Ming Zhifei walked into the room after his shower. Without his glasses, his vision was blurred. He could see Yang Jianzhen leaning on the new crutch with one hand and holding a long stick—a mop?—in the other.
“What are you doing?” Ming Zhifei’s nearsightedness was around -4.00 diopters; in the dimly lit room, he could only see outlines. He squinted, searching for his glasses.
“I’m mopping the floor.” Yang Jianzhen hobbled closer on his crutch. “Careful, it’s slippery.”
By the time Ming Zhifei noticed, Yang Jianzhen was very close—close enough that even with a -4.00 prescription, his expression was clear. Feeling he was too close, Ming Zhifei took a step back.
“Fei-ge, has anyone ever told you that you’re very beautiful?” Yang Jianzhen held up Ming Zhifei’s large, black-framed glasses. “You should throw these away. They make you look twenty years older. How old are you, anyway? I thought you were in your forties.”
“Give me back my glasses. I can’t see.” Ming Zhifei felt flustered by the first comment he’d ever heard regarding his appearance. For a man who had always been top of his class and took pride in his intellect, being judged on his looks by anyone other than an elder was rare—and, in his view, unnecessary. Yet, for some reason, when Yang Jianzhen said the word “beautiful,” Ming Zhifei felt his face grow hot.
“You’re so thin.” Yang Jianzhen looked Ming Zhifei up and down; he was wearing an oversized T-shirt as pajamas. Feeling the scrutiny in his gaze, Ming Zhifei grew increasingly uncomfortable. He put his glasses on, took the mop from Yang Jianzhen, and started mopping the floor himself.
He was used to focusing on the task at hand and rarely noticed people watching him. But in this quiet room under the dim light, the only other person was sitting on the bed, staring at him intently. That gaze was impossible to ignore.
Ming Zhifei would bet he had never been stared at like this. Was Yang Jianzhen studying him?
“Fei-ge, is your waist a size 31?”
“Waist? I’ve never measured it. Why ask?”
“How do you buy pants without measuring your waist?”
“I bought a few pairs at the mall before I got married. I didn’t need to buy more after that; pants don’t really wear out. When I occasionally needed something, my wife… my ex-wife would buy them online.”
“Your ex-wife has terrible taste.”
Hearing another casual criticism of someone else, Ming Zhifei went silent and stopped responding.
“Are you unhappy because I said something bad about your ex-wife?” Yang Jianzhen hobbled over to his side, leaning in close with a grin.
“It’s nothing. You might be right, but I don’t know if she lacked taste or if her taste was just different from yours, so I can’t agree with you.”
“Fei-ge, if your ex-wife had taste and still bought you those pants, it means she didn’t care about you at all. Otherwise, she just had no taste. Am I wrong?”
“You could have just said my pants are ugly.” Ming Zhifei suddenly found it funny that Yang Jianzhen went to such lengths to insult his trousers—especially since he had recently begun to feel they were outdated himself.
Seeing him smile, Yang Jianzhen suddenly reached out, took off his glasses, and looked into his smiling eyes.
“Give them back. I can’t see.”
“Don’t wear them. It’s a waste of a natural gift,” Yang Jianzhen whispered.
Ming Zhifei hadn’t asked why he was mopping. He originally thought it was just because the floor was dirty, but when he went to boil water and saw Yang Jianzhen unpacking the bedding in the bedroom, he realized: Yang Jianzhen was setting up a bed on the floor in the bedroom.
“I’m sleeping in the living room,” Ming Zhifei said, walking back in. “And since you’re injured, stop moving around so much. I can handle this.”
“Sleep in the bedroom. The living room has no fan and no AC; you’ll die of heat,” Yang Jianzhen said as he spread the mattress on the floor. He looked up at Ming Zhifei. “Fei-ge, you only have one duvet cover here. Go to my place in a bit and grab a comforter.”
“I’m not sleeping in the room. I can’t sleep when I share a room with someone,” Ming Zhifei said, stopping Yang Jianzhen from continuing to lay out the bedding.
“Then how did you sleep with your ex-wife? And didn’t you have to stay in a dorm when you were a student?”
“It wasn’t this bad when I was a student, but I got used to being alone later. I can’t sleep if someone else is there.”
Yang Jianzhen sat on the mattress, tilting his head as he looked at him. He smiled. “Fei-ge, you can’t sleep after doing ‘it’ either? Or… do you just not do ‘it’ at all?”
“Do what…” It took Ming Zhifei a long moment to realize exactly what Yang Jianzhen was implying. His face turned red instantly.
“Ah, you really don’t,” Yang Jianzhen’s bruised and colorful face twisted into a subtle smile. “Fei-ge, that’s not ‘not being able to sleep.’ That’s called sexual repression.”
Unsure how to respond to such an aggressive, boundary-crossing judgment, Ming Zhifei simply picked up his unopened straw mat in silence, intending to take it to the living room.
“Back when I worked in nightlife, I used to meet ‘big brothers’ like you—honest-looking guys who just wanted to drink and chat. One guy came twice a week; after one drink, he’d start blubbering about how his wife was too conservative. She hated ‘doing it’ and started avoiding it right after the wedding. I told him, ‘Ge, maybe your technique is just terrible’…”
“Shut up.” Ming Zhifei had reached his limit.
