kiss
Wanyang, Baisha Island.
A black and white three-story villa, blending Nanyang-style arcades and Victorian arcades, stands in a spacious and tranquil corner of the island.
Milo took a bunch of keys out of his pocket and said to Blaise beside him, "Now, you are the host, and I am the guest."
Since Sigon left, Milo stopped his business and started thinking about the island villa he had booked. He asked Blaise if he wanted to go to the island for a few days, and Blaise, as expected, came along.
Blaze took the key and looked at Milo with some uncertainty, not understanding his meaning for a moment.
"Don't you want it?" Milo pretended to snatch it. "Give it back to me if you don't want it."
Blaze raised one arm above Milo's head, and with the other arm easily wrapped around Milo's chest.
Milo was unusually embarrassed, and he pushed Blaze away.
"I've prepared a gift for you." Milo walked towards the entrance and gently lifted a hidden compartment.
The lights came on, and in the dark compartment were neatly stacked weapons and ammunition, all types complete and well-supplied.
Blaise looked at Milo with some surprise.
“You don’t need anything else, these are at least practical.” Milo didn’t say it explicitly, but he had consulted with Lao Ruan beforehand about which models were more suitable for Blaze.
Blaise scanned the armory, picking out a Glock 43X from the pistols and a decent Remington 870 shotgun. He then handed both guns to Milo.
Milo frowned: "What? I don't know how to use it."
Blaise gestured: I told you, I would teach you.
Milo recalled that Blaise had indeed said something like that to him at Baker Manor. But he had taken it as nonsense and never thought it would come true. Looking at Blaise's expression, it seemed he was serious.
Milo didn't mince words and asked, "Which is harder?"
Different guns require different training methods; Milo's question was rather amateurish. Blaise didn't correct him, echoing Milo's statement: "The bigger ones are harder."
Milo took the Remington 870: "Then I'll learn this."
The two walked to the private lawn outside the villa, and Blaise gestured: The echo here is more complex than in the indoor shooting range, so it's normal to miss.
Blaise pulled out a rappelling rope, tied it to Milo's right wrist, and attached the end of the rope to an iron pillar. He explained: "To make the bullet move in the direction of your muscles, you need to use your neck to rotate your shoulder joint."
Milo pulled the trigger as instructed, but the bullet was deflected by the crosswind and missed the target. Milo squinted slightly, showing no sign of frustration, and adjusted his posture to try again.
Blaze kicked away the empty shell casings that had rolled to his feet, attached a wind direction ribbon to the shotgun barrel, and pushed the butt against Milo's right groin, gesturing: Imagine you're skiing, calm your breathing, stand still, don't sway.
Three seconds later, another shot rang out, and the target shattered.
Blaise praised him generously: "Very good, you're very smart."
Milo had witnessed Blaze's aerial shooting of drug dealers from a helicopter. The distance and speed were worlds apart from his current gun. But Milo didn't think he was bad. He had a hand injury; Old Ruan had taught him to shoot several times, but each attempt ended in failure due to inaccurate aim or excessive wrist pain. Blaze's method had significantly reduced his pain; hitting a stationary target was already a miracle. If he continued practicing like this, perhaps one day he would actually be able to handle a gun. As a beginner, he wasn't really suited to using a shotgun; there were practically no situations where he could use it. Milo was simply waiting for Blaze to correct his mistakes.
Sure enough, Blaise fiddled with the target for a while and then tactfully suggested: You could try a small handgun.
A smile crept across Milo's face, but when he looked at Blaise, he said aloud, "I'm not learning anymore."
Blaze was taken aback, not understanding the sudden change of expression: Why?
"My hands hurt, I'm tired, I need to rest." Milo left Blaze standing there, turned and left. "Stay there, don't follow me."
Blaze watched Milo leave, a hint of confusion and helplessness in his eyes, but he remained where he was, bending down to pick up the scattered shell casings.
Milo walked to an open area near the edge of the garden, and after making sure Blaze wasn't following, he took out his constantly vibrating phone from his pocket.
The names on the screen kept changing.
Milo pressed the answer button, his voice calm and even: "Detective Ji."
Ji Xuan's voice came from the other end of the phone: "Is it convenient for you to talk? I have news about the person you asked me to look into."
Milo glanced subconsciously at Blaise, who was packing up his guns in the distance: "You say it."
“I reviewed her autopsy and toxicology reports and discovered a major discrepancy.” Ji Xuan’s voice was clear and calm. “Suma Natawa’s final cause of death was cardiopulmonary failure due to a drug overdose. But the key point is that I investigated her whereabouts and medical records for the year before her death, and there was no indication that she had a history of drug use. Her social circle, medical records, and even some less public information within the Gan Valley all indicate that she had never been exposed to drugs before.”
Milo's heart sank.
“What’s even more suspicious,” Ji Xuan continued, “is that about a year before her death, a record suddenly appeared in her file, issued by her private doctor, claiming that she had a history of drug dependence. This record was very abrupt and of dubious origin. I believe that this drug use record is very likely to be forged, with the purpose of rationalizing her cause of death after her death and confusing the public.”
