Chapter 33 — What Did the Little Friend Do
Chen Jingshen used some force, not heavy.
It stung where he tugged, enough to feel it but not enough to make someone snap.
The last person who grabbed Yu Fan by the hair still takes a detour whenever he passes Nancheng No. 7 High.
Yu Fan has few taboos in a fight, except this. Do not touch his head. Sticks are fine, hands are not. If someone yanks his hair, he can pick that person out of a crowd and pay it back hard.
Right now though, Yu Fan sits in the sand, mouth half open, breathing a little fast as he looks at Chen Jingshen, and he does not move.
He is too tired. Being held by the hair does not annoy him. It even relaxes him a little. Something twisted in him wants to let his whole weight hang on that hand.
Then something presses to the corner of his mouth.
Yu Fan jerks back to himself and, slow on the uptake, realizes he ought to slap that hand away and twist it off.
What do you mean “you just don’t learn.”
Who needs to be good.
The grip in his hair disappears. The noise in his head goes silent in an instant.
Chen Jingshen gathers his fingers loosely through Yu Fan’s hair, gives a brief rub, then pulls his hand back.
He has tossed his bag any which way. Sand clings to the bottom. Chen crushes the Band-Aid wrapper into a ball, tilts his head, and shoves it into a side pocket.
Yu Fan looks at the smear of his blood on Chen’s fingertips and suddenly cannot be bothered to curse.
He lets himself go slack and leans against the wall.
“Why are you carrying band-aids around,” he mutters, picking a fight because he can, “how timid can you be.”
Who is the one who keeps getting hurt.
Chen gives him a look, glances away, and says nothing.
What kind of attitude is that.
Yu Fan stretches a foot, taps Chen’s shoe, about to say something when a thought flashes.
What time is it.
He drags out his phone. Missed calls and messages cover the screen. He had set it to silent for the exam and never heard them.
15:27.
He fires a quick “I’m fine” into the group chat, then yanks Chen Jingshen’s sleeve hard.
“What are you doing?” Chen asks.
“What do you think?” Yu Fan then says, “The exam.”
“The gates are closed.”
“I can get in.” Yu Fan pushes off the wall to stand, glances at Chen still tidying his bag, and snaps, “Move.”
“More than fifteen minutes late. They will not let you in.”
Yu Fan pauses. That really is the rule.
His eyelid gives a jump. He cools his face and starts figuring out how to lure the proctor out so Chen can slip in.
Getting in is easy. The problem is Chen sits in the first seat. Too conspicuous. The moment the teacher comes back they will notice.
He could tie the proctor up.
Beside him, Chen lifts the bag onto his shoulder. While Yu Fan is thinking, he looks over. Chen’s uniform shirt got messed up in the alley. His collar is crooked and a long dusty streak runs down his left sleeve.
Yu Fan catches his arm and yanks the sleeve up.
A blue bruise on the hand, a bleeding scratch near the wrist, courtesy of some filthy punk with nails.
Yu Fan scowls at it for two seconds, thinks about that stick that almost landed, and clicks his tongue.
He grabs Chen by the arm to pull him away.
Chen does not budge. “Where.”
“The hospital,” Yu Fan says. “Tetanus shot.”
“It is not that bad.”
“Do it,” Yu Fan says through a frown. “I will pay.but Jinghen should carry himself to the hospital or bring himself.
Hence, the "you bring the meat." You bring the meat
Chen still does not move. He tosses out, very casual, “No. I do not like the smell of disinfectant.”
“You did not whine like this when you took me to the hospital.”
Chen lowers his eyes and lifts a brow, as if to say, you tell me.
Yu Fan exhales. “Then go in with your nose covered.”
“I faint at the sight of needles.”
Could you be any more precious.
Yu Fan’s patience is short. On any other day he would have left him. He stares him down, jaw tight, then grits out, “Do you faint in the slums?”
The taxi stops at the mouth of an old housing block.
Chen Jingshen takes it in. Ancient neighborhood. Electric lines tangled overhead. Mold-stained outer walls. Narrow street with fruit sellers pushing carts.
