MCFEM C65

Chapter 65 – Happy Birthday

Countless times had Song Yinxing imagined such a scene.

With every passing night, as he counted down the seconds to midnight, he had secretly longed for someone to open the door of his chamber, to push forth a cream cake crowned with flickering candles, and to bestow upon him that simple benediction—Happy Birthday.

Yet why, indeed, should one celebrate one’s own birth?

The day of his coming into the world was no national holiday, no remembrance of some heroic uprising or revolution, no moment that had changed the course of mankind.

It was but an ordinary day, fortunate only when it chanced to fall upon a Saturday or Sunday, and otherwise swiftly swallowed by school.

And thus, again and again, he had sought to convince himself with such reasonings.

Until, in that instant, when he beheld Gu Yang before him, he heard, faint yet distinct, the crumbling of his own heart’s defenses.

So—he had always cared, after all.

Gu Yang, seeing him stand motionless, rose upon his toes to meet his gaze. “Do you not wish me to come in?”

Like a puppet wound too tight, Song Yinxing moved only when nudged. He hurried to fetch slippers—but Gu Yang wore high boots, and his hands were burdened with the cake, unable to undo them.

In a strange daze, Song Yinxing half-knelt, meaning to remove them for him.

Gu Yang drew back his foot. He bore no such peculiar taste, and could not help but complain: “Have you not the sense to take the cake from me first?”

At that, Song Yinxing started as though waking from a dream, stood hastily, and accepted the cake from his hands.

It was but a small, four-inch cream cake, upon which crooked yellow icing spelled happy birthday.

“At this hour most bakeries are closed. To find even this one was fortune enough—you must not despise it.”

The long ride through the night air had left Gu Yang’s words tinged with a faint nasal note.

“How could I ever despise it?” Song Yinxing’s voice was hoarse, his gaze clinging to Gu Yang as though magnet to steel.

Though it was but his second visit, Gu Yang at once recognised the little stool he had used before and seated himself.

“You ought to be at your birthday feast,” Song Yinxing murmured. “How has it ended so soon?”

“A trifle of an incident,” Gu Yang replied, lips quirking at the recollection. “It ended regardless. Else you might have witnessed quite the dog-fight for entertainment.”

“That Ye Chen should choose this very day to drug me—after three years as classmates! How excessive indeed.” He spoke with airy complaint.

Song Yinxing’s heart clenched at once. “You are unharmed?” He scanned him anxiously.

“No matter. I remained in my chamber, and he contrived to put himself in hospital.”

In his former life, Song Yinxing had known but one tale of Ye Chen—how, in a quarrel with Lu Ran, he had pushed him down the stairs, leaving him grievously injured and causing a year’s suspension. Later, under Lu family’s pressure, Ye Chen had left Guanli Middle School.

The clock upon the wall marked 11:58.

With each tick of the second hand, Song Yinxing’s own heart beat in time.

He opened his mouth, but as though struck by sudden remembrance, hurried to his chamber, fetched a small gift-box from his drawer, and held it forth.

“Happy Birthday.”

At the final breath of the day, he at last spoke the words to Gu Yang himself.

Seated calmly, Gu Yang received the box, opened it, and found within a necklace: a slender chain of purest silver, and a pendant of sea-blue semi-gemstone.

“A gift—for me?”

Song Yinxing nodded, his eyes never leaving him.

Gu Yang lifted the chain. Silver links coiled about his fingers; the blue stone swayed gently, casting delicate sparks of light upon his tranquil features.

“How fair it is.” He tilted his head, grey eyes like clouds lit before a storm, the gem’s light flitting across. “Will you place it upon me?”

Song Yinxing’s heart thundered, yet his face showed none of it. Wordless, he took the chain, unfastened it, and bent low. His arms circled Gu Yang in the guise of fastening it about his neck.

His nose brushed past the other’s hair, catching the faintest fragrance—floral, with a trace of dampness.

This must be the least costly gift Gu Yang had ever received, Song Yinxing thought.

“I shall strive to earn more,” he whispered, lips near his ear, “and each year henceforth, I will give you better.” His tone was grave, solemn.

