Xu Yanghe slammed the door shut!
His mind was totally blank. What was Xie Chun doing?! Argh!
Why, why, why?! Argh!
Xu Yanghe stormed out to the large balcony, his legs shaking with rage, nearly slipping on the tiles.
He grabbed a large laundry hamper and this time hammered on Xie Chun’s door with enough force to nearly break it down.
Xie Chun came running, opening the door only a crack.
“…” Xu Yanghe ground out through gritted teeth, “I’m not going to hit you!”
Xie Chun stopped bracing the door and stepped aside.
Xu Yanghe shoved the door open, tossed the laundry hamper inside, and roared, “Strip the sheets and pillowcases. Now! Bring them out!”
Xie Chun fidgeted with his hands for a moment, saying hesitantly, “The washing machine might…”
“Xie Chun!” He wasn’t going to hit him.
Xie Chun said aggrievedly, “If you hadn’t suddenly opened the door and scared me, it wouldn’t have gotten on them!”
…So it wasn’t just once. Xu Yanghe pressed a hand to his forehead.
The contaminated bedding was tossed into the washing machine; Xu Yanghe set it to the heavy-duty cycle.
He walked into the guest bedroom and switched on the “light of justice.”
He opened the window for ventilation and went wild with the air freshener.
Scanning the room, Xu Yanghe had to admit it was actually quite neat and tidy. Unlike the group-rental building at the spinning mill, there wasn’t much junk here for Xie Chun to accumulate.
To think this was Xie Chun’s den of iniquity!
Xu Yanghe gave the floor and furniture a cursory wipe. He looked at Xie Chun, who was standing there looking submissive.
Xu Yanghe felt awkward too. “You… how many times have you done it? And where?”
“Seven or eight times… I think,” Xie Chun said. “On the desk and the bed.”
Should he be grateful the guy didn’t have any specific location fetishes?
Xu Yanghe focused his scrubbing on those spots, with Xie Chun carrying water and assisting him.
Perhaps it was too quiet, but Xie Chun felt he had to say one thing. He whispered, “Seven strokes and the impurities remain…”
Xu Yanghe: “…”
He stared at Xie Chun in disbelief and abruptly threw down the brush in his hand.
Psychopath!
By the time the whole place was cleaned, it was late into the night. Xu Yanghe sat on the living room floor leaning against the sofa, and Xie Chun stayed quietly by his side.
Neither knew what to do.
Xu Yanghe felt he should tell Xie Chun to go to sleep; he had a full day of classes tomorrow.
But he didn’t want to move. He didn’t even want to open his mouth.
After a long silence, the digital clock jumped to 3:00 AM. Usually, this was when Xie Chun would just be getting off work.
“Why did you come back so early today?” Xu Yanghe asked.
Xie Chun said, “I’ll be doing fewer late shifts from now on.”
Xu Yanghe: “Oh.” Tonight was definitely a traumatic experience.
Xie Chun turned to look at him. “Are you still sad?”
Sad about what?
Xu Yanghe didn’t think he was acting any differently; naturally, he didn’t think Xie Chun could possibly understand.
Xie Chun moved a bit closer and took one of Xu Yanghe’s hands, placing it on his own head.
“You can pet it,” Xie Chun said, closing his eyes expectantly. “Don’t you like doing this?” He used to pet his hair all the time.
Xu Yanghe gently smoothed it a couple of times. Xie Chun’s hair did feel great—soft and fluffy, the curls winding around his fingers.
Xu Yanghe felt a stir in his heart and suddenly leaned in closer. Xie Chun didn’t flinch; he stayed perfectly still.
Xu Yanghe’s finger hooked away Xie Chun’s glasses. “No prescription?”
Xie Chun nodded. “To hide this.” He pointed to the red dot on the bridge of his nose.
Xu Yanghe’s fingertip covered it; it was warm. “It’s a mole. How did it grow there?” To look like that.
“It just appeared suddenly. It looks a lot like a pimple, but I can’t pick it off,” Xie Chun said. That was why he didn’t like the mole.
