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Gao Tu was sick.
It was not a simple sickness. For years, he had taken strong suppressants to hide his Omega biology, to smell and live like a Beta. The pills had done their job, but they had also poisoned him. Now, that he has his man to his side, the bill had come due.
He got the news on a Tuesday. The doctor’s room was very white and very clean. The doctor, a man with a tired face, had Gao Tu's file open on the desk. He spoke in a flat, clinical tone.
"Mr. Gao, the scan results are back," the doctor began, his eyes on the images. "The tumors in your liver have not responded to the chemotherapy. In fact, we're seeing new metastatic growths in your lymphatic system and your lungs."
Gao Tu sat in the plastic chair. He felt the world get quiet. "What does that mean?" he asked. His own voice sounded far away.
The doctor looked up at him. "It means the treatment has failed. The primary cause is chronic liver failure induced by long-term, high-dose suppressant use. The synthetic hormones in those pills are metabolized by the liver. You've essentially overloaded and toxified the organ over years. The initial hepatocellular carcinoma was a direct result. The cancer cells have now entered your bloodstream and lymph fluid, seeding new tumors throughout your body. This is a widespread, systemic failure."
He paused, letting the cold facts settle in the sterile air. Everything taste bland, and rusty. That's what Gao Tu is feeling.
"There is nothing more we can do surgically, and the cancer is resistant to our current chemotherapeutic agents. Further treatment would only worsen your quality of life without providing any benefit. Our focus now must shift to palliative care, managing the pain and other symptoms."
Gao Tu stared at the black-and-white images of his own insides, at the white, star-like spots that were killing him. "How long?" he asked.
"Six months," the doctor said. "Maybe less. We can try to make you comfortable."
Gao Tu nodded. He did not cry. He just stood up, took the paper the doctor gave him, and walked out the room.
At home, Shen Wenlang was cooking dinner. Wenlang was an Alpha, the Alpha. He used to be loud or aggressive, but lately he changed. For the sake of Gao Tu. He became... kinder. He was quiet and steady. Their home was small and warm. It was their safe place.
“You’re home late,” Shen Wenlang said, smiling. He was stirring soup on the stove. “How was the doctor?”
Gao Tu looked at the man he loved. He looked at his kind face. He thought about destroying that face. He could not do it. Not yet.
“It was fine,” Gao Tu said. His voice was a little rough. He cleared his throat. “Just a check-up. He said I’m a little tired, that’s all.”
Shen Wenlang stopped stirring. He looked at Gao Tu. His eyes were full of care. “You have been tired a lot lately. You should rest more. Come, eat this. It will help.”
Gao Tu ate the soup. It tasted like nothing. He felt like he was watching himself from the ceiling. He saw a man who was dying, eating soup with a man who did not know.
That night, Gao Tu started his plan. He had to make Shen Wenlang leave him. He had to make Shen Wenlang hate him. If Shen Wenlang hated him, then it would not hurt so much when he died. Shen Wenlang would be angry, not sad. Anger is easier than grief.
The next day, Gao Tu began.
He started with small things. He did not wash the dishes. He left his clothes on the floor. When Shen Wenlang asked him what was wrong, Gao Tu snapped at him.
“Why do you always nag me?” Gao Tu said. “Can’t you just leave me alone?”
Shen Wenlang looked surprised. Then his face softened. “You are stressed from work. I understand. I will clean it.”
This made Gao Tu feel sick. It was not working. Shen Wenlang was too good. Why do you need to be this kind, for me?
So, Gao Tu tried harder. One week later, he came home very late. He smelled like cheap beer.
Shen Wenlang was waiting on the sofa. He looked worried. “Where were you? I called your phone.”
“I was out with friends,” Gao Tu said. He did not look at Shen Wenlang. “I do not need to tell you where I am every minute.”
“What friends?” Shen Wenlang asked. His voice was calm, but there was a hurt in his eyes.
“New friends,” Gao Tu said. “You would not know them.”
He walked past Shen Wenlang and went to bed.
The next night, Gao Tu did it again. This time, his preparation was more deliberate, more cruel. He had stayed late at work, long after everyone else had left. He took a clean shirt from his desk drawer, one Shen Wenlang had never seen. Then, he called a junior Alpha colleague, a young man named Li, who owed him a favor. Gao Tu offered him money, but the boy was too nervous to take it.