Yu Fan rarely takes cabs. He usually walks or rides the bus.
He pays, drags Chen out. Drags, literally. Standing at the gate, he still has a grip on Chen’s bag strap.
“You grew up here,” Chen asks.
“Mm,” the other says, perfunctory, and does not move.
Yu Fan tips his chin up a fraction as if confirming something.
Chen follows his line of sight. A closed window on the second floor.
Once he is sure the place is empty, Yu Fan gives the strap a tug. “Come on.”
The stairwell is tight. Two boys fill it. Yu Fan unlocks the door, toes it open.
Stale alcohol hits them. Worse than disinfectant.
The place is small. A sofa, a TV, a mahjong table, and the living room is done. Empty bottles on the floor. Half a dish of peanuts and chicken feet on the table.
Chen feels his strap pulled again and looks away, letting Yu Fan lead.
The boy’s face is flat, used to this.
Yu Fan’s room has its own lock. He needs a key to open it.
He shoves Chen inside, says “sit first,” then turns and goes back to the living room.
The window is thrown wide and the air moves. It smells clean.
Chen stands and looks around.
The room is small. A wooden bed, an old wardrobe, a table and a chair. Nothing else.
The desktop is layered with time. Half-torn stickers, ballpoint scrawl, knife scores, little punctures from who knows what.
Certificates paper the wall above the headboard. The bottom rows have been ripped to ragged corners. A few up top still have words you can read.
Chen’s gaze settles and pauses.
When Yu Fan comes back, Chen is already sitting in the chair.
Yu Fan throws a second chair down beside him, locks the door, then bends to pull open the first drawer on the right.
It is packed with first-aid stuff.
Calling it “medicine” is generous. It is disinfectant, bandages, band-aids, things you use to make do. There is also an unlabeled glass jar, dark red liquid inside.
Yu Fan picks out a few items, drops them on the desk, shoves up his sleeve. “Hand.”
Chen lays his hand in Yu Fan’s.
A scrap dealer’s speaker blares downstairs. A car horn bleats. The floor is low enough the clack of mahjong tiles carries.
Chen slouches loosely in the chair and watches the boy with the battered face dab disinfectant on his small wound with care.
His phone buzzes in his pocket. Chen’s fingers curl a little.
Yu Fan freezes. “That hurt?”
Two beats of silence. Chen’s mouth stays tight. “A lot.”
Disinfectant hurts?
“If you are scared of pain, why did you come,” Yu Fan says with disgust and eases his touch. “Sit in class and take your exam like a good boy, how hard is that.”
Chen looks at the swirl of hair at his crown. “Those on the wall are your awards?”
“No.”
“Dear Little Friend Yu Fan,” Chen reads, “congratulations on your outstanding performance at the Fito Elementary and Middle Summer Camp. You are hereby awarded the title of The Warmest Little Friend.”
“What did the little friend do?”
Yu Fan glances up at the wall and, sure enough, there it is.
“Who remembers,” he says. “Say one more word and I will stuff that thing in your mouth.”
Chen blinks. For no good reason he looks like he might let him.
When the wound is clean, Yu Fan opens the jar. A heavy, eye-watering smell rolls out.
“What is that?” Chen asks.
“Medicinal liquor. My grandpa left it.” Yu Fan remembers how precious his desk mate is, hovers the soaked cotton swab midair. “It stinks. Use it or not.”
Chen does not answer. He lifts his arm so the bruise meets the swab.
The liquor touches skin. Yu Fan flicks the swab into the tray and presses his thumb there, gentle twice.
“Bear it. You have to press awhile so it soaks in.”
When he is done, he lets go.
Then he pulls out a fresh swab and starts on himself.
“Want me to help?” Chen asks.
“No,” Yu Fan says, cool as ever, swab jabbing his own cut without a flinch. “My hands are not broken.”
A few minutes later.
Yu Fan twists himself around, swab jammed under his collar, trying to find the spot that hurts on the back of his neck.
