Chapter 232: Drunkenness

Chapter 232: Drunkenness

Song Xuan sat down beside the two of them.

She swirled her glass and said, "Mr. Jiang, let me introduce myself. My surname is Song. The land deal you finalized a couple of days ago was with my father. What a coincidence bumping into you here. I've heard so much about you—I'd love to have a drink with you."

Jiang Zhiyi nodded. "Sure."

Song Xuan asked, "What would you like to drink?"

Jiang Zhiyi replied calmly, "Ladies first. You choose."

Song Xuan said, "Alright. I happen to have ordered a bottle of Rémy Martin cognac. How about this?"

Jiang Zhiyi nodded.

Song Xuan asked, "With ice?"

Jiang Zhiyi: "Your call."

He moved with elegant precision, his hands folded neatly on the table, his posture straight as a rod.

Song Xuan signaled the waiter to bring the wine. Soon, the server arrived with an ice bucket, inside which rested a bottle of caramel-colored liquor nestled among the ice.

She took two champagne glasses, popped the cork one-handed, and slowly poured the wine until the glasses were half full.

Wen Xian’s eyebrow twitched.

The drink was light and refreshing, with hints of cinnamon, hazelnut, and fig, its slightly sweet hue making it seem harmless. But Wen Xian had tried it before—he knew this was a genuine, over-40%-proof liquor.

And Jiang Zhiyi couldn’t even handle beer.

Wen Xian opened his mouth, wanting to suggest they just drop it and have something lighter—maybe some beer? Lager, pilsner, wheat beer—anything lighter. Or even fruit wine. Something more suitable for a girl.

But Song Xuan had already chuckled and finished pouring both glasses. "Mr. Jiang sure knows how to take action."

Jiang Zhiyi reached out and took the champagne glass in his hand.

His grip was picture-perfect, his posture graceful and poised, his back straight as bamboo. For a second, Wen Xian thought he was seeing President Shen from the business world of his past life.

Wen Xian: "Hold on, I—"

Song Xuan: "Here's to you, Mr. Jiang."

She took a large sip first.

Song Xuan was a banquet drinker, used to hard liquor—champagne was nothing to her. Right now, she wasn’t here to savor the taste but to see how much he could handle. In one go, she knocked back nearly half the glass.

Sitting beside Jiang Zhiyi, Wen Xian could only see his throat move as he swallowed, then raise his glass in response—matching her drink measure for measure.

Wen Xian: "..."

He wanted to say, "Wait, hold up—we’ve got things to do later..." but Song Xuan raised her glass again. "Nice one, Mr. Jiang. You’ve got guts."

Jiang Zhiyi didn't bat an eye. Whatever Song Xuan drank, he matched.

Wen Xian: "..."

His gaze flickered between Song Xuan and Jiang Zhiyi’s faces, and he felt strangely disconnected.

Jiang Zhiyi and Song Xuan seemed to have created their own little bubble. Despite Wen Xian being the host of the gathering, he felt inexplicably excluded by an invisible aura. The two of them were going all out, as if competing against someone—though it was unclear against whom.

Wen Xian, unbothered, simply began eating.

But when Song Xuan finished her first glass and was about to pour a second for herself and Jiang Zhiyi, Wen Xian had to intervene.

One glass was already about all Jiang Zhiyi could handle—two would likely make him sick.

So Wen Xian snatched the glass from him. Jiang Zhiyi went still, then was pinned down into his seat by Wen Xian’s hand.

The grip was strong—he couldn’t break free, so he could only stay seated.

Wen Xian pushed the Rémy Martin back toward Song Xuan. “Alright, Song Xuan, your boyfriend’s still waiting for you over there. You’re really going to leave him hanging?”

Song Xuan tutted and glanced back. Sure enough, a guy who looked like a student was watching them. She stood up. “Fine, I’ll head out first. Enjoy your evening, President Jiang.”

Wen Xian’s expression darkened. *What kind of farewell is that? We haven’t even confessed yet—can we not jump to conclusions?* He turned to Jiang Zhiyi, ready to explain, only to find the young president still sitting perfectly composed, his posture elegant and dignified, his head slightly tilted toward Song Xuan’s now-empty seat—as if listening to an invisible speaker.

—There was no one there.

Wen Xian: “…”

He tapped Jiang Zhiyi’s hand. “Zhiyi?”

Jiang Zhiyi, hearing the voice, offered a faint smile at the empty air and nodded solemnly, as if attending a formal meeting.

Wen Xian: “…”

Great. He’s wasted.

He tugged lightly at Jiang Zhiyi’s fingers. “Zhiyi, are you with it? Time to go home. Can you walk?”

