AVRL 5

How could this have been written by Yu Tingzhi?

Wasn’t this the work of Mr. Yu’s distinguished student? Yu… Yu Tingzhi… Wait, what?

“You’re Mr. Yu’s disciple?” Meng Chi asked, a hint of surprise in his voice.

At this, Yu Tingzhi’s slanted, elongated brow arched slightly. “He’s my grandfather.”

Grandfather, then.

But why the same surname?

This question flashed through Meng Chi’s mind, but then he considered that it wasn’t unusual these days for people to take their mother’s surname. Not finding it particularly strange, he didn’t dwell on it. He simply thought to himself that the Yu family was a well-known scholarly household in Zewu—no wonder they could afford several luxury cars.

“Do you know my grandfather?” Yu Tingzhi asked, looking at him.

Naturally, he didn’t.

When the teahouse had been renovated, a friend of Yang Zhengfeng’s had given a tea couplet—the one hanging in the main hall—claiming it was from Mr. Yu’s hand. Meng Chi didn’t even know Mr. Yu’s full name. Although the couplet bore a signature, it was written in such a wildly cursive script that Meng Chi had never been able to decipher it.

“Mr. Yu is quite famous; I’ve heard of him,” Meng Chi said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “No wonder your calligraphy is decent.”

Just a moment ago, he’d said “very well written.” Upon learning it was Yu Tingzhi’s work, it instantly downgraded to “decent.”

Tea ceremony emphasizes leisure and aesthetic pleasure, which might give the impression that those connected to tea are all gentle, courteous, and unassuming. But Meng Chi was clearly not that type. Though his temperament was generally easygoing, at his core he still possessed the youthful drive to compete and excel.

Especially in matters of the heart. If he’d known from the start that this calligraphy was by Yu Tingzhi, he would have withheld any comment.

“Brother Tingzhi isn’t just good at calligraphy—he’s also an excellent painter,” Song Min interjected. “After he finished his PhD at XX Academy of Fine Arts, he was originally going to stay on as faculty. Our school went to great lengths to recruit him to teach in the Art Department.”

Although Meng Chi had never attended university, he was aware of the country’s top fine arts institutions. Suddenly, he understood why Yu Tingzhi carried such an otherworldly, detached air about him.

No wonder Song Min held him in such high esteem. Whether in terms of family background or personal achievement, Yu Tingzhi was simply too dazzling. This realization stirred something subtle in Meng Chi’s heart.

“Impressive, impressive,” Meng Chi praised repeatedly, then shifted his tone and said to Song Min, “No wonder you wanted to take Teacher Yu’s class. Hope you get in next semester and become his student.”

Nothing more than that, please.

Song Min, oblivious to the subtext, sighed wistfully and said, “Hopefully,” before turning to look at other tea ware. Yu Tingzhi, however, remained where he stood, watching Meng Chi with an unreadable, contemplative gaze.

“Teacher Meng, you said before that beginners should go with a covered bowl, right?” Song Min had walked over to a shelf lined with covered bowls and picked up a white porcelain one.

“Tsk, calling me ‘Teacher’ again,” Meng Chi said.

Song Min gave an awkward smile and ventured, “Then… Brother Meng?”

“Whatever makes you happy,” Meng Chi said with a slight smile. He walked over beside Song Min and took the covered bowl from his hands. “Covered bowls are versatile—they can brew any type of tea, and they’re easy to clean.”

Song Min nodded. “Easier to clean than teapots, too.”

When it came to calligraphy and painting, Meng Chi was a layman and could only appreciate the surface. But when it came to tea ware, and even tea culture as a whole, he was deeply knowledgeable. Hoping to regain some ground in front of Song Min, Meng Chi elaborated on the origins of the covered bowl. “The covered bowl has been used as a brewing vessel since ancient times. It’s also called the ‘Three-Talent Bowl’—it has a lid above, a saucer below, and the bowl in the middle. The ancients intended it to represent heaven, earth, and humanity.”

Meng Chi acknowledged Yu Tingzhi’s excellence, but that didn’t mean he feared competing with such a rival. He wouldn’t pretend to understand things he didn’t, nor would he show off excessively about what he did know. The extra historical tidbits he threw in were kept brief and to the point.

“But it has one drawback—it’s easy to burn your fingers,” Meng Chi said. “So when you’re choosing one, make sure the body and glaze aren’t too thin. The one you’re holding is a bit on the thin side.”

