Sickly Bigshot CH 12 Drunkenness
Translated by The BL Muse (ko-fi)
The car was too quiet. Qin Yancheng didn’t speak, and Shi Zhou had nothing to say either, so he drowsily leaned against the window and fell asleep.
At some point, Qin Yancheng parked and turned off the engine but didn’t make a sound. Instead, he quietly turned to look at Shi Zhou:
Some people are born with faces that make them look younger than they are—Shi Zhou was one of them. At fifteen or sixteen, Qin Yancheng had probably resembled him somewhat.
Though his features carried a hint of sharpness, the overwhelming impression was one of youthful innocence.
His long hair covered half of his fair neck, his lashes lowered, giving him a pitiful, helpless air.
After a long pause, Qin Yancheng’s slender fingers silently clenched into fists—
That feeling of disgust, even hatred, suddenly surged and boiled in his heart again, like fire scorching the last few drops of water on parched land, emitting a dry, sizzling sound.
Qin Yancheng abruptly closed his eyes, as if his rationality was making a final struggle. He didn’t know why he kept Shi Zhou by his side, watching him over and over.
Perhaps it was a reminder—to never forget, to keep tearing off the scab and staring at his bloody wound. Or perhaps he was searching for some turning point that could only be found by traveling through time, hoping to see something different.
Returning to Qin Yancheng’s villa this time, Shi Zhou was already familiar with the place. The housekeepers came forward to take the luggage from the trunk upstairs, but they hesitated when facing Shi Zhou, unsure how to address him.
According to Aunt Zhang’s instructions, this was likely the "official wife"—but since he was a man, calling him "madam" felt awkward.
Noting their youth, Shi Zhou grinned, "Just call me Brother Shi." He knew everyone misunderstood his relationship with Qin Yancheng, but if asked to define it, even he wasn’t sure.
Sugar daddy and kept actor? That didn’t seem right either. Qin Yancheng was so handsome and self-disciplined—if this were a kept arrangement, it was hard to say who was getting the better deal.
The housekeepers obediently called him "Brother Shi," then asked Qin Yancheng, "Sir, will Brother Shi be sharing your room?"
Qin Yancheng, too lazy to explain that their relationship wasn’t like that, simply replied, "He’ll take the guest room next to the master bedroom."
Shi Zhou’s life now wasn’t much different from before transmigrating—still idle and carefree, even happier than before. No longer burdened with playing the responsible corporate heir, no longer exhausted from pretending to be diligent and reliable while enduring his father’s scoldings.
Lounging on the living room sofa, he scrolled through Weibo, studying the entertainment industry’s workings in this world. Qin Yancheng emerged from the gym, heading toward the bathroom.
Shi Zhou inwardly tsked. Here it comes—today’s dose of temptation.
At home, Qin Yancheng dressed more casually, especially after showers. When he worked in his study wearing just a robe, Shi Zhou—from his vantage point—could see everything clearly through the open door.
Putting down his phone, Shi Zhou, who’d initially been too shy to look, now shamelessly ogled.
How had I ever thought Qin Yancheng might be as frail as Lin Daiyu, easy to push down? (TN: a main character from the Dream of the Red Chamber who is known for being sickly and fragile).
This was clearly a beauty who looked slender clothed but was lean and toned underneath. His muscles were defined yet not bulky, the lines perfectly balanced—Shi Zhou itched to touch them.
As a gay man alone with such a stunning beauty, the air practically thrummed with temptation. Though he wasn’t insane enough to fall for a madman, that didn’t stop him from drooling over Qin Yancheng’s body daily.
His phone buzzed. Shi Zhou reluctantly tore his gaze from Qin Yancheng to check:
Another message from Shi Qing. After selling him out to loan sharks, he had the audacity to now claim credit—hinting that without him, Shi Zhou wouldn’t have caught Qin Yancheng’s eye.
Though Qin Yancheng wasn’t in the entertainment industry, he was a national heartthrob, his name legendary. But whether reporters or those who’d witnessed Shi Zhou leaving with him that night, no one dared make him gossip fodder.
The fact that Shi Zhou lived with Qin Yancheng wasn’t public. Shi Qing must have guessed.
Shi Zhou sent a "Fuck off" before deleting him.
Qin Yancheng, now dressed and drying his hair, fastened his cufflinks. "I’m going out tonight. Order whatever takeout you want."
Aunt Zhang had returned to her hometown yesterday, and the other housekeepers weren’t allowed to stay overnight, so no one was around to cook. This morning, Qin Yancheng had made breakfast himself.
Shi Zhou had been shocked—not only could Qin Yancheng cook, but the results were visually and gastronomically impressive.
