuanzong — a man who looked like a wooden puppet — turned out to be a kind and gentle father.
That was good. So good that Song Yuzhang just wanted to hold him for a moment.
Then he let go, and his gaze shifted slowly.
“Yinbing.”
Nie Yinbing held a wine cup in one hand, sitting cross-legged, his calm gaze fixed quietly on him.
Song Yuzhang lifted his own cup slightly. “Come, let’s drink.”
Their small porcelain cups clinked crisply together. Song Yuzhang took a light sip, while Nie Yinbing emptied his in one go.
Liu Chu began to snore softly, so Liu Chuanzong hoisted him up and carried him to another empty ward to sleep.
Song Qiyuan was already fast asleep, though not snoring. Song Yuzhang used his foot to flick a blanket over his chest.
“I’ll go check on Bonian.”
Nie Yinbing said, his tone as steady as ever.
Song Yuzhang murmured an “Mm.”
The room was warm and quiet. Song Yuzhang continued to pour himself drink after drink.
He began to think of Xiao Yingtao, of that cramped apartment, of her stuffing sesame cakes into his mouth on New Year’s Eve while he was still half-asleep—“Baby, eat the cake. You’ll grow taller next year.”
As the liquor swirled into his cup, an immense loneliness suddenly welled up inside him.
No matter how lively the people around him were, everyone ultimately had their own place to return to.
Liu Chuanzong and Liu Chu depended on each other for life. Song Qiyuan could never let go of his blood kin, Song Jincheng. Nie Yinbing had a nephew and a sister to care for.
Only he was alone in all the world.
Where lies the peace of my heart?
To trust only himself—or because he could only trust himself?
He didn’t know.
Song Yuzhang finished the remaining half bottle of liquor.
At last, drunkenness found him. The world spun in his mind. He blinked and steadied his breathing. He wasn’t asleep, only closing his eyes to savor that blank, weightless dizziness.
He didn’t know how much time passed before he heard the sound of a door handle turning. He didn’t move.
Footsteps drew near, and someone sat down at his bedside.
It must be Yinbing, Song Yuzhang thought.
Nie Yinbing—what a strange man. Hardly said a word. Easy enough to swindle money from, but talking to him was pure torture.
Tall, with that severe face—every sentence that came out of his mouth had to be dissected and interpreted.
What the hell, was he some kind of living Buddha?
If not for the money, Song Yuzhang wouldn’t have bothered playing along.
In his drunken haze, his consciousness slipped through time; for a moment, he thought he was still back in those days betting on horses and cheating Nie Yinbing. Suddenly, he opened his eyes.
The hospital light was dim and yellow. Nie Yinbing’s face no longer looked so cold and hard.
Song Yuzhang raised a hand and lightly patted his cheek. “You mute or something? Say something.”
Nie Yinbing knew he was drunk.
Song Yuzhang seldom drank himself senseless. It almost never happened.
But when he did get drunk, he tended to talk nonsense.
Or perhaps it wasn’t nonsense—just revealing.
When they were alone, Nie Yinbing had seen him drunk once before. That time, Song Yuzhang didn’t seem to know who he was; he cursed nonstop, foul and vicious, every word dripping with vulgarity. Nie Yinbing had gone to military school and was no stranger to profanity—one of his classmates used “motherf***er” like punctuation—but still, Song Yuzhang’s behavior had shocked him.
Because normally, Song Yuzhang was the picture of elegance and composure before him.
But shock aside, Nie Yinbing had liked it.
“Fine,” Song Yuzhang muttered, patting his arm approvingly. “Don’t want to talk, don’t talk. Mute. Fine.”
Then his hand dropped, catching Nie Yinbing’s and rubbing the callus at his thumb. Suddenly, his voice softened. “Don’t shoot me.”
Nie Yinbing’s heart jolted. He turned his hand over and gripped Song Yuzhang’s tightly. “I won’t. I won’t shoot you.”
Song Yuzhang reclined against the pillow, which was puffed high behind his head like a cloud. His voice sank lower. “...Then hold me.”
Nie Yinbing sat still for a long time. He saw Song Yuzhang’s eyelashes flutter closed again, shadows heavy across his handsome face. Nie Yinbing didn’t have words for what he felt, but he knew the sound of it in his heart—it was pain.
He shifted up onto the bed and opened his arms, drawing Song Yuzhang into his embrace.
When Song Yuzhang was awake, he never allowed it, because what they were wasn’t something that could be embraced openly.
Nie Yinbing didn’t mind. Song Yuzhang did.
If one person minds, there’s nothing to be done.
Holding him, Nie Yinbing didn’t know whether time had stopped or was still moving—or if it was flowing backward, back to when they’d first met, when he’d smiled and said, “My name’s Zhao Jianfang,” and that one smile seemed to fill the whole room with fragrance.