If he wasn’t lucid, Wen Xian might have to carry him home—just like when they got married in their previous life.

But with the revolving restaurant bustling with people, Jiang Zhiyi would probably be embarrassed as hell once he sobered up tomorrow.

Jiang Zhiyi slowly turned his head toward Wen Xian. “Mm.”

He stood up.

Wen Xian, worried he might stumble, quickly reached out to steady him—only for his fingers to meet a strange feeling. Before he could react, Jiang Zhiyi had slotted their fingers together, gripping tightly.

Jiang Zhiyi’s eyes were slightly lowered, making them appear narrower from Wen Xian’s perspective, adding an unexpected chill to his demeanor.

It was the same look Jiang Zhiyi had given his opponents during negotiations in their previous life.

Jiang Zhiyi asked, “Where are we going?”

Wen Xian laughed softly. “Where else, President Jiang? We’re in a foreign country—of course it’s back to the hotel… Hey, hey, Zhiyi, you—”

Something in his words must have triggered Jiang Zhiyi. Before Wen Xian could finish, Jiang Zhiyi was on his feet in an instant and strode toward the exit, still gripping Wen Xian’s hand. Caught off guard, Wen Xian was nearly yanked off balance before being dragged all the way to the elevator.

Wen Xian: “…”

He was both annoyed and amused. *So Jiang Zhiyi has awful drunk behavior—he drags people around when drunk.* Not wanting to argue with a drunkard, he let himself be led to the parking lot, where he carefully settled Jiang Zhiyi into the passenger seat and fastened his seatbelt. Then, with an amused smile, he looked at Jiang Zhiyi’s hand, still clutching his sleeve. “Let go, President Jiang. I need to drive you back to the hotel.”

Jiang Zhiyi seemed to ponder for a moment—how much he actually understood was unclear—but he released his grip.

Wen Xian shook his head and started the car. In the backseat lay his guitar and a small cake wrapped in an ice pack. Inside the cake was a little box—his confession gift. This was supposed to be a perfectly planned love confession, but…

Wen Xian turned his head and glanced at the tipsy companion beside him.

Jiang Zhiyi’s bearing was flawless. He sat steadily in his seat, dressed appropriately and neatly, even his hair perfectly combed, revealing his dignified profile. At first glance, you’d never guess he was drunk.

Unfortunately, his eyelids drooped, and his gaze was unfocused. Wen Xian figured that if Jiang Zhiyi could still tell up from down right now, it would be a miracle. No way was tonight’s confession happening now.

He sighed to himself, thinking, *Next time.*

All that work hiding the gift in the cake, just to have to fish it out later.

Though drunk, Jiang Zhiyi was at least cooperative. He didn’t put up much of a fight on the way, letting Wen Xian guide him into the hotel, onto the elevator, and finally into the room.

Drunk people should sleep, but Jiang Zhiyi was still wearing his suit and tie, with pointed loafers on his feet—no way he could just be tossed into bed like that. Wen Xian sighed, resigned. “I’ll get you a towel.”

A quick face wipe, then strip him down and tuck him into bed.

Once he had the plan set, Wen Xian turned toward the bathroom. But as soon as he moved, Jiang Zhiyi shadowed him.

The sink space was tight. With Jiang Zhiyi insisting on tagging along, the two of them standing there made it feel cramped. Wen Xian nudged him. “Zhiyi, go lie down on the bed first. Wait till I grab the towel.”

Jiang Zhiyi shook his head.

Wen Xian pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just a sec. Go wait on the bed—just a little bit.”

Drunk people weren’t the best listeners, but they weren’t impossible to manage either. Like a voice assistant stuck on a few commands, Jiang Zhiyi paused, then turned and walked away. Wen Xian peeked through the door crack and saw him obediently lying on the bed.

“Seriously…” Wen Xian wiped his brow, thinking how unpredictable life was. His carefully planned confession had gone completely sideways. He wrung out two damp towels and pushed open the bathroom door.

Outside, it was pitch black.

Jiang Zhiyi had turned off the lights at some point.

Wen Xian’s steps faltered. The boozy scent from dinner still hung in the air, filling the room with a warm, heady buzz that felt oddly intimate. The large bed was right there, the blankets soft as clouds, and the lover he hadn’t touched in years lay on it. Wen Xian could even hear his light breathing.

Hotel. Bed. Drunk. Darkness.

Put those four together, and anyone’s mind would wander.

But in this life, they weren’t officially together yet. Wen Xian wasn’t about to take advantage.

Lowering his gaze, he sat on the edge of the bed. Not keen on fumbling around in the dark, he simply held the towel in midair. “Zhiyi, let me wipe your face.”