Clearing his throat, Shi Zhou eyed Qin Yancheng by the entrance, then asked with dignity. "Sir, may I come with you?"
"Why?"
Previously, Qin Yancheng had turned a blind eye to Shi Zhou’s "Mrs. Qin" charade—it conveniently deterred admirers. But since it was fake, Shi Zhou’s hints and implications were one thing; actively following him around to assert "ownership" was pushing it.
Shi Zhou seemed to read his thoughts. After a stunned pause, his tone turned sharp, "Forget it. Just kidding. Who cares about your stupid dinner?!"
Qin Yancheng frowned, realizing his own assumption might’ve been unfair. As he pondered Shi Zhou’s words, his phone rang—the driver politely urging him to leave before traffic worsened.
Standing at the entrance putting on shoes, Qin Yancheng heard Shi Zhou, sulking on the sofa with a plush toy, suddenly snap, "Don’t drink."
His tone was cold, almost vicious with lingering irritation.
But after their time together, Qin Yancheng could now distinguish between Shi Zhou’s genuine concern and his acting.
Lowering his eyes, Qin Yancheng felt an odd, fleeting warmth—like a gentle touch—before replying neutrally, "Mnn."
Hearing the door close, Shi Zhou sighed, staring after him.
The day his brother died had been just like this:
He’d been watching TV on the sofa when his brother, at the door, said: "Sweetheart, don’t eat too much. Wait for me to bring you cake."
But Shi Zhou never got that cake. By the time he reached the hospital, his brother’s body was already cold.
Even three years later, he vividly remembered the film onscreen—Béla Tarr’s final work, its silence broken only by howling winds over desolation, a towering dead tree beside a crude hut, and a stubbornly resisting horse. Life collapsing, everything tending toward ruin.
Back then, Shi Zhou had thought it an ordinary day, dutifully analyzing the bleak, profound film for class.
Afterward, he never watched such movies again. Their oppressive weight filled him with dread, as though viewing them might summon sudden tragedy.
For years, he’d wondered—if he’d just said "Don’t drink," his brother, who doted on him, would’ve listened. Then the sudden illness wouldn’t have...
The real reason Shi Zhou wanted to tag along? He was broke.
Never managing a household, he’d had no concept of expenses, spending recklessly by habit. The original host had been bled dry by his leech of a brother, leaving little savings. Now, with barely enough for instant noodles, takeout wasn’t an option.
Borrowing from Qin Yancheng would make their relationship feel truly transactional. Joking about "sugar daddy" was one thing—making it real would complicate things.
Even now, the bastard had nearly accused him of ulterior motives.
After his noodles, Shi Zhou fiddled with the dishwasher, calculating Qin Yancheng’s return time, when the door lock clicked.
A voice asked, "President Qin, how does this lock work again?"
The next second, the fingerprint scanner beeped. Qin Yancheng’s voice, unusually rough and breathy, "Xiao Ni, thanks for today... You can go."
Xiao Ni, the driver, hesitated—with Qin Yancheng this drunk and no housekeeper around, could he manage alone?
Then a handsome, ponytailed man strolled out, drying his hands, and effortlessly steadied Qin Yancheng’s unsteady form.
Xiao Ni’s eyes widened. Someone else lives with President Qin?!
The face looked familiar—a celebrity! Rich men loved keeping starlets, but he’d never expected Mr. Qin to follow the trend.
Shi Zhou caught the strong scent of alcohol—mixed drinks, and a lot of them.
Though not one to hold grudges, Shi Zhou’s temper flared at the broken promise, "You full of shit? What did I say before you left?"
Most knew of Qin Yancheng’s stomach issues and avoided pressuring him to drink—unless he wanted to.
Xiao Ni thought, this doesn’t seem like a sugar baby’s attitude...
Not daring to linger, he bid Shi Zhou farewell and left. Having been Qin Yancheng's driver for several years, he knew that being drunk would not affect his memory. Although he might be drunk right now, he remembered everything clearly the next day.
Alone, Qin Yancheng staggered to the sofa and collapsed.
He wasn’t a rowdy or babbling drunk—if not for his unsteady gait and slurred speech, he might’ve seemed sober.
Shi Zhou ignored him, resuming his movie, though his gaze kept flickering over.
On the table sat a half-full glass of water—left by Qin Yancheng that morning, now ice-cold in the autumn chill.
Seeing him reach for it, Shi Zhou’s resolve wavered. Snatching it away, he snapped, "What water? Have more alcohol. I’ll open another bottle—drink yourself to death."
Drunk Qin Yancheng was entirely different—docilely accepting the warm water Shi Zhou brought.
Shi Zhou nudged Qin Yancheng’s long legs, "Go lie down in your room. Don’t hog the sofa. I'm trying to watch a movie here."
