After a busy day, Fang Zichen fell asleep almost as soon as he lay down. Zhao Ger called his name softly a couple of times to make sure he was truly asleep, then moved Guaizai to the inner side of the bed and lay down beside Fang Zichen. Still uneasy, Zhao Ger clutched a corner of Fang Zichen’s sleeve and stared at him for a long moment before finally closing his eyes.
The next day, Fang Zichen woke before dawn.
Zhao Ger warmed the buns and handed them to him, but Fang Zichen shook his head, saying he’d buy something in town. As they left, Zhao Ger carried a borrowed bamboo basket on his back, following him.
Fang Zichen assumed he was going to gather firewood and was just heading the same way, but even after they reached the village entrance, Zhao Ger continued trailing behind him.
"Why are you following me?" Fang Zichen asked, puzzled.
Zhao Ger gripped the straps of the basket and murmured, "I want to go carry sacks with you."
Fang Zichen clicked his tongue. "You?"
"I’m strong. I can do a lot of work," Zhao Ger insisted.
Fang Zichen gestured. "The sacks are this big, and each one weighs over a hundred catties. You really think you can carry them?"
"I can," Zhao Ger said. "How will I know if I don’t try?"
Seeing his stubbornness, Fang Zichen fell silent.
Back when he had skipped grades and entered high school at thirteen, his teachers often praised him. During class meetings, his homeroom teacher would frequently tell the three troublemakers sitting in the back to learn from him. Over time—or maybe because good students and bad students were natural enemies, those three had taken a dislike to him and often mocked his height behind his back.
At the time, he really was shorter than his fifteen- or sixteen-year-old classmates. At first, he ignored their comments, but they grew bolder, eventually taunting him openly, calling him a descendant of the Seven Dwarfs. They never named him directly, but their tone and expressions made it clear who they meant.
Fang Zichen had a temper too. He shot back, "All brawn, no brain."
One of them retorted, "Sure can’t compare to you. Good things come in small packages."
Later, during P.E., one of them dribbled a basketball and asked, "At your height, can you even touch the backboard if you jump after ten more years of eating?"
"Can you dunk in three steps?"
"Wait, with that tiny body of yours, can you even lift a basketball?"
Fang Zichen had been furious.
He stormed to the equipment room, grabbed a basketball, and marched back to the court with all the confidence in the world.
As it turned out, practice was the only way to test the truth.
That day, he was thoroughly mocked and spent the next two weeks sulking, even losing his appetite for his usual chicken drumsticks.
Though his older brothers later beat up those three troublemakers and forced them to apologize, the incident had etched itself into his memory.
When someone was this stubborn, reasoning was useless. The only way to make them yield was to let them try and fail.
"Fine," he said. Zhao Ger relaxed and smiled. But after two steps, Fang Zichen suddenly stopped. "If you come with me, what about Guaizai?"
Guaizai had still been asleep when they left.
Zhao Ger pointed to the basket. "He’s in here."
Fang Zichen: "..."
Guaizai was curled up inside, tiny as a puppy, sleeping soundly even after being moved.
"My poor son," Fang Zichen said sincerely. "What a hard life."
By the time they reached town, the sun was up, and Fang Zichen arrived just as work was starting.
He pulled Zhao Ger along and explained the situation to the foreman, who didn’t object, saying Zhao Ger could work if he was able.
Fang Zichen gave Guaizai half a bun and sat him beside the basket to wait, then took Zhao Ger to work.
At the Ma family, Zhao Ger had done all sorts of labor—cooking, laundry, fetching water, feeding pigs. But those were the lighter tasks. He had also carried firewood and hauled fodder. Back then, it wasn’t that the work wasn’t exhausting, but he had no choice. He was like a mule at a millstone, with someone always ready to whip him if he slowed down.
Carrying sacks was different. It was truly backbreaking. A hundred catties pressing down on his shoulders felt like it would crush him.
After a few trips, Zhao Ger was gasping for breath. When he reached for another sack, Fang Zichen stopped him.
"Don’t carry anymore. Look at you, there’s not even two ounces of meat on your bones."
Zhao Ger panted. "You’re no different."
Physically, they were both the lean, lanky type typical of young men still growing into their frames.
"We’re nothing alike," Fang Zichen said. "I might look skinny, but I’ve got muscle in my bones. Do you know what people used to call me?"
"No."
"Some called me Hottie Brother, some called me Third Brother, and some called me Strong Brother."
Zhao Ger didn’t understand. "Hottie Brother?"
"Means ‘handsome.’" Fang Zichen preened. "Where I’m from, good-looking guys are called Hottie Brother. Ugly ones are usually called troublemakers."
"Third Brother?"
"I’m the third child in my family."
"And Strong Brother?"
"Isn’t it obvious? It’s because I’m strong. Back in school, I could carry two desks at once, from the first floor to the sixth, without breaking a sweat. My classmates said I was amazing."
Zhao Ger didn’t quite follow, but judging by Fang Zichen’s smug expression, he suspected some exaggeration.
"Stay here. I’ll finish up, and we’ll go home together."
"But I—"
"Enough," Fang Zichen pushed him away. "We’re poor, but we’re not so desperate we need those extra coppers from you."
"But—"
Fang Zichen scowled and raised a fist. "Will you listen? They say a wife should obey her husband. Why don’t you understand? Do I need to hit you?"
Zhao Ger’s face flushed, and he fell silent, obediently heading back to Guaizai.
No comments:
Post a Comment