Before he could finish, he felt a touch on his wrist—as if someone had pressed their face against the towel. Wen Xian chuckled softly and began wiping gently.

Once that was done, next came the clothes—another hassle. Wen Xian fumbled in the dark, finding the buttons of the suit and the belt. Unable to see clearly, he struggled to undo them, his fingertips brushing against something that made Jiang Zhiyi’s breathing slow—until Wen Xian couldn’t hear it anymore.

A formal suit had layers upon layers. Wen Xian finally managed to peel off the jacket and vest, leaving only a fitted shirt. His fingers skimmed Jiang Zhiyi’s collarbone by accident.

The sensation of skin against his fingertips made Wen Xian pause before he subtly withdrew his hand.

—He wasn’t about to go digging through Jiang Zhiyi’s things, so without clean underclothes on hand, he had to let him make do with what he was wearing.

The trousers were easier—just undo the belt, and they slid right off. Wen Xian didn’t linger on his legs, quickly tucking him in and pulling up the blanket. “You must be exhausted from all this. Get some rest. I’ll head out now.”

—He still had to put the cake in the fridge and dig out the gift before the ice pack melted and the cake spoiled.

Having done everything he needed, Wen Xian got up to leave. But the moment his backside left the bed, Jiang Zhiyi suddenly spoke. “Are you leaving?”

Wen Xian let out a wry laugh, surprised the drunk cat could still talk. He smiled. “Of course, Mr. Jiang. What would people say if I crashed in your room this late—mmph—”

A sudden weight pressed down on his shoulders, and in a dizzying whirl, Wen Xian found himself flung backward onto the bed. His fingers were forcibly pried apart, interlaced with another’s, then pinned above his head. His lower back pressed against the unyielding bed frame, and then—a sudden pressure on his thighs as something soft and yielding settled onto his lap.

Wen Xian let out a sharp hiss. In the darkness, he could make out the looming shadow above him.

It was Jiang Zhiyi.

He was only wearing a shirt, half on—its hem barely reaching mid-thigh, the rest of his body bare. With every slight movement, Wen Xian could feel the sensation all too clearly.

Wen Xian sucked in a breath, thinking, *Don’t treat me like I’m made of stone.*

The drunk’s body burned like a furnace, as if he saw Wen Xian as a refuge from the heat. He nestled his cheek against Wen Xian’s shoulder, pressing his entire body close.

Wen Xian: “Hey, hey, hey—wait a second!”

His hands were still restrained above his head by Jiang Zhiyi, and for some reason, the drunk had an iron grip. Wen Xian couldn’t break free immediately, so he twisted sideways, using his shoulder to push against Jiang Zhiyi. Despite being on top, he now curled up awkwardly, like a flustered bride. “Zhiyi, calm down. I really need to go—”

Jiang Zhiyi whispered, voice thick, “You’re leaving?”

Wen Xian thought, *So you* can *talk? Then why are you still pinning me down?* He struggled to sit up. “Yes, so get off me first, and I’ll come back tomorrow morning—mmph—”

The rest of his words were swallowed as Jiang Zhiyi kissed him—messy, unpracticed, and utterly inexperienced. He kissed like he was trying to suck on a piece of candy, teeth clashing, lips smearing, tongues tangling wetly. He nuzzled and licked like a needy cat, leaving Wen Xian’s lips slick and tender. The scent of brandy from Jiang Zhiyi’s mouth flooded his senses, and whether from lack of oxygen or lingering intoxication, Wen Xian found himself unable to pull away.

Though far from a virgin, Wen Xian’s kissing skills were practically nonexistent. In their past life, they had never kissed—Jiang Zhiyi never initiated, and Wen Xian assumed their marriage was political—even their coupling was transactional. So now, this supposedly experienced man was left stunned and overwhelmed, outmatched by Jiang Zhiyi’s clumsy but feverish attention.

Finally, Jiang Zhiyi released his hands. As the kiss deepened, Wen Xian closed his eyes slightly, his hands naturally settling on Jiang Zhiyi’s waist.

The moment his palms made contact, he froze again.

Jiang Zhiyi was fully seated on his lap, and as Wen Xian’s hands slid under the shirt, they inevitably brushed against his thighs—where he discovered Jiang Zhiyi was wearing shirt stays.

A suit accessory meant to keep the shirt taut and wrinkle-free, the stays were two bands cinched snugly around the upper thighs, digging into plush, sheltered skin that had never weathered sun or wind. It felt like warm silk beneath his fingertips.

Wen Xian hastily withdrew his hands, returning them to Jiang Zhiyi’s waist.

He was breaking a sweat.