“Vain,” Xu Yanghe said, putting the frames back on him.
Xie Chun did seem quite vain. Xu Yanghe thought of his ten or so white shirts; Xie Chun said they were cheap and easy to coordinate, even if his idea of “coordination” was wearing a sweatshirt in the dead of winter.
“You only dared to start dressing up after your mother passed away, right?” Xu Yanghe remembered the group photo Mu Heng had shown him. When he first started university, Xie Chun was just a big fool in his mother’s old clothes, grinning with all his teeth.
Xie Chun didn’t speak. His large round eyes narrowed slightly, looking unhappy.
Xu Yanghe gave his hair another scruff.
To be fair, Xu Yanghe said, “Do you want to know how my mother died?”
A popular movie star marrying a remarried tycoon—the media back then had scrambled to cover the scandal, each with their own take. Supporters called them a perfect match; those who lamented her retirement called for her to produce more work after marriage. Of course, most comments were from onlookers mocking Lian Xin, waiting for the day her beauty faded and his love cooled.
No one expected that before Lian Xin’s beauty could even fade, Xu Qian would already be disgusted with her.
Lian Xin gave birth to Xu Yanghe soon after marriage and fell into postpartum depression.
Xu Qian, of course, offered no support or reflection. He didn’t care if Lian Xin was happy; if she made him unhappy, he could easily find happiness elsewhere.
A few years later, Lian Xin’s depression worsened, and she was diagnosed with early symptoms of ALS.
With Lian Xin’s face marked by illness, Xu Qian became even more cold toward her.
Those were the years Xu Yanghe had just started school. A young child, newly aware of the world, often seems clever due to his curiosity. Xu Qian loathed Lian Xin, but he grew very fond of this potentially brilliant second son. Back then, Xu Yanghe didn’t understand the undercurrents. It was his mother who spent the most time with him, his older brother who played with him, and his father who was never home—yet a child’s love for both parents was somehow equal.
Xu Qian unexpectedly stayed at the Xu residence for a period. He liked to tease Xu Yanghe, play games with him, and praise him for being smarter than his brother.
Xu Yanghe felt happy back then.
Xu Jin, annoyed, would hide at his own mother’s house every few days.
Only Lian Xin watched passively, suffering passively.
Sometimes Lian Xin would warn him, “Don’t listen to your father’s instigations and go against your elder brother.”
But Xu Yanghe didn’t understand at all.
Occasionally, before Xu Yanghe went to school, Lian Xin would say she wanted to sunbathe. Xu Yanghe would push her wheelchair into the courtyard.
When Xu Yanghe returned from school in the evening, Lian Xin and the wheelchair would still be in that same spot, motionless.
Fallen leaves drifted around her and onto her body; she could only wait for Xu Yanghe to return.
Xu Yanghe felt sad, but he didn’t know why.
Why were his father and so many servants in the house, yet no one looked after his mother?
It reached a point where he, too, felt the pain of powerlessness.
It was painful when his mother asked to sunbathe, painful to push her out, and painful to refuse her.
Lian Xin died during that year’s Spring Festival.
The TV was broadcasting entertainment news of Xu Qian setting off fireworks on a beach to make a beautiful smile. Xu Jin had also been picked up by his mother.
Xu Yanghe searched the vast Xu residence for Lian Xin all afternoon. As night fell, the entire house was pitch black and empty. Lian Xin died in a storage room on the fourth floor, a place filled with dust and cobwebs. Her wheelchair was jammed behind the door; Xu Yanghe couldn’t push it open. She had somehow struggled out of the chair and was half on the floor, the wheelchair straps tight around her neck. Her legs were wedged between the steel frame and a heavy traditional table, covered in patches of bruising and blood.
Xu Yanghe reached out to touch her; his mother’s body was stiff.
The door wouldn’t open and wouldn’t close. He wailed in the house.
He screamed and shouted, but no one could hear him, and the lights wouldn’t turn on.
He made phone calls—his father, his brother—not a single one was answered.
He called the police, but no one came. No one came to find him, no one entered the house, and no one even came up the hill.