Jiang Shi fell silent.

He moved closer to Cheng Ye, lifted his shirt, and looked at the long scar. The wind passed between them, and under Jiang Shi’s gaze, the boy’s lean waist rose and fell uncontrollably, making the centipede-like scar seem to come alive.

Until Jiang Shi placed his hand on it.

The moment his fingertips touched bare skin, Cheng Ye’s world seemed to freeze— the wind stopped its roar, swaying branches paused, and the only sound that grew louder and faster came from his own heartbeat.

His fingers dug into the splinters of the wooden chair, and it took all his strength not to lose control in front of Jiang Shi.

Jiang Shi, unaware, let his fingertips glide across the hideous wound. His intention was compassion, but the uneven texture made a subconscious fear crawl up from his heart. He suddenly withdrew his hand, and the hem of the shirt fell back down.

Someone else had suffered such a serious injury, and yet he felt afraid of the scar’s grotesque appearance. That guilt made his voice soften, “Does it hurt?”

“It doesn’t.” Cheng Ye’s voice was hoarse as he shifted awkwardly.

More than pain, it was something else that tormented him.

Jiang Shi rubbed his fingers against his shirt, finally remembering why he came, “My mom asked me to tell you to come eat at my house.”

Cheng Ye grabbed the jacket he had just taken off, draped it over himself, and stood up a little hastily. “Okay, I’ll just change clothes.”

The wind picked up again. Jiang Shi leaned against the cherry tree; the branches swayed in his eyes.

He tucked in his hands, pale fingers fiddling with a loose thread on his clothes. Though nothing was really there, he felt as if a centipede had crawled onto his fingertips.

Behind the door, Cheng Ye leaned against it.

Hunching his back, he pulled his jacket open and looked down.

Beside him, a crack in the wooden door let a sliver of sunlight slip through, spilling a golden line onto the ground.

He pressed close to the slit and saw Jiang Shi outside.

The boy wore a light green overshirt with a white T-shirt underneath. The soft green dulled his sharp edges, leaving only clarity and purity, like a budding gladiolus.

Jiang Shi turned, and the wind lifted his jacket, revealing his slim waist.

Cheng Ye stared at that narrow waist— so slender he could wrap one hand around it, so fragile it seemed as though the wind might blow it away.

He spread his hand against the door, sunlight spilling through his fingertips, casting twisted, grotesque shadows onto the ground.

Drip—

Sweat rolled down Cheng Ye’s face, stinging his eyes. Through the watery blur, the boy beyond the crack shimmered with dreamlike light.

He pressed against the door, breathing in the faint trace of Jiang Shi carried by the breeze, and whispered almost inaudibly:

“Jiang Shi…”

“…Jiang Shi…”

…

Jiang Shi suddenly turned his head.

The sun was still dazzling, the wind still loud, and the door not far from him stood quietly shut.

Cheng Ye was taking too long. Jiang Shi grumbled inwardly—how could changing clothes be this much trouble?

He took a few steps toward the door, wanting to open it and check, but then the memory of that awkward incident he once walked in on flashed in his mind.

“…”

Jiang Shi stopped outside.

“Cheng Ye?”

He called out once.

No answer.

“Cheng Ye?”

He called again.

Half a minute later, Cheng Ye’s voice came from inside.

“Mm, I’m here.”

His voice was low, muffled in the spring wind. Jiang Shi stood unmoving. “Are you done yet? Why are you taking so long?”

“Almost.” Cheng Ye said, “Give me two more minutes.”

Jiang Shi: “…”

“Are you going on stage for a fashion show? Changing clothes this long?”

“The drawstring on my pants got knotted. Can’t untie it right away.”

Jiang Shi: “…”

Another two minutes passed. A thud came from inside, followed by Cheng Ye’s voice:

“Just a little longer.”

…

Five minutes later, the door finally opened. Jiang Shi stood with arms crossed, glaring. “Well, young master, finally done?”

Cheng Ye was poor. His clothes were the same few worn-out pieces: frayed, short, ill-fitting. In two weeks, his once buzz-cut hair had grown out some, though his features remained striking.

His mother was from a minority ethnicity—Yi. He carried it in his blood: a high nose bridge, deep-set eyes, narrow sharp gaze. His looks were wild, yet in front of Jiang Shi, he always lowered his eyes, softening that wildness, making him seem honest.

At Jiang Shi’s scolding, his gaze skimmed over the boy’s pretty eyes, then his nose, lips, and finally the shirt hem the wind teased open.