Song Yuzhang drifted into a light doze. In that half-sleep, he suddenly jolted awake. The moment he opened his eyes, he felt the arms around him. Looking up, he saw a proud, chiseled jawline—and startled again. “Yinbing?”
Nie Yinbing lowered his head. From where Song Yuzhang lay, his face was upside down—first the lips, then the eyes. In Song Yuzhang’s gaze, all of him was turned upside down.
Song Yuzhang’s eyelashes fluttered shut, then he sat up from Nie Yinbing’s arms. The upside-down world righted itself at once.
“How long was I asleep?”
“Not yet midnight.”
“Oh.” Song Yuzhang’s voice was lazy. “Is Bonian awake?”
“He’s sleeping deeply tonight.”
“Good. Deep sleep is best.” Song Yuzhang stretched his long legs. “You should find a place to sleep too.”
Nie Yinbing’s arms were suddenly empty. They had never really held anything until Song Yuzhang leaned into them—only then had they felt whole. Now that he was gone, the emptiness returned.
The two sat quietly. Song Qiyuan was still sprawled beside them. Song Yuzhang looked down and said, “Let Third Brother have this spot. I’ll find somewhere else to sleep.”
He climbed out of bed, slipped his feet halfway into his leather shoes, and shuffled toward the door. The shoes slapped softly against the floor—like a child clumsily wearing an adult’s shoes.
Only after stepping outside the ward did he start to put them on properly. One hand braced against the doorframe, the other tugged at the heel of his shoe. Suddenly, the door opened from inside, and he stumbled backward into the room.
Nie Yinbing was whole again.
“Yinbing…” Song Yuzhang looked slightly embarrassed. “I’m just putting on my shoes.”
He was maybe thirty percent sober, sixty percent drunk—and clinging to that last sliver of clarity reminding him: Nie Yinbing was Nie Xueping’s brother. If he was still any kind of man, having wronged one, he should not wrong the other.
Nie Yinbing caught him with one arm, then bent down, bracing his waist to form a wall for Song Yuzhang to lean against. “Lift your foot.”
Song Yuzhang’s heel lifted slightly, his arm resting on Nie Yinbing’s shoulder. He murmured, “Yinbing, I’m fine. I can do it myself.”
Nie Yinbing stayed bent over, stubborn and silent.
“It’s New Year’s Eve,” he said.
A small ache rose in Song Yuzhang’s chest, and the alcohol stirred again with the feeling. He bent lower, half draping himself over Nie Yinbing’s back, and sighed softly. “Forget the shoes. You can carry me.”
Nie Yinbing hoisted him up.
Song Yuzhang’s arms hung loosely across his chest, his breath warm with wine. “Yinbing.”
“Mm.”
“I’m doing this for your own good. I won’t drag you down.”
Nie Yinbing’s tone was calm as water, both hands gripping the backs of Song Yuzhang’s thighs, his other hand still holding the shoes. “I know.”
When tipsy, Song Yuzhang might permit himself to hold a subordinate—but never more than that. At most, he would touch a cup, not a heart. He never said it, but both of them knew.
Nie Yinbing kicked open another ward door and laid Song Yuzhang gently on an empty bed.
Sitting there, Song Yuzhang’s thoughts drifted hazily. Nie Yinbing lifted his legs onto the bed. “Sleep. When you wake, it’ll be the New Year.”
Song Yuzhang let himself be arranged, the blanket pulled over him. Nie Yinbing sat down at the bedside.
Half-opening his eyes, Song Yuzhang looked at him. “You’re not going to sleep?”
“I’ll watch you sleep first. Then I’ll go.”
Song Yuzhang smiled faintly, eyes closing again. After a while, he murmured, “Is it New Year yet?”
Nie Yinbing glanced at his watch. “Five minutes left.”
Song Yuzhang lay there, his mind floating weightlessly. He thought he was cruel—but he had to be. Everyone who loved him came to a bad end. He no longer sought love. He already had fame and fortune; he’d drift through life one year at a time. Better to stay blissfully muddled.
“Yinbing,” he said softly, opening his eyes, a faint smile in them. “Lower your head.”
Nie Yinbing bent down slightly. Their lips brushed—light and warm, tasting faintly of wine, his and Song Yuzhang’s mixed together, lingering.
In the last moments of the old year, Song Yuzhang’s drunken heart softened, granting Nie Yinbing a fleeting dream.
He lay back again, but Nie Yinbing suddenly pulled him into a fierce embrace.
It was a firm, unyielding hug, filled with the certainty that this was how things were meant to be.
Song Yuzhang didn’t move. After a while, he heard Nie Yinbing’s quiet voice by his ear: “It’s the New Year.”
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