Yang Jianzhen watched his retreating back as he left the room, laughing loudly.
……..
The beef was sliced paper-thin, coated evenly in cornstarch, and tossed into hot oil fragrant with ginger, garlic, and millet chili. Just as the aroma peaked, the beef was added to the wok, stir-fried rapidly over a high flame, and garnished with precisely chopped cilantro just before being plated. Ming Zhifei was still in a daze by the time the dish was ready.
He hadn’t intended to watch Yang Jianzhen cook, but since the kitchen and living room were connected without any clear divider, he had been captivated by the scene while tidying his bedding.
How can someone eat stir-fried beef for breakfast? he had thought at the time.
On Yang Jianzhen’s first night in his home, Ming Zhifei had slept in the living room. Despite the unfamiliar floor, the new mattress, and the borrowed thin blanket from Yang Jianzhen’s place, he had prepared for battle with noise-canceling earplugs and an eye mask. In the end, he slept far more soundly than expected.
Yang Jianzhen had slept in the bedroom without closing the door or turning on the AC. At some point, he had even moved the small fan out to blow toward Ming Zhifei’s side.
Perhaps Yang Jianzhen hadn’t slept well. In this weather, without AC or a fan and covered in bandages—how could he?
When Ming Zhifei woke up, Yang Jianzhen was already in the kitchen prepping. Ming Zhifei, who hadn’t slept this deeply in a long time, was startled. When he lived with Fan Wenya, he would wake up the moment she got out of bed or closed a door in the next room, even with earplugs in.
Yang Jianzhen was wearing a lightweight V-neck top with a colorful ripple pattern and navy cotton shorts. Even Ming Zhifei, who had zero fashion sense, felt his eyes brighten—the colors, materials, and cut were coordinated perfectly and suited the man immensely. On anyone else, such a vibrant shirt would be overwhelming, but Yang Jianzhen’s features and build were enough to carry it.
Having just woken up, Ming Zhifei put on his glasses and sat in a daze for a while. Realizing he had been staring at Yang Jianzhen from his mattress, he scrambled up and began to pack away his bedding. The downside of sleeping in the living room was the daily ritual of setting up and breaking down his bed.
Yang Jianzhen was stir-frying beef. So much chili, and so early in the morning? But it smelled incredible. Ming Zhifei was still pondering this as he put the bedding back in the room.
It wasn’t until he returned to the living room that he saw the full breakfast: two bowls of egg noodles and a plate of beef. Yang Jianzhen asked with a beaming smile, “Fei-ge, do you want the beef in the noodles or on the side?”
“On the side is fine.” Ming Zhifei, who hadn’t eaten spicy food in ages, sat on the small stool by the coffee table. Yang Jianzhen had already laid out the utensils and food.
He was injured, yet he could do so much on a crutch. Ming Zhifei watched as he set aside the crutch, attempting to sit on the low stool. His hands moved faster than his brain, steadying Yang Jianzhen. He said, “Sit somewhere higher, so your injured leg isn’t uncomfortable.”
Yang Jianzhen seemed stunned for a split second before smiling. He took the taller chair Ming Zhifei offered. Seeing Ming Zhifei start eating in silence, he asked, “Is it good?”
“Good” didn’t seem sufficient to describe the food. Ming Zhifei suspected he had never eaten anything this delicious in his life. Because he had low standards for food, he never actively sought out “fine dining.” Sometimes he even thought that hunger was a clumsy mistake in biological evolution—why do humans waste so much time eating? Why couldn’t they produce energy through photosynthesis like plants?
After taking a few bites of this breakfast, Ming Zhifei finally admitted he was wrong. His vision, taste buds, and olfactory cells, by experiencing the color, aroma, and flavor of the food, produced an unprecedented, indescribable surge of emotion. It turned out he hadn’t just thought the noodles were good last time because he was starving.
“It’s exceptionally delicious,” he no longer withheld his praise.
“Eat more, you’re too thin,” Yang Jianzhen said, still smiling as he watched him eat.
“Why aren’t you eating?”
“Because I like watching people eat my food. It makes me happier than eating it myself.”
“Do you cook for others often?”
“How could I? Before moving here, I was busy to death,” Yang Jianzhen laughed. “Fei-ge, don’t look at me like this—before those bastards framed me, I was a big boss running a business with tens of millions in turnover.”
For some reason, the combination of “like this” and “big boss” struck Ming Zhifei’s funny bone. The corners of his mouth twitched upward, and he couldn’t suppress a snort of laughter. Fearing he was being rude, he apologized with a smile: “Sorry, I’m really not mocking you.”
“Fei-ge, take off your glasses.” Yang Jianzhen, staring at his face, whispered these words and reached out to pluck the glasses from Ming Zhifei’s nose.
“Don’t. I really can’t see.” Being treated this way for the second time, Ming Zhifei wasn’t surprised anymore; he just thought it was another prank.
“It’s enough that I can see. It’s a treat for the eyes.”
Since wearing glasses while eating hot food only leads to fogging anyway, Ming Zhifei let him be. Yang Jianzhen leaned his chin on his hand, satisfied. He smiled and watched Ming Zhifei for a long time—almost until he finished his noodles and started on the soup—before finally beginning his own breakfast.