Qin Yancheng blinked dazedly at him before obediently rising and retreating to bed.
Peeking in later, Shi Zhou saw him curled uncomfortably, left arm pressed to his stomach, legs drawn up—clearly in pain.
Their eyes met. Shi Zhou rolled his dramatically before ducking out.
He decided to make milk to soothe Qin Yancheng’s stomach. As the pot simmered, the creamy aroma filled the kitchen. The familiar scene tugged at memories of doing the same for his own brother—
His eyes stung suddenly. A tear fell without warning.
Startled, he touched his cheek, then sniffled.
Damn it! This body’s tear ducts are too sensitive. He wasn’t that sad—three years had passed. He shouldn’t be crying this easily.
But once the first tear broke through, more followed like a breached dam.
Wiping his face, Shi Zhou thought, thank god no one saw this. How embarrassing—crying like a toddler.
Bringing the milk to Qin Yancheng, who sat up weakly, Shi Zhou’s red-rimmed eyes didn’t escape notice.
"You cried?" Qin Yancheng’s voice was hoarse from drink, laced with a lazy rasp.
Shi Zhou scrubbed at his face, flushing. "None of your business! Hurry and drink up!"
Qin Yancheng frowned, blinking slowly—an oddly innocent look. This endearing contrast made Shi Zhou laugh, his tone softening.
"Really, it’s nothing. Just overactive tear ducts. Better out than in, right? Sip slowly—don’t upset your stomach more."
After washing the cup, Shi Zhou heard retching. Rushing to the bathroom, he found Qin Yancheng slumped over the toilet, utterly spent.
Helping him rinse, Shi Zhou fetched painkillers at his weak request.
"These aren’t candy—they’re bad for you... How do you even function?"
He made him lie down and took out some stomach medicine for him to take. After waiting for a long time, there was still no relief. Qin Yancheng's face was still pale with pain.
"Did you buy fake medicine? I don't think it has ever worked."
Shi Zhou rolled up his sleeves. Time to showcase his limited culinary skills: congee.
After nearly destroying the kitchen, he produced a decent-looking porridge.
As he entered, Qin Yancheng, silent until now, murmured, "...Thanks."
Shi Zhou chuckled. So polite, even drunk. "Don’t thank me. You’re just lucky."
Had the scene not mirrored the past so closely, the pampered young master would’ve never bothered. Apart from Shi Li, no one could make him lift a finger.
He’d learned to make congee specifically for his brother—much to the hoisekeepers’ horror, who’d begged him to spare the kitchen (and their sanity).
Oh well. Qin Yancheng won’t remember this tomorrow anyway.
"Hey, no one dares pressure you to drink. Why torture yourself? And you mixed alcohols, didn’t you?" Shi Zhou had noticed Qin Yancheng’s disregard for his health before.
"Still hurting? Here, let me massage it."
Rubbing his hands, Shi Zhou seized the chance he’d longed for—to touch those perfect abs. Opportunities shouldn’t be wasted.
"No need." Qin Yancheng turned away, his slurred words oddly firm.
"I say you need it. My hands are warm—it’ll feel good."
Planning to change Qin Yancheng’s clothes anyway, Shi Zhou grabbed loungewear, then climbed atop him, swiftly undoing his buttons.
Too drunk and weak to resist, Qin Yancheng’s shirt was yanked open, revealing sculpted chest and abdomen.
"Tsk, I’ve been plotting this, finally I've..." Shi Zhou’s voice died.
On Qin Yancheng’s right upper arm were over a dozen horizontal scars—neat, evenly spaced, identical in length, as if meticulously carved.
The right side...
But aside from himself, who would dare harm this heir born with a golden spoon?
As Shi Zhou stared, Qin Yancheng’s eyes flew open—
Like a roused beast, he suddenly gripped Shi Zhou’s throat, flipping them with terrifying strength to pin him down!
Shi Zhou’s scream caught in his crushed windpipe. Qin Yancheng’s grip was iron—immobilizing, suffocating, his cervical vertebrae pressing dangerously on his trachea.
Qin Yancheng’s eyes burned crimson, filled with deranged fury—the look of someone ready to drag the world down with him. It was definitely not an expression worn by someone who was sane and sober.
"FUCK OFF!" Qin Yancheng roared, voice raw with rage. "DON’T YOU FUCKING TOUCH ME!"
"Qin... Yan...cheng..." Was he going to be strangled to death?
Darkness edged Shi Zhou’s vision. Gritting his teeth, he mustered all his strength—
—and kneed Qin Yancheng brutally in the stomach.
The force, enough to hurt his own knee, made Qin Yancheng gasp and collapse sideways, his grip slackening.