Glancing across the array of covered bowls, Meng Chi picked up a white one with a rice-paste, hand-textured finish. “This thickness is just right. The flared rim also makes it easier to hold. The most important thing for preventing burns, though, is the way you hold it.”

“I know that. You mentioned it before—the ‘Wen-style grip,’¹ which you use often,” Song Min said. He then picked up another white covered bowl, using his left thumb and middle finger to grip the rim, lifting it, then spreading the four fingers of his right hand to support the foot ring while his thumb pressed down on the lid knob.

However, as he lifted it with his right hand, the lid slipped and nearly fell. Meng Chi, quick as lightning, caught it in his palm, covering both the lid and Song Min’s hand together.

Though the heater was on inside, their chilled hands hadn’t warmed up yet, so Song Min’s hand was still cold, only slightly softer than the porcelain bowl itself.

“Your hands are still this cold?” Meng Chi gave a light squeeze, feeling the bones of Song Min’s fingers brush against his palm, ticklish.

His own warmth seeped into the skin of Song Min’s hand. Startled as if burned, Song Min quickly pulled back. “My hands and feet are naturally cold. It’s nothing.”

Meng Chi let go naturally, closing the covered bowl, and looked at Song Min’s slender, pale, cool-toned hands. “Your hands are too small for that grip. Try this three-finger hold instead.”²

With that, Meng Chi extended his right hand, tilting his index finger slightly to rest on the lid knob, his thumb and middle finger gripping the rim on either side. With ease, he lifted the palm-sized covered bowl.

“Just be careful not to touch the body of the bowl. Give it a try.”

Song Min watched his finger placement closely, then selected a slightly smaller covered bowl to attempt.

Meng Chi stood beside him, at a neither-too-close-nor-too-far distance, occasionally offering verbal guidance and occasionally reaching out to adjust his position. Though he no longer held his hand directly, there was still some physical contact in their movements.

Thanks to Chen Yan, a veteran insider of the circle, Meng Chi had long known Song Min’s sexual orientation. He also understood that he couldn’t rush things now, so he maintained a careful balance, staying somewhere between friendly and intimate, careful not to cause any aversion.

All of this was observed by Yu Tingzhi.

He could tell that Meng Chi harbored a certain competitive streak in his presence. At the same time, he could sense that Meng Chi’s actions, gestures, and words all maintained his usual easygoing style—without any trace of ostentation. Far from being off-putting, it was rather intriguing, like watching a peacock with a beautiful tail feathers quietly displaying its strengths.

Yu Tingzhi watched in silence, listened in silence, and in this moment, he truly came to know Meng Chi—and concluded that he was very well-suited to the profession of a tea artist.

The gaze resting on Meng Chi was neither heavy nor light. Although no longer carrying that uncomfortable, scrutinizing quality from their first meeting, being watched for so long still made Meng Chi aware of it and a little uneasy.

After two or three minutes, he couldn’t help but speak up: “Teacher Yu, aren’t you going to look at the vases?”

Why do you keep staring at me?

Yu Tingzhi: “None suitable.”

Have you even looked?

Meng Chi grumbled inwardly but said gently, “How about taking a look at the tea ware too? If you have questions, you can ask me.”

Yu Tingzhi nodded and finally turned his attention to the porcelain on the rosewood shelves.

On the other side, Song Min had taken a phone call and stepped over to the doorway, speaking quietly with his roommate about their group project. Meng Chi didn’t interrupt him. His gaze drifted aimlessly among the various porcelain pieces until, inevitably, it settled on the only other living being in the room besides himself.

Yu Tingzhi stood before the aged, gnarled wood tea table in the center of the hall, slightly bent forward, reaching out to pick up a bluish-black covered bowl in the “tea dust” style. “Tea dust” is a category of porcelain named for the dark, tea-leaf-like spots of varying sizes that climb up from the foot ring over the surface, deepening in color from light to dark, from sparse to dense, resembling tea dregs.

Yu Tingzhi’s skin was pale, and the contrast was striking as he held that bowl, making his hand look even more like cold, white jade. Meng Chi only meant to glance, but found it hard to look away.

Earlier, he’d only imagined how beautiful those hands would look holding a covered bowl. Now that he saw it, it was even more stunning than he’d pictured. As he watched, his mind began to wander absurdly: if Yu Tingzhi were interested in tea ceremony, maybe he could take him on as an apprentice. That would be wonderful—he’d get to see those beautiful hands every day and even touch them.

