Chapter 61
Wang Xiaojiu’s son was also three years old. Looking at Guaizai, he said, "Brother Fang, is your son really three?" He raised his hand and gestured, "This height doesn’t seem like it! He’s... a head shorter than my son."
He had originally wanted to say "shorter," but the word felt slightly insulting, so he changed his phrasing at the last moment.
Fang Zichen understood the implication and glared at him. Stroking Guaizai’s head, he said, "What do you know? My precious son is a late bloomer. It’s normal for him to be a little shorter now."
Several people gathered around, showering Guaizai with praise for how adorable he was and stuffing him with snacks. It was the first time he had been treated like this, and Guaizai, feeling shy, buried his face in Fang Zichen’s shoulder, only revealing his large eyes—making him look even cuter.
After the crowd dispersed, Guaizai obediently sat on a stool shelling peanuts. Fang Zichen sat across from him, holding a book but unable to focus.
He had spent most of his time at school and was the youngest in his family, so he had little experience with children. He had no idea what a three-year-old should be like, and now he was confused.
Was Guaizai really that short?
Both were three years old, yet Wang Xiaojiu’s son was a whole head taller than Guaizai?!
Wasn’t that a bit exaggerated?
He thought carefully. If he didn’t compare Guaizai to Wang Xiaojiu’s "well-off" son and instead looked at children from similar backgrounds—like Liuliu—Guaizai only reached up to Liuliu’s earlobes.
He stared at Guaizai, who noticed and, swinging his little legs, leaned forward to feed him a shelled peanut. "Father, eat! Peanut shelled by Guaizai, sweet!"
This sweet little thing really warmed his heart. Fang Zichen smiled, ate the peanut, and couldn’t resist kissing him.
Ah, whatever. So what if he’s a little short? Maybe he took after me.
When Fang Zichen was a child, he also didn’t grow much and was always shorter than his peers. From ages three to seven, he only grew nine centimeters in four years. His adoptive mother had been so scared she thought he had dwarfism, but after a hospital checkup, he was perfectly healthy—no issues at all.
Then, after twelve, it was like he had been fed fertilizer—his height shot up uncontrollably. Now, at eighteen, he was already 183 cm tall, standing out in a crowd like a crane among chickens.
But he didn’t want his son to fall behind at the starting line either. After work tonight, he’d go to the pork vendor to buy some bones and place a long-term order for pig intestines and blood.
Holding Guaizai, he took out a book and began teaching him characters.
A few waiters watched from a distance, shaking their heads and clicking their tongues, feeling like it was too much to bear.
In the time it took to drink a cup of tea, Fang Zichen had kissed Guaizai nine times, and Guaizai had kissed him ten.
It was like a game of "you kiss me, I kiss you."
Weren’t they afraid of rubbing their skin raw?
Brother Fang was only in his teens! How could he dote on a child so much? It was like he was a seventy-year-old man who had finally been blessed with a son in his twilight years and couldn’t help but spoil him rotten.
But Guaizai really was adorable.
When Yang Mingyi arrived, Guaizai was clapping his hands and cheering loudly, "Father so amazing! Guaizai wants to praise you, kiss kiss!"
Yang Mingyi’s footsteps halted abruptly.
Fang Zichen glanced up and saw him. "You’re here?"
Yang Mingyi, beautiful and sparing with words, replied, "Mn."
Guaizai looked at him, and he looked at Guaizai. It was as if there was some strange magnetic field between them.
One had eyes as large as a cow’s, the other narrow phoenix eyes.
One blinked, then the other blinked.
Time and everything else seemed frozen.
Fang Zichen found it somewhat amusing—their interaction felt like a pair of lovebirds flirting across a sea of people, exchanging secret glances.
He pinched Guaizai’s cheek. "Son, this is Brother Yang—" Then he realized that wasn’t right.
Yang Mingyi called him "Brother," and if Guaizai also called Yang Mingyi "Brother," wouldn’t that make them (FZC and Guaizai) the same generation?
"Wait, no. This is Uncle Yang."
Guaizai politely called out, "Yang pig."
[叔 (shū): Uncle; 猪 (zhū): Pig]
Fang Zichen: "..."
Yang pig?! More like Foreign Pig (洋猪, yáng zhū)!
What am I then, fucking Country Pig (土猪, tǔ zhū)?!
"It’s Uncle Yang, not Yang pig."
"Mn," Guaizai nodded, his little face serious. "It's Yang pig not Yang pig."
Fang Zichen: "..."
He’d pronounced "Brother Yang" just fine earlier.
"Look at me. Say it again—Uncle Yang."
Guaizai looked at him curiously. "Uncle Yang."
This time, he got it right.