Who jumps and rams an elbow into the back of someone’s neck.
Chen stands. “I will do it.”
“No…” The swab is taken from his hand.
Chen comes behind the chair and lifts the back of his collar for a look.
From the nape down to the shoulder, it is a big purple-blue patch.
His eyes darken. He is about to touch the swab down.
The boy in front pops a button on his uniform shirt, yanks the collar back without fuss, and bares a wide stretch of skin.
“Hurry up.” Yu Fan drags Chen’s chair closer, props his elbows on the backrest, drops his head. “Just smear it.”
Normally he would strip his shirt and it would be easier. With Chen here he weirdly does not want to, so he has been fussing and getting nowhere.
Pulling the collar a bit is no big deal.
Like hell it is.
Yu Fan’s neck is long and fine. Chen’s fingers sit on it as he works the liquor in, and he unconsciously measures the span.
Yu Fan sucks in a breath.
“Pain?” Chen asks.
“No,” Yu Fan says stiffly.
“Then why are you shaking?”
“Who the hell is shaking.” Yu Fan bites out each word. “Enough. Stop pressing.”
He starts to move, and Chen cages his neck, keeps him still.
“Wait. It has not soaked in.”
Yu Fan regrets everything.
At Chen’s “okay,” Yu Fan shoots upright and yanks his collar back in place, buttoning fast.
He scoops the supplies up and shoves them back into the drawer. His phone hums on the desk.
Zuo Kuan is wired. “F***. I ditched the exam to come save you and got caught climbing the wall by Fat Tiger. I have been standing in his office this whole time. Sh***. You good or not?”
Yu Fan leans on the sill. “I am fine.”
“What happened. You really got blocked?”
“Mm.”
“How many came. Why didn’t you call us.”
“A lot,” Yu Fan says. “They used Ding Xiao to trick me out. I thought it was just him.”
One on one would have been quick. He could have put Ding Xiao on the ground and made it back in time for the exam.
He did not expect that idiot to know kids from the neighboring school.
He glances back. Chen has his phone out too, sitting there quietly scrolling through a flood of messages.
Zuo Kuan rambles on forever, then hangs up.
When Yu Fan turns, Chen is already standing with his bag.
He pockets the phone full of unread alerts. “I am going back.”
He walks him downstairs, flags a taxi, then remembers and asks, “You can video at nine.”
Yu Fan stands with both hands in his pockets. He blinks. “… Mm.”
“Physics tonight.” Chen hooks his thumb under the strap. A beat. “You got a 9 on the math final last term.”
Yu Fan: “?”
“So missing this one does not matter. Pull the other subjects up.”
Yu Fan is about to tell him if you do not know how to talk you can shut up, but the words die at his mouth.
Chen brushes his head very briefly, a thoughtless ruffle. “I am going. Talk tonight.”
The tail lights vanish at the turn.
Yu Fan stands where he is for a long time, until another light cycle passes, before he snaps back.
Wait.
Did Chen Jingshen just put his hand on his head again?
Hands still in his pockets, he turns like a rusty hinge and shuffles back. His face keeps sliding from cold to murderous.
Chen Jingshen touched his head twice today.
He is going to take two of Chen Jingshen’s fingers.
How dare he. How are his hands this itchy. You think we are close enough for that.
Yu Fan rakes a hand through his hair. He needs to set a line.
The moment tonight’s video connects, he is throwing a knife on the desk and making him apologize a hundred times.
That night Yu Fan plays a few listless rounds of long-lost Snake.
Nine o’clock on the dot, the video pops up. Yu Fan picks up the fruit knife he had just used on an apple, answers with a blank face, and opens his mouth.
“Lift the phone,” Chen says, eyes flicking over the screen.
“What for.”
“Higher.”
What is with the fuss.
Yu Fan frowns, raises it, and grips the knife to give him a scare.
“Good,” Chen flips open the problem set. “I could not see you just now.”
Yu Fan stares down the little window of his own scowling face. After a long stare, he puts the knife down.
0 Comments