With this thought, Meng Chi found Yu Tingzhi increasingly agreeable. His attention drifted, unconsciously moving from Yu Tingzhi’s face—that face seemingly carved by Nüwa herself—to his overall bearing, and back to those hands.

To be fair, just his appearance alone was already bewitching enough, let alone those perfect hands. Meng Chi found himself somewhat entranced.

“Enjoying the view?”

The sudden voice jolted Meng Chi back to reality. His lashes fluttered, and he met Yu Tingzhi’s gaze. He had no idea when Yu Tingzhi had looked up or for how long he’d been watching.

“It’s beautiful,” Meng Chi said, without a hint of embarrassment at being caught. He calmly praised the covered bowl. “This ‘tea dust’ piece is of excellent quality.”

Yu Tingzhi looked at him for two seconds, then switched the covered bowl to his other hand and moved it toward the windowsill.

Porcelain can only fully reveal its beauty under natural daylight; the dark tones on its surface became translucent in the sunlight, like jade—this was top-grade porcelain.

“But we seldom use such dark tea bowls nowadays—they’re more common in Japanese tea ceremony,” Meng Chi said, walking over to stand beside him. Together, they admired the bowl in the light streaming through the window.

His gaze appeared to be on the covered bowl, but his attention was entirely on Yu Tingzhi’s hands.

When Meng Chi had been teaching Song Min how to hold a covered bowl, Yu Tingzhi must have overheard, because the way he now held it was exactly the same technique Meng Chi used for pouring tea.

Under the sunlight, the veins on the back of his hand stood out clearly, resonating strangely with the color of the bowl. The prominent bone structure of his hand had more strength and presence than Song Min’s—indeed, in Meng Chi’s estimation, it was the most satisfying pair of hands he’d ever seen.

“You know about Japanese tea ceremony too?” Yu Tingzhi turned to look at him.

“‘Whisking tea’³ originated in our country. Isn’t the reason they favor dark tea bowls also because ‘the finest bowl color is a bluish-black’?”⁴ Meng Chi laughed.

In the sunlight, his smile was radiant, and the roguish quality in his brows became bold, fueled by cultural confidence. Yu Tingzhi looked at him, and a warm glint passed through his light-colored pupils, and even his heartbeat seemed to slow.

From the other side, Song Min suddenly let out a dejected “Ah—” Yu Tingzhi snapped back to attention. Only then did he realize that he had just been staring at Meng Chi, lost in thought for a moment.

Song Min was still crouched at the doorway on the phone, probably frustrated by some issue with his group project. His small face was scrunched up as he spoke, occasionally plucking at the green grass sprouting from the doorstep in irritation.

Meng Chi watched him, a gentle smile curving at the corners of his mouth. But after no more than two seconds, that smile froze at the edges.

Because Yu Tingzhi suddenly asked, “Meng Chi, you’re into men, aren’t you?”

The question came so unexpectedly that Meng Chi’s eyes went wide with disbelief. But after a blink, he recovered, concealing his surprise and returning to his usual composure.

When he lifted his long, curled lashes again, his gaze held no evasion as he met Yu Tingzhi’s eyes directly and countered, “Aren’t you, too?”

Yu Tingzhi’s expression remained unchanged, but those light-colored eyes suddenly darkened, making his gaze feel much heavier.

At this point, silence was as good as confirmation—an unspoken understanding between them.

Meng Chi didn’t pursue the topic further and was about to step away when Yu Tingzhi added, “You two aren’t suited for each other.”

Meng Chi turned back at those words, his brows knitting together.

He could generously overlook the earlier blunt question about his sexuality, not feeling offended. But this unsolicited judgment of “not suited” stirred a flicker of annoyance in him. Still, he asked calmly, “Why?”

Yu Tingzhi’s gaze moved between the two of them, then he set down the covered bowl.

At that moment, Meng Chi suddenly recalled something.

It was from when he’d first gotten to know Chen Yan. Chen Yan had told him that he carried an aura that made people want to conquer him. In their circle, apart from soft, submissive bottoms who might see him as a top, most others would probably peg him as a wild bottom.

So was Yu Tingzhi treating him as the bottom here?

The irritation in Meng Chi’s heart subsided somewhat. He clicked his tongue and drawled, “Teacher Yu.”

“I think you’ve misunderstood.” When Yu Tingzhi looked over again, Meng Chi let out a light laugh and said, “Actually, I’m used to being on top.”