Milo could almost guess what Ji Xuan was going to say next.
"The most lethal evidence is the drug itself that caused her death. I analyzed the drug's composition and trace markers. It is very special; it is a special product synthesized only in a specific laboratory in Tengbang, with extremely high purity, and is usually supplied only through specific channels. The circulation of this drug is extremely limited, making it almost impossible for it to fall into the hands of someone outside the core circle like Suma Natawa. Its source is very clear."
Tengbang, a special supply product, a tribute item.
In an instant, all the clues connected in Milo's mind. The fabricated drug history was to cover up the murder, and the deadly drugs pointed directly to Sigon. Sigon meticulously planned this murder in order to eliminate the sister of his reformist political rival, even going so far as to use drugs to fabricate her image of depravity and completely erase her political legacy.
A chill ran through Milo, and he instinctively looked at Blaise again.
"Are you still listening?" Ji Xuan asked from the other end of the phone.
Milo snapped out of his daze and said, "I understand, thank you."
Ji Xuan responded calmly, "I will send you the documents. I will cancel this number. This transaction is a one-time event."
"Okay." Milo hung up the phone.
Milo's knuckles turned slightly white as he gripped his phone, caught in an unprecedented moment of hesitation.
To speak or not to speak?
Blaze finished packing his things and saw Milo standing in the distance, lost in thought. He started walking towards Milo.
Milo heard footsteps and snapped back to reality.
As Blaise approached, his sharply defined face radiating pure concern, Milo's resolve shifted dramatically. A powerful urge to escape the complex vortex before him overwhelmed his internal conflict over whether to reveal the truth.
Just as Blaze was about to reach him, Milo suddenly spoke, his voice carrying a hint of urgency and wavering that even he himself didn't realize: "Blaze," Milo paused, "I want to take you somewhere."
Blaise was somewhat surprised, but he nodded nonetheless.
The inner turmoil in Milo's heart seemed to suddenly dissipate.
Ji Xuan's news was too sudden and too significant. He needed time to process the information, or rather, to make good use of it.
*
The salty sea breeze swept through the seawall.
"Coconut ice cream!" A brown-skinned girl carried a wooden bucket lined with palm leaves on her back and walked barefoot across the sun-baked stone path.
Milo was lost in thought when he noticed Blaise staring blankly at the girl carrying the bucket. He immediately became anxious: "What's wrong?"
Blaise turned his head away, lowered his eyes, and said nothing.
Milo said he would take him somewhere, but it turned out to be just sitting on this coastal road outside the island, lost in thought. He didn't expect Milo to have any grand surprise in store for him, but even when he was just spacing out, Milo was completely absorbed in his own thoughts, leaving him aside like he wasn't even there.
Perhaps because their gazes were too obvious, the girl wearing frangipani flowers carefully carried the wooden bucket over.
Seeing Blaise's tattoo on his neck, the girl was a little scared, so she moved in front of Milo: "Sir, the coconut ice cream is delicious, would you like to buy one?"
The child's voice trembled with nervousness. Milo, exasperated, asked how many were left. The girl removed the wooden bucket, revealing five or six coconut shells inside. Considering how heavy she had been carrying, and how long it would take to sell them all, Milo bought them all.
The girl skipped and jumped for joy. Milo looked at the row of sweet, icy treats on the ground, a little worried. Seeing Blaise gesturing, he shook his head and said, "They're too sweet. You eat them yourself."
Blaise picked one up, took a bite, and found it too sweet; he didn't like it either. He glanced at Milo. Milo's gaze remained fixed on the distance, his brow slightly furrowed, as if he were preoccupied.
What was he thinking? Was he thinking about their past? Blaze realized that Milo probably didn't remember, or rather, didn't care to remember those trivial things from before.
That day, it seemed, was also an evening like today, when the setting sun stretched the shadows of the areca palm trees into a fence.
"Try this! It's really sweet!" In my memory, Theo Green handed me a coconut shell.
He hurriedly caught it, took a sip, and felt the coconut milk mixed with ice shards slide down his throat. He heard the other person's laughing voice: "Is your brain throbbing from all the cold? Hahaha."
As the ferry's whistle pierced the twilight, they walked to the end of the long road, clutching their almost completely melted coconut shell ice cream.
They were almost at the cathedral. He couldn't help but feel disappointed, wishing time would slow down.
Fortunately, Theo's steps suddenly stopped at a gypsy-style semi-basement shop, where he tilted his head to examine the totem patterns on the glass of the tattoo shop.
He stared at Theo's eyelashes, looking at the row of small fan-shaped shadows, and his gaze unconsciously moved downwards. He soon noticed that the hem of Theo's sweatshirt was being blown by the wind and clinging to his waistline, revealing a section of fair skin.
My Adam's apple bobbed, and my heart began to race.
That prying ended when Theo suddenly spoke.
