(Bonus Chapter: One Thousand Comments)
After the two of them had gone, Jiang Hengzhu emerged from the shadows, removed the earphones from his ears, and stepped into the dark stairwell.
He had come home at an inconvenient moment—Fu Zhen and Fu Ting had been in the middle of discussing the Shazhou Chronicles rights issue, and he hadn't wanted to intrude or to eavesdrop on anyone's private business. He'd stood outside