“Just… rub the collar and the sleeves of this shirt on your neck and wrists,” Gao Tu instructed, his voice empty. “For one minute. Then you can go.”
Li looked confused and uncomfortable, but he did it. He rubbed the fabric against his scent glands, transferring the sharp, woody, and entirely foreign Alpha scent onto the cotton. The smell was aggressive and out of place, nothing like Shen Wenlang’s familiar, comforting scent that filled their home.
When Li handed the shirt back, the smell was already strong. Gao Tu felt a wave of nausea. He put the shirt on over his own, the foreign scent feeling like a layer of filth on his skin. He walked home slowly, each step feeling like a walk to the gallows.
He opened the door to their apartment. The air inside was warm and smelled of the lemon cleaner Shen Wenlang used and the faint, underlying scent of their shared life. It smelled, sweet warm iris.
Shen Wenlang was on the sofa, reading a book. He looked up with a soft, worried expression that immediately hardened.
The change was instant. It was like a switch had been flipped.
Shen Wenlang’s entire body went rigid. The book slipped from his hand and thudded onto the carpet. He uncoiled from the sofa in one fluid, tense motion, rising to his full height. His nostrils flared, and his jaw clenched so tight the muscle in his cheek bulged. His eyes, usually so warm and calm, darkened with a primal, possessive alarm. The air in the room suddenly felt thick and charged, like before a storm.
“Gao Tu.” His voice was a low, dangerous rumble, so different from his normal tone. It was the voice of an Alpha whose territory had been violated. “What is that smell?”
Gao Tu’s heart hammered against his ribs so violently he thought it might break. He could feel a cold sweat on the back of his neck. He focused on keeping his face a mask of indifference, even as his stomach churned with self-loathing.
“What does it look like?” he said, forcing a casual shrug. He walked further into the room, letting the alien scent pollute their space. “I was with someone.”
The silence that fell was not just an absence of sound. It was a physical weight, heavy and cold, crushing the air out of the room. Shen Wenlang didn’t move, but he seemed to shrink and expand at the same time. The confidence in his posture was gone, replaced by a wounded, animal stiffness. His eyes scanned Gao Tu’s face, searching for a lie, a joke, anything but the cold truth he was being presented with.
“Why?” Shen Wenlang finally asked. The single word was quiet, stripped of all its Alpha power, and utterly broken. It was the sound of a foundation cracking.
This was the moment. Gao Tu had to push harder. He had to be the villain.
“Because I am bored!” Gao Tu shouted, the force of his words making him lightheaded. He gestured wildly around the room. “I am bored of this life! I am bored of this apartment, of our routine, of coming home to you every single night! You are too quiet. You are too safe. You changed. You are… predictable. It is boring. All of it is so boring!”
He saw the words land like physical blows. Shen Wenlang flinched with each sentence. The pain in his eyes was so raw and deep that Gao Tu almost crumbled. He almost fell to his knees and begged for forgiveness.
But then he thought of the doctor’s words. Systemic failure. Six months. He thought of Shen Wenlang wasting his life, his youth, caring for a dying man. He thought of the long, slow, ugly goodbye that was coming.
Shen Wenlang just stared at him. He didn’t yell back. He didn’t argue. The fight seemed to drain out of him completely, leaving behind a hollow shell. The tension in his shoulders slumped into defeat. He looked at Gao Tu as if he were looking at a stranger.
Without another word, he turned. His movements were slow and heavy, as if he were moving through deep water. He walked into their bedroom and closed the door. There was no slam, just a soft, final click of the latch.
It was the quietest sound Gao Tu had ever heard, and it shattered what was left of his heart.
Gao Tu slept on the sofa. He cried into the pillow so no one would hear. His body ached. The sickness was making him tired all the time.
Days passed. The house was cold and quiet. Shen Wenlang stopped cooking for Gao Tu, but he still make sure Gao Tu is at least eating something. He still send jackets at Gao Tu's table during chilly nights. But he stopped talking to him. He moved through the house like a ghost.
This was what Gao Tu wanted. So why did it feel like his heart was being ripped out of his chest?
One morning, Gao Tu was too sick to get up. The pain was bad. It was a deep, twisting pain in his stomach. He could not hide the groan that came from his mouth.
