HRMCF Chapter 6

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🍋‍🟩 Completed Chapter

Shen Yan instantly and awkwardly exited the chat at 0.1 seconds.

[sy: See for yourself!]

[sy: I watched it already!]

[Son: ~]

From that simple tilde, Shen Yan could taste the mockery. He braced himself and sent another voice message.

"If you don’t want to watch, then don’t. I was just messing with you."

Fantasy is fantasy—he couldn’t really let it ruin a friendship in real life, could he?

People say to judge actions, not intentions. Shen Yan thought hard and really couldn’t find anything ambiguous about his usual interactions with Zhao Linsu.

Occasional lapses aside, he’d just chalk it up to understanding and tolerance.

Shen Yan stared at his phone. Suddenly, Zhao Linsu replied with a voice message.

"I'm watching it."

Zhao Linsu’s tone was lazy and languid. Shen Yan’s face burned.

Damn, he really is kinda creepy.

He tossed his phone aside and pulled a blanket over his face.

Dear God, if you’ve ever considered being merciful, please take this damn power back.

Or at least switch it to “the weakest healing ability.”

He’d use it to treat Zhao Linsu’s brain first.

Shen Yan tossed and turned in bed for half an hour, unable to sleep.

...He really wanted to know what Zhao Linsu thought of the video.

His hand, against his will, groped under the pillow for his phone.

Zhu Ningbo was still playing peacemaker, urging him and Zhao Linsu to make up quickly. Ten-year friendships were rare treasures. Zhu had never had one himself and, in a fit of emotion, sent countless crying emojis, saying it was all his fault and he could barely eat lunch alone in the cafeteria.

[sy: Don’t worry, there’s no way we’d fall out.]

[sy: Just bickering, don’t take it seriously.]

Kidding aside, that one ten-year friend was practically a half-brother.

No way he’d cut ties over something like this.

He could only hope the video would do the trick and smooth things over.

Staring at the chat history with Zhao Linsu, Shen Yan absentmindedly scrolled up.

They didn’t chat a ton, but they talked enough—not too much, not too little.

Mostly just to the point.

Complaining about solo-queue junglers, showing off new basketball shoes, inviting each other to anime conventions…

Just normal life sharing.

Unless he was deliberately being annoying, Zhao Linsu rarely said anything unnecessary.

He’d gone from replying with “oh,” “ok,” “sure,” or “idiot” to now just sending “1” as acknowledgment.

[Son: Here.]

[sy: Coming, one minute.]

[sy: MVP, 30 minutes, 17 kills. That’s what I call skill!]

[Son: 6.]

[sy: Come, I’ll carry you for a match.]

[Son: No.]

[Son: Tracking number?]

[sy: 0.0 What is it?]

[Son: A bomb.]

[sy: Damn, that badass?]

[sy: Got the oranges! Professor Lin is amazing. So delicious, my brother cried. Thank you, Su-ge. Grateful to Professor Lin.]

[Son: 1]

...

Shen Yan scrolled faster and faster. His eyes scanned the messages, and he didn’t spot a single thing even remotely suggestive.

He sighed and put his phone back under the pillow.

So it must’ve just been an accident. A coincidence.

It had been half an hour; Zhao Linsu must’ve finished watching by now, right?

No way anyone would seriously watch the whole thing start to finish.

Half an hour was more than enough to skip to the good parts.

Sssshtop—

Shen Yan clutched his head.

Stop thinking, stop thinking, stop thinking.

He couldn’t sleep at all, tossing and turning until who knows when. And even when he did sleep, it was restless. He woke up early, looking totally drained. His older brother nearly peed crooked seeing him like that in the bathroom.

“Bro, what happened to you? Got snatched by a demon last night?”

Shen Yan sluggishly turned on the faucet, glanced at his brother—who had yet another new Japanese name floating above his head—and felt oddly comforted.

“I’m fine.”

Luckily, there were no classes today. Shen Yan yawned through breakfast, shuffled back to bed in his slippers, and collapsed for a nap.