"1 Corinthians says that the body is the temple of the Holy Spirit. But tell me, if one tattoos the Lord on their body, is that still a betrayal of the doctrine?"
He had no religious beliefs, and after thinking for a moment, he asked, "Do you want a tattoo?"
"I am a little curious, but I'll pass. It would probably hurt a lot to prick my skin with a needle, and I'm a bit afraid of pain. Besides, I would have to carry it with me for the rest of my life, and my family probably wouldn't approve."
“I can get it done first,” he said. It was just a tattoo; it wouldn’t hurt him at all.
"Hey, don't be so easily swayed. The thing you're going to pierce your skin should be something you value. Wait until you find something you think is worth remembering before you get it pierced."
He later did indeed find a tattoo worth getting.
Blaise took two bites and then put it down.
The sea breeze was strong, and as Milo pondered, he subconsciously reached for a cigarette. He turned his head slightly and noticed Blaze's silent dejection.
The subtle distance and estrangement between the two men made him feel restless.
“Actually, when the needle pierces the skin, there’s a feeling of everything being destroyed.” Milo turned his head to look at Blaise’s neck. “You get these needles not because of faith, nor because of rebellion, but because of addiction, especially an addiction to the feeling of pain, right?”
Blaise's heart skipped a beat.
"What a coincidence, me too." Milo smiled slightly and raised his left hand.
The old scars on his wrist are still there, and the two beaded knuckles look like an evil ring.
Milo's words were like a precise scalpel, not only dissecting Blaise's hidden addiction but also instantly clarifying the long-standing, confused thoughts in his own mind.
I see.
It turns out that their almost pathological perception and indulgence in pain was a shared, unspeakable resonance.
Xiao understands him.
In the darkest corners of their souls, such a profound and twisted connection existed between them.
Blaise felt as if her heart was a new seedling growing from parched land.
The campfire on the beach crackled and sparked, and a group of barefoot young people formed a loose circle, shaking hand drums.
Blaise suddenly stood up, the sea breeze billowing his clothes like half a sail.
Milo watched him slide into the center of the circle to the beat of the drum, his arches pressing indentations into the fine sand.
Blaise extended his hand to Milo, who was sitting there, as an invitation.
"Crazy." Milo muttered under his breath. Although no one around recognized them, he still felt a little embarrassed seeing Blaise like this. "I don't want to."
Blaze grabbed Milo's hand and pulled him up. Before Milo could get angry, Blaze gently put his arm around Milo's shoulder and pressed his face against his chest.
Milo was slightly taken aback.
The safe distance was broken, and Blaise's lingering scent of incense enveloped him.
Their shadows were reflected on the beach, like two swaying palm trees.
Blaise led him around in circles, and someone threw some lemongrass into the fire, causing golden and red sparks to burst into the air.
Suddenly, the drumbeats became as dense as a downpour, reaching their highest point, and all the barefoot young people dancing laughed excitedly.
At the clamorous summit, Blaise lowered his head.
The sounds of drums, laughter, and waves around us seemed to be instantly shut out by an invisible barrier, and the world suddenly became quiet.
Milo stared into those eyes, and a sudden thought struck him.
He hadn't said a word, yet Milo sensed a thousand unspoken words in his eyes. That unchanging gaze—ever since he handed him that worthless crystal ball outside the Saint-Seville Cathedral—had been silently watching him with those dark eyes.
How could he not feel such a fervent and intense emotion? It's just that there were too many people who loved him at that time, and Blaise was pushed to the back, so he couldn't see him at all.
A light drizzle began to fall from the night sky, but no one moved. Instead of seeking shelter, everyone enjoyed each change brought by nature.
Mars mingled with the raindrops overhead, like stardust scattered by the wind.
Milo slowly wrapped his arms around Blaise's waist, making the embrace real. He listened quietly to the steady heartbeat in Blaise's chest, imagining how that steady heartbeat would soon become disordered.
"Blaze".
The person whose name was called looked down at him.
Kiss me.
A smile played in Blaise's eyes as he brushed the wind-blown hair from Milo's face, his fingertips tracing his cheek, the calluses from the gun causing a slight sting to Milo's face.
Milo suddenly felt a lump in his throat, and he suddenly wanted to run away: "You—"
Before he could even utter the word "get lost," Blaze leaned in and gently kissed the corner of his lips, a kiss as soft as waves lapping at the ankles, a feeling that evokes a longing for the rushing tide as it recedes.
Milo closed his eyes, unwilling to look at anyone, and tried to lower his head.
Blaise, however, wouldn't let him escape, kissing his cheeks and nose repeatedly, and finally taking his hand and kissing his finger with the knuckle nail.
Milo's consciousness slowly drifted away, but his reason gradually became clearer, as if he were falling back into reality from a dream.
Blaze stopped kissing, and ran her hands through Milo's hair, sometimes with the wind, sometimes against it, but the sea breeze was too strong, and she couldn't get it right. So she just held Milo in her arms and gently rocked her.
“Blaze,” Milo looked up and said softly, “there is something I really want, and only you can give it to me.”
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