So he had to say it consecutively to pronounce it correctly!
Guaizai was still young, after all—he couldn’t distinguish between "S," "C," and "Z" yet. But at least he wasn’t stuttering. Fang Zichen thought of the child from this morning—if Guaizai talked like that, he’d be driven mad with worry.
Fang Zichen asked Yang Mingyi, "Should we study here or go upstairs?"
The main hall was busy with people coming and going, and some were still staring at him. Yang Mingyi frowned. "Let’s go upstairs."
His expression was cold and detached, as if an aura of "stay away" surrounded him. Most people would instinctively avoid someone like this upon first meeting.
But Guaizai didn’t seem afraid. He ran over to Yang Mingyi, whose body stiffened slightly as a pair of soft, warm little fingers wrapped around his own. He looked down.
Guaizai smiled up at him. "Yang pig."
Yang Mingyi’s expression turned strange. The Yang family’s rear courtyard didn’t have children this young, and his cousins never played with him either. For a moment, he was at a loss.
Fang Zichen covered his mouth, holding back a laugh, and coughed tactfully. "My dear son, it’s Uncle Yang."
Guaizai: "Father, I know, is Yang pig."
Fang Zichen was at his wit’s end. Yang Mingyi said expressionlessly, "It’s fine. Even if he calls me a pig, that doesn’t mean I am one."
Fang Zichen: "..."
Well, that’s one way to look at it.
After going upstairs, Fang Zichen came back down to instruct Shopkeeper Yang, "If my fulang comes, call me, alright?"
Shopkeeper Yang didn’t even look up. "Got it."
"Do you even remember what my fulang looks like?" Fang Zichen, still uneasy, was about to say more when a waiter cut in with his own words from earlier: "Don’t worry, Brother Fang! Sister-in-law has big eyes, pink lips, and is drop-dead gorgeous. She’s my favorite."
The others around them laughed and teased.
Fang Zichen wanted to hit him. "Piss off!"
The wooden stairs were a bit high—a cruel challenge for the vertically challenged.
Guaizai was exhausted from climbing but didn’t complain, huffing and puffing all the way up.
Yang Mingyi led him into the room. Guaizai climbed onto the stool opposite him and sat properly, occasionally sneaking glances at Yang Mingyi. After enduring it for a while, Yang Mingyi finally looked back. Guaizai grinned:
"Yang pig, you so pwetty."
Compliments like this weren’t unfamiliar to Yang Mingyi, but hearing them from a three-year-old child was novel. "Do you even know what ‘pretty’ means?"
"I know!" Guaizai said. "Pwetty like Guaizai."
"..." Yang Mingyi pressed his lips together, the corners quirking up slightly—though not noticeably. "Who told you that?"
Guaizai answered, "Father say! Father say Guaizai is da pwetest baby."
Since he’d accepted the payment, Fang Zichen taught earnestly.
This place didn’t use Arabic numerals—everything was written in traditional characters like "一二三." Forget everything else; those characters alone had enough strokes to make writing a pain.
When he and Shopkeeper Yang did accounts together, for larger sums involving hundreds or thousands, Shopkeeper Yang would still be writing while Fang Zichen had already finished calculating the total.
As Fang Zichen taught Yang Mingyi, Guaizai sat quietly to the side, neither making noise nor causing trouble. There were snacks on the table, and Yang Mingyi picked up a piece to hand to him.
Guaizai took it with a smile. "Tank you, Yang pig."
Yang Mingyi was a ger and at an age where he needed to avoid impropriety. The door was left open, and after entering the room, Fang Zichen had only patted Guaizai’s head at the beginning without giving any further instructions—probably because men were naturally less attentive. After a moment of silence, Yang Mingyi bent down and whispered to Guaizai, "Don’t run around outside, understand?"
Zuixiao Restaurant had a constant flow of people, and children could easily get lost.
Guaizai held the snack and nodded. "I know! I no leave Father, no go outside."
He offered the snack to Fang Zichen. To Guaizai, this was a delicacy—last time, Zhao Ger had brought some home, and it was delicious!
"Father, eat."
Fang Zichen shook his head, gently pinching his cheek. "You eat it."
Yang Mingyi listened attentively, his sharp mind absorbing the material quickly. Before they knew it, half a shichen had passed.
Guaizai hadn’t moved. After finishing his snack, he grew sleepy. There was a soft couch in the room for resting, and after getting permission, Fang Zichen carried Guaizai over, letting him sleep there while fanning him gently with a book.
Shopkeeper Yang called for him at the door—Zhao Ger had arrived.
Author's Note:
Yang Mingyi starts with: Brother Fang → then Uncle Fang → and finally Father.
Fang Zichen: The older the title, the older I feel!
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