Right before dozing off, he struggled to grab his phone.

No new messages.

He slept again till 10 a.m., finally feeling a bit more human. First thing he did was check his phone again.

Still calm and quiet.

Shen Yan: I want a 500-word review!

Scratching the messy nest of hair on his head, he called Zhao Linsu.

It rang for at least a full minute before being answered.

“What?”

Shen Yan hesitated. “Last night... did you finish the video?”

Zhao Linsu chuckled—a low, deep sound. Shen Yan had never noticed before, but now even Zhao Linsu’s laugh gave him goosebumps.

“Yeah.”

“Good, right?”

“It was okay.”

Coming from Zhao Linsu, “okay” meant pretty good. Shen Yan perked up instantly. “Right? I knew you’d like it.”

“If there’s nothing else, I’m hanging up.”

“Wait, I’ll treat you to lunch.”

“Where?”

“Hotpot at the third floor of Baiyuan Mall.”

“What time?”

Shen Yan checked his phone. “Eleven. I’m starving.”

Baiyuan Mall was about the same distance from both their places. After getting ready, Shen Yan fed the dog a biscuit, grabbed a shared bike outside, and headed over.

It was still hot in September, the sun blazing. Shen Yan zipped under tree shade at 30 kph, wind in his face, mood carefree.

Soon, everything would be back to normal.

He’d picked the video at random, hadn’t even checked the girl’s name.

Some Japanese name.

The cover was cute and sweet; the art style looked good.

He didn’t know her before, but from today, she was officially his new goddess, his savior.

On a weekday at this hour, the hotpot place wasn’t busy. No queue outside. The friendly hostess led him in.

“Your friend is already here.”

Shen Yan already spotted Zhao Linsu, head down, looking at his phone.

Suddenly, he felt nervous.

He’d eaten with Zhao Linsu countless times, but never felt this jittery.

It was like opening a mystery box.

He didn’t even dare call out. Told the hostess he saw his friend already and let her leave.

Left alone, he walked slower and slower, dragging a few meters into a slow-motion red carpet stroll.

Maybe he really was moving too slowly, ‘cause people passing by started looking at him.

Embarrassed, he gritted his teeth, picked up the pace, and looked up—only to lock eyes with Zhao Linsu dead-on.

Zhao Linsu seemed amused, the corners of his eyes brimming with mischief. Judging by his expression, he’d seen Shen Yan’s entire awkward entrance.

Shen Yan froze.

Not because of how ridiculous he must’ve looked.

But because—

He wanted to cough up blood.

Still smiling? What the hell are you smiling at?

Who the hell watches a porno and ends up fantasizing about their best bro?!

Zhao Linsu, you’d better have a damn good explanation!

Shen Yan fought to control his expression and sat down stiffly.

Zhao Linsu was still smiling. Probably inherited it—his parents were both top-tier geniuses who couldn’t stand talking to normal people. So even if they socialized, the smiles were always either fake or sarcastic.

Unless something genuinely made him happy, that default “genius smirk” was polite yet subtly insulting.

Shen Yan slumped, keeping his eyes averted.

Out of sight, out of mind.

“Ordered yet?”

“I wouldn’t dare without the boss who’s paying.”

Shen Yan chuckled dryly. “My treat today. Order whatever you want.”

Zhao Linsu held the ordering pad in one hand, glancing at Shen Yan from time to time.

He rarely saw Shen Yan looking so out of it.

“Feeling sick?”

“No.”

“How about beef tripe?”

“Whatever.”

Zhao Linsu found it all a bit novel.

It felt like their roles had flipped.

That bored, indifferent tone was usually his thing. On Shen Yan, it was a red flag.

He pushed the ordering pad over. “You pick.”

Shen Yan gave him a side glance, and as soon as he saw the “Shen Yan” label above Zhao Linsu’s head, he nearly lost it.

“Did you actually watch that video or not last night?”

Zhao Linsu raised a brow. “So what if I did? So what if I didn’t?”

This was the start of an argument.

