The Fake Son Wants to Live [BL]-Chapter 110 - Sleeping beauty

Bian gazed down at the unconscious Farian, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. The fire’s glow lit the man’s face—sharp nose, narrowed eyes that even now seemed lined with a strange kohl-like darkness, not drawn on, but a part of him. The lines curved naturally, elegantly, like some ancient celestial mark bestowed at birth.

He was beautiful.

Not the gentle kind of beauty, but something otherworldly. Intimidating. Regal.

Bian stared, lips parting slightly. "This guy..." he murmured, his thoughts spiraling. Maybe I can charm him... win him over, use his influence.

But the moment the thought passed, Bian caught his reflection in the cracked glass of a scorched metal beam.

He looked... atrocious.

His hair was matted with dirt and blood, his face smudged, his arm hung at an awkward angle. His shirt was gone, replaced by bandages and makeshift wrappings, and his pants were torn and burned at the hems.

No one would fall for someone like this. Not even out of pity.

He clenched his jaw, swallowing down the bitter taste of frustration. "Fine... then I’ll sell pity. If I can’t seduce him, I’ll make him need me. That’s all I have left."

The Farian shifted slightly, and panic jolted through Bian. He quickly moved to lift him again, teeth grit against the pain in his arm. The man was heavier than he looked—solid, strong, muscle packed into his tall frame. But Bian wouldn’t give up. He crouched low, shifted the man’s weight onto his back, and stood shakily.

Climbing out of the crater was a battle.

On the first try, he slipped—rocks skidding beneath his boots, the Farian nearly falling off his back.

The second time, he got a bit further before a gash across his leg gave out, sending him crashing to his knees.

"Damn it—damn it—" he gasped, hot tears stinging his eyes.

On the third try, with blood seeping from his scrapes and his vision swaying, he made it. Hand over hand, foot by bruised foot, Bian dragged them both to the rim.

At the top, he collapsed with the Farian still on his back, gasping. The heat of the fires still licked at the edges of the ruined school, but here—here they were safe.

He couldn’t waste time.

Bian set the Farian down gently on a patch of grass and turned toward the charred remains of the campus.

"There’s got to be a bathroom around here. A student one," he muttered. "He can’t wake up before I find it."

He ran, weaving through scorched walls and the ghosts of classrooms. Ash stuck to his skin. The tiles were cracked, pipes hissing steam, but eventually he found the hallway where the bathrooms were.

He flung the door open and checked every stall, tearing through the space.

Nothing.

Desperation clawed at him.

He turned to leave, but something above glinted faintly in the dull orange light. He looked up.

A vent.

Half-hanging, warped from the heat—but inside, something wrapped in white cloth was wedged tightly in the grating.

Bian’s heart skipped a beat.

He scrambled up onto the sink, fingers trembling as he reached. The metal groaned beneath his weight, but he grabbed the cloth and yanked it down.

He unwrapped it with shaking hands.

Inside was a small green stone—rough, uncut, the shape of a warped teardrop. But it shimmered like starlight.

The gem.

It looked like an uncut amethyst, but the color was wrong. It had a pulse to it, a living breath. This was no ordinary jewel—it was the one the Farian had hidden.

Bian stared at it, overcome.

"This... this is it," he breathed.

He clutched the gem to his chest, a sob of victory rising in his throat. His thoughts scattered like sparks: safety, status, a future.

He would never be weak again.

Quickly, he found an old broken chain hanging from a locker handle and threaded it through the gem, then looped it around his neck. He tucked it under his tattered clothes, close to his heart.

No one would take it from him.

He stepped out of the bathroom into the dim, smoke-filled air, the gem warm against his skin, and the unconscious alien still where he left him.

Bian smiled, small and trembling.

"This time... it’s my turn to rise."

The sky was shifting.

Daybreak was coming down like a curtain—and with it, a cold wind stirred.

Bian shivered.

The Farian was still unconscious, lying beside him on the cracked floor of what was once a classroom. Faded diagrams clung to blackened walls, and shattered glass from blown-out windows glinted like frost. Bian stared down at the alien figure—gold-streaked hair fanned out like threads of sunlight, pale skin dulled by ash and injury, his form as still and silent as the dead.

But he wasn’t dead.

He was breathing.

Slowly. Softly.

Bian gently brushed a lock of hair from the man’s closed eyes and whispered, "You’ll wake up soon, won’t you? Just... not yet."

Then he looked down at himself.

He grimaced.

His skin was still caked in blood and soot, his hair a tangled mess, and he was shirtless, wrapped only in torn bandages and sweat. No matter how hard he worked, no Farian—especially one that looked like him—would look twice at someone like this.

"Shit," he hissed under his breath, standing up with a jolt. "He can’t see me like this!"

Leaving the Farian lying safely inside the half-intact classroom, Bian sprinted back through the halls—back to the bathroom where he had found the gem.

Surprisingly, against all odds, one of the taps still worked. Cold water poured out with a gasp.

Bian wasted no time.

He splashed water onto his face, scrubbing away dried blood, dirt, and ash. His cuts stung, but he grit his teeth and scrubbed harder, letting the pain anchor him to something. Something real. Something alive.

He peeled off his pants and used the water to wash his arms, legs, even his neck—until the water running down his skin was clear again. When he looked up, gasping, he met his own reflection in a shard of broken mirror.

There were bruises everywhere. His left eye was slightly puffy, his lower lip split, and a line of dried blood traced the edge of his ear. His whole body screamed exhaustion and abuse. frёeweɓηovel.coɱ

And yet—

His face, stripped of grime, still held that same delicate structure. His lashes were long, his features refined, and with every wound and bruise layered over them, he looked—

"Pretty," Bian whispered. "Pitiful."

It was the kind of face that made people look twice. The kind of face someone would want to save.

A small smile crept over his lips.

"This is enough."

He dug through the lockers until he found an old gym uniform—soft black pants and a faded white T-shirt. The shirt smelled faintly of dust and detergent, but it was clean. He pulled it over his head and slipped into the pants, ignoring the way the fabric scraped over his wounds. He tousled his hair a little, then paused to study himself again.

Clean. Presentable.

Wounded, yes—but vulnerable and appealing.

Just what he needed to be.

Bian ran.

His heart beat in time with his footsteps as he rushed back through the burnt hallways, past crumbling desks and silent walls, until he burst into the classroom again.

The Farian was still there.

Still asleep. Still breathing.

The light outside was shifting into cool blue and soft gold now, peeking through the ruined window frames, catching the golden streaks in the Farian’s hair.

Bian dropped to his knees beside him and exhaled, chest aching.

He took the Farian’s hand—carefully—and squeezed it gently.

"When you wake up," he whispered, "I’ll be the first thing you see. And you’ll remember me."

He smiled, bruised lips trembling.

"Sleep well, beautiful."

And in the quiet glow of dawn, Bian waited—beside the only person who might be the key to reclaiming everything he ever lost.