Shen Wenlang heard it across the room. He looked at him.
He really looked, past the fabricated story of another Alpha, past the cruel words meant to push him away. His gaze, which had been clouded with anger and betrayal, now sharpened with a terrible, dawning clarity.
He saw the things he had been ignoring, the changes he had explained away as stress or fatigue. He saw the deep, bruised purple under Gao Tu’s eyes, like fingerprints of pain pressed into his skin. He saw the sharp line of his jaw, the way his collarbones stood out against his thin neck, the hollows in his cheeks that hadn't been there a month ago. He saw the fine tremor in Gao Tu's hand where it clutched the sofa cushion, a tremor of exhaustion, not nerves.
And then, he saw the pain. It was not the dramatic pain of a broken heart, but a deep-seated agony held tightly in the lines around Gao Tu’s mouth and the slight, constant tension in his brow. It was a pain he was trying to hide, but was now too profound to conceal.
Shen Wenlang’s own anger, his hurt pride, it all dissolved in an instant. It was washed away by a cold, terrifying wave of understanding. His face changed completely. The stern line of his mouth softened into a gasp. His eyes, once hard with jealousy, now widened with a horror that was far, far worse.
He took a slow, shaky step forward, his own body feeling suddenly fragile. He knelt on the floor in front of the sofa, his eyes level with Gao Tu’s. His voice was barely a whisper, fragile as glass.
“There is no other Alpha, is there?”
Gao Tu flinched. He squeezed his eyes shut, a single tear escaping and tracing a path down his temple into his hair. He turned his face away, unable to bear the gentle, knowing look in Shen Wenlang’s eyes. It was the look he had been trying to avoid, the look that saw right through him.
“Gao Tu,” Shen Wenlang said, his voice firmer now, laced with a desperate plea. He reached out, his fingers gently brushing the side of Gao Tu’s face, turning it back towards him. “Look at me. Please. Look at me.”
The touch was his undoing. It was so tender, so full of the love he thought he had destroyed. Gao Tu’s resistance crumbled. He slowly, reluctantly, opened his eyes and met Shen Wenlang’s gaze. He didn't need to say a word. The truth was there, naked and devastating in the deep brown of his irises. The fear, the exhaustion, the immense, soul-crushing sorrow.
A tear welled in Shen Wenlang’s eye, then spilled over. It was followed by another, and another, falling silently onto his own hands, which now cradled Gao Tu’s face.
“I know you’re sick,” he breathed. It wasn’t a question anymore; it was a gut-wrenching confirmation, a truth settling into the marrow of his bones.
Gao Tu’s chin trembled. He tried to speak, but only a choked sob came out. He gave a small, weak, almost imperceptible nod.
The air left Shen Wenlang’s lungs in a rush. He bowed his head for a moment, his shoulders shaking as he tried to gather the strength for the next, impossible question. He looked up, his wet eyes searching Gao Tu’s.
“How long?” he asked, his voice cracking on the second word, splitting open with a grief that was only just beginning.
Gao Tu swallowed hard, the sound loud in the silent room. He closed his eyes again, as if saying the words to the darkness made them easier.
“The doctor…” he began, his voice a raw, broken whisper. “The doctor said six months. Wenlang, I only have six months.” He took a shaky, ragged breath, the worst of it still to come. “That… that was two months ago.”
A wounded sound escaped Shen Wenlang’s throat. It was the sound of a heart breaking in real time. He collapsed forward, his body folding as if the weight of the truth was physically crushing him. He buried his face in the fabric of the sofa next to Gao Tu’s hip, his arms wrapping around Gao Tu’s waist, holding on as if he were being swept away by a tidal wave.
He never cries. Never. Not even when his father left him. Not even when imhis other father neglected him. But this time, this time it's different.
His shoulders shook with the force of his silent sobs. All the fight, all the confusion, was gone, replaced by a pure, unadulterated grief that was more profound than any anger could ever be.
Gao Tu brought a trembling hand down and laid it on Shen Wenlang’s head, his fingers tangling in the soft hair. He cried too, soundlessly, for the pain he had caused, for the future they were losing, and for the terrible, beautiful relief of finally, finally not being alone in his suffering. The wall was gone. There was only the devastating truth, and the two of them, holding onto each other in the wreckage.