On the surface, it looked like Shen Yan was picking a fight—forcing someone to watch porn—but only Shen Yan knew why he was acting so weird.

Because Zhao Linsu was weird first.

Shen Yan clenched his fist under the table and muttered, “It wasn’t anything.”

What could it be? Ten years of friendship can’t be undone by “you fantasized about me.”

“I watched it.”

As Shen Yan was scrolling through the menu, Zhao Linsu spoke again in a calm voice, like giving a report. “The girl’s name is Saori. The guy’s Koichi. A few others I didn’t catch—some blond punks.”

Shen Yan jerked his head up.

“Shen Yan,” Zhao Linsu commented, “you’ve got some pretty heavy tastes.”

Shen Yan: “...”

Crap. He’d picked something random without even checking it.

Zhao Linsu took a sip of water and said lightly, “Didn’t expect I’d like something that messed up in your mind.”

Shen Yan: “...”

Well, halfway right. It was kinda messed up—but not that messed up.

Blushing, Shen Yan muttered, “Then I probably sent the wrong one. What I meant to send was 100% vanilla romance. Definitely sent the wrong link.”

“No worries.”

Zhao Linsu spun his glass, smiling faintly. “I actually liked it.”

Shen Yan: “= =”

Enough already.

If you liked it so much, why didn’t you… y’know… do something?

The hotpot was spicy. Shen Yan drowned his sorrow in meat, eating with gusto. He had this quirk: hotpot in summer, ice cream in winter—he loved going against the grain. It gave him weird satisfaction.

He finished with watermelon, polishing off two full plates, finally feeling relieved. “Mission complete.”

Zhao Linsu had stopped eating long ago. He didn’t eat much in general, didn’t have strong preferences. No matter what it was, he’d stop at 70% full.

Not like Shen Yan—who loved heavy, oily, salty flavors. Hotpot, BBQ, fried chicken—he always ate till he was blissfully stuffed.

Zhao Linsu sometimes got hungry just watching him eat. He’d even tried eating more to match—but it wasn’t fun. Watching Shen Yan eat was more enjoyable than eating himself.

Shen Yan paid the bill. Zhao Linsu didn’t even try to stop him—just scrolled on his phone, totally uninvolved.

Which was perfectly normal.

They’d agreed in advance. No need to fight over it.

Take turns. That’s what friends do.

So Shen Yan couldn’t understand—how had such a clean, pure friendship turned into something… weird?

He peeked at the name above Zhao Linsu’s head.

“You’ve been staring at me. What?”

Busted.

Shen Yan turned away, pretending to be cool. “Who’s staring? Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I’m driving. Want a ride back?”

“No need. I biked here.”

Zhao Linsu didn’t insist. He waved goodbye and headed to the underground garage.

The words “Shen Yan” above his head went down with him.

Shen Yan didn’t ride. He chose to walk home.

Still feeling all over the place.

Irritated.

He scratched his head. He was out of ideas.

Saying something would be weird. Not saying anything was also weird.

Didn’t see it. Doesn’t matter. Don’t overthink.

The nine-word mantra echoed again in his head.

Just pretend I never saw it.

That thought was strangely tempting.

Honestly, fantasies didn’t really mean anything. Tons of people fantasize about celebrities or athletes—so what?

If you dig deep, you probably won’t even find a reason. It’s just a mental hiccup.

Ignore it, and it won’t affect your life.

He and Zhao Linsu still acted totally normal together—so natural, so easy.

And hey, even if your best friend fantasizes about you once or twice—so what? Maybe Zhao Linsu didn’t even… y’know. Maybe it was just a fleeting thought. No big deal?

Thinking that way, Shen Yan suddenly found his perspective broadening.

Fantasy and reality weren’t the same. Totally different worlds. Keep them separate, and everything's fine.

Just like accepting his weird ability—he told himself:

“It’s really not a big deal. Life goes on.”

[Son: Ride together tomorrow?]

Looking at the message from Zhao Linsu, Shen Yan thought: As long as I’m not awkward, no one is.

He scratched his sun-warmed face and replied without hesitation:

“Yep!”