He raised a hand, compared the width from a distance, then quickly pulled back, returning to his harmless look.

“Sorry for making you wait.”

Jiang Shi huffed, “Not eager to eat when called? Serves you right to starve.”

Cheng Ye only smiled meekly.

Walking beside him, Jiang Shi leaned in and sniffed, suspicious, “Why do you smell weird?”

The scent was faint, but the wind carried it steadily from Cheng Ye toward him.

“My clothes sat in the house for two weeks. Probably got musty.”

Jiang Shi: “…”

Cheng Ye stepped aside, “Sorry. Does it smell bad? I’ll keep my distance.”

Jiang Shi did dislike it, but Cheng Ye’s reaction made him oddly irritated instead. “Who said it smells bad? It’s been raining—clothes molding is normal.”

Cheng Ye stepped back closer. “You really don’t mind?”

Jiang Shi sniffed again. “It’s okay.”

Hearing that, Cheng Ye smiled faintly, shrinking his hands at his sides, walking slowly behind him.

The wind blew, pulling the faint scent from him onto Jiang Shi’s hair, onto his clothes…

But it wasn’t enough for Cheng Ye.

Expressionless, he broke a twig. The jagged end pierced his palm until blood seeped between his fingers before he let go.

…

By the time they finally got home, Jiang Xue’s pork trotters were already stewed.

She was squatting at the door washing vegetables. Seeing them, she called, “Come on, we’re having hotpot today. Once I finish washing these, we can eat.”

Jiang Shi plopped into his chair.

Cheng Ye went to help Jiang Xue wash vegetables.

They were homegrown. With the sharp temperature difference these days, the cabbage from the field was especially crisp and sweet. When Cheng Ye snapped one, it came apart with a crisp crack.

Jiang Xue glanced over, then froze. “What happened to your hand?”

Cheng Ye opened his palm. A flap of skin had lifted, soaked pale white in water.

He quickly closed his hand and kept breaking cabbage. “Nothing, probably caught on the zipper while changing clothes.”

From the chair, Jiang Shi glanced at him.

Jiang Xue frowned. “You must have been rushing too much. Changing clothes and managed to tear yourself up like this?” She refused to let him help, pushing him toward Jiang Shi. “Leave it. You’re already hurt.”

She turned to Jiang Shi. “Didn’t you buy some band-aids and put them in the hall cabinet? Go get them and patch him up.”

Jiang Shi, unwilling to move, tilted his chin at Cheng Ye. “On the cabinet. Get it yourself.”

Cheng Ye fetched the band-aids, then crouched by Jiang Shi, his tall frame shrinking pitifully small. “I can’t really do it myself. Jiang Shi, can you help me?”

Jiang Shi opened his drowsy eyes, red marks still pressed into his forehead from the chair.

After a few seconds, he slowly sat up, took the band-aids, and held Cheng Ye’s hand.

Cheng Ye swallowed, breath shallow.

Jiang Shi stared at the torn flesh for a while, touched it once, and startled himself into pulling back.

He had never done something like this for someone. His movements were clumsy, his nails scratching the wound more than once.

But Cheng Ye watched him intently.

Jiang Shi finally got the band-aid on, wind lifting the hair from his forehead. Lips pressed, he asked, “Do you get any compensation for your injuries?”

So close, Cheng Ye could smell the fragrance on him. His throat burned, his voice rasped, “Not sure. The foreman asked, but probably nothing. At best, medical fees.”

“How could that be?” Jiang Shi’s hands tightened, “That’s illegal, isn’t it? You should sue them.”

“Can’t.” Cheng Ye said, “I’m underage. No contract. And the mine owners all know each other. If I report it, no mine will hire me again.”

Jiang Shi fell silent.

Cheng Ye comforted him, “It’s fine, just a scratch. I’ll heal fast.”

…

After dinner, Jiang Shi went back to his room.

The red wedding quilt still covered the bed. A wooden wardrobe sat in the corner, a desk beside it.

He shut the door and sat down.

Taking a candy from his bag, he unwrapped it in his mouth and opened the desk drawer. Jiang Xue never entered his room without permission; the box inside was just as he left it.

Chewing the candy, he sat cross-legged, opening the box.

When he left, he had returned everything that belonged to the Song family. He had only taken a few clothes and this box.

Inside was his savings over the years— pocket money, cash from selling gifts. Not much, not little, exactly twenty thousand.

If Jiang Xue ever turned against him, this twenty thousand would be all he could rely on.

The candy melted on his tongue, the red quilt cast an ambiguous glow over the box.

A centipede crawled into his eyes.