“Why?” Shen Wenlang sobbed. “Why did you not tell me? Why did you try to make me hate you?”
“Because I love you,” Gao Tu said, his voice breaking. “I did not want you to be sad. I wanted you to be angry. I wanted you to be able to move on.”
“You idiot,” Shen Wenlang cried, holding onto him tightly. “You stupid, stupid idiot. That is not how love works. I thought you're smarter than me?”
From that day on, the pretense was over. Shen Wenlang moved Gao Tu back into their bed. He let Hua Yong took over his company for a while to take good care of Gao Tu.
******
The next four months were the happiest and saddest of their lives.
They talked for hours. They remembered their first date. They remembered the first time they said “I love you.” They talked about the future they would never have. The house they wanted to buy. The trip they wanted to take.
Shen Wenlang learned how to give Gao Tu his medicine. He learned how to help him to the bathroom when he was too weak to walk. He learned how to massage his back when the pain was bad.
Gao Tu got thinner and thinner. His skin became pale and tight over his bones. He slept most of the time.
Shen Wenlang watched the man he loved disappear piece by piece. He felt so helpless. All he could do was be there. He held Gao Tu’s hand. He read to him. He played his favorite music.
One afternoon, Gao Tu was in a lot of pain. The medicine was not helping. He was crying softly.
Shen Wenlang climbed into the bed and held him. He held him as tightly as he could without hurting him.
“It is okay,” Shen Wenlang whispered, even though it was not okay. “I am here. I am right here.”
“I am scared,” Gao Tu whispered back. His voice was very small.
“I know,” Shen Wenlang said, his own tears falling into Gao Tu’s hair. “I am scared too. But I will not leave you. Not for one second.”
As the end got closer, Gao Tu could not get out of bed at all. He could not eat. He only drank sips of water.
He slept more and more. Sometimes, when he was awake, he did not seem to know where he was. He would call Shen Wenlang by his mother's name.
Shen Wenlang would just hold his hand and say, “It is me. It is Wenlang. I am here.”
The last day was a Thursday. The sun was shining outside. Gao Tu had been asleep for a long time. Shen Wenlang was sitting in a chair by the bed, holding his hand.
Suddenly, Gao Tu opened his eyes. They were clear. He looked at Shen Wenlang and he knew him.
“Wenlang,” he said. His voice was a dry rustle.
“I am here,” Shen Wenlang said, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. He held Gao Tu’s hand with both of his.
“I love you,” Gao Tu said. He used all his energy to say it clearly.
“I love you too,” Shen Wenlang said, bringing Gao Tu’s hand to his lips. “More than anything.”
Gao Tu gave him a small, tired smile. It was the same smile he had on their first date. Then, he closed his eyes.
His breathing became slow. And then it became shallow. And then, it stopped.
The room was silent.
Shen Wenlang sat there. He held Gao Tu’s hand for a long time. He watched the light from the window move across the wall. The world kept going. He could not understand how the world could keep going.
He finally stood up. He called the doctor. He made the arrangements. He did everything he needed to do. He moved like a god-damn machine.
When the people came to take the body away, he stood and watched. He felt nothing. He was empty.
That night, Shen Wenlang was alone in his penthouse. It was so quiet. Too quiet. He walked into the bedroom. The bed was empty. He could still see the shape of Gao Tu’s head on the pillow.
He lay down on the bed. He buried his face in Gao Tu’s pillow. It still smelled like him.
And then, the dam broke.
Shen Wenlang cried. He cried in a way he did not know was possible. It was a raw animal sound of pain. He screamed into the pillow. He punched the mattress. He cried until his throat was raw and his eyes were swollen shut. He cried for the past that was gone. He cried for the future that was stolen. He cried for the man he loved, who was gone forever.
He cried until he had no tears left. He lay in the dark, empty and broken.
The next morning, the sun rose again. Shen Wenlang got out of bed. He made coffee. He never drinks coffee. So, he did not drink it. He just stared at it.
His life was now divided into two parts: the time when Gao Tu was alive, and the time after.
He knew the pain would never go away. It would just become a part of him.
He looked around the quiet, empty apartment. This was not their home anymore. It was just a place where Gao Tu had died.
And Shen Wenlang was just a person who was left behind.