“Why each year?” Gu Yang asked suddenly.

As if scalded, Song Yinxing drew back, at a loss.

Gu Qingxu’s words rang like a spectre—was it truly thus? That high school would be their last meeting ground?

Gu Yang’s eyes were lowered, his lashes veiling whatever lay within.

Time stretched unbearable. Each tick of the clock was torment, while before him sat one who might pronounce judgment like a god.

At last Gu Yang lifted his gaze, hand rising, fingers curled save for his little finger extended. “Very well. Then let us make it a promise, for every year.”

Song Yinxing could not name the look upon his face, but he knew he would never forget this day.

Like the scars once branded upon him, though now gone, their pain was unforgettable.

Cautiously he hooked his little finger around Gu Yang’s. The latter shook it lightly, as a child might, and sealed it with a press of his thumb.

Afterwards Gu Yang exhaled long, as though this simple act had drained all his strength.

“Midnight has passed,” he murmured. “Then it falls to me to wish you a happy birthday.”

“Alas, I have no gift prepared.” His weariness softened his voice further. “I did not expect you to have brought one—having not even joined my birthday feast.”

“This cake is gift enough,” Song Yinxing answered. “The finest I have ever received.”

“The finest…” Gu Yang repeated, his hand still linked with his. “Then each year, I too shall gift you something. That is my promise.”

Where their skins touched, warmth grew near unbearable. Song Yinxing nodded faintly. In his heart, this mutual vow was a chain binding them together.

No longer could he deny his own desire.

He wished to remain ever at Gu Yang’s side, to fill his gaze, to breathe with him always.

His eyes clung to him, tracing every movement, every strand of hair.

Within him had always yawned a great hollow, a barren plain swept by wind, never filled.

“How like a dream this is,” Song Yinxing whispered.

“Why so? Have you not yet awakened?”

“No.” He shook his head. “I only cannot fathom why you aid me so often.”

As he spoke, his hand tightened unconsciously.

Would it not be easier to feign ignorance, to cherish the moment without probing its cause?

But he had ever been stubborn, unable to rest until he reached the root—perhaps the very flaw that doomed him in his former life.

Yet he asked, because it was Gu Yang.

“When I was small,” Gu Yang began, “I once played in the street. A fortune-teller called me over, bade me show my hand.

“He told me that in a past life I had been a man of virtue, aiding all, yet dying in sorrow for failing to fulfil a beloved’s last wish. Thus I had been reborn to continue my will.

“He paused then, saying he would reveal the rest for fifty yuan. I was about to pay, but my nurse dragged me off, calling him a charlatan.”

“…” Song Yinxing recalled his own encounter with such frauds—demanding only five yuan, perhaps judging by appearance.

That man had prattled of calamity to come, insisting on giving him a name for protection. He had fled rather than pay.

Such tricks ensnared only children and the superstitious. To believe them was folly.

“But I did not think so,” Gu Yang said, smiling faintly. “How could she be certain he was not a hidden master?”

Song Yinxing silently withdrew his thought.

“Alas, those around me never seemed in want of aid. Wealth solves ninety percent of life’s ills. So I was left to fancy myself a knight-errant like Don Quixote, tilting at windmills, waging war on flocks of sheep.”

Until his mother’s death cut his last tie to the world.

He still did not comprehend why he could see the story of this world as a book.

But so it was. He had seen all, learned all.

At first it was but curiosity, to stand aloof and watch.

But then—something cracked, and light seeped through. He saw himself, he saw mankind.

And from within welled a deep compassion—not weakness, but a silent river flowing through his soul.

At last he could act.

Song Yinxing had received an answer—strange, elusive, yet still an answer.

In his heart it was as though struck by a cascade of blossoms at curtain’s fall.

For him, it was enough.

Gu Yang had come toward him. Now, it was his turn to go forward, no matter the cost.

“Have you a lighter?” Gu Yang asked, unwrapping the lotus-shaped candle that came with the cake.

Song Yinxing fetched one from the kitchen. Flame blossomed; the lotus spread its petals.

He extinguished the lights, leaving only the flicker of candle-fire, and the tinny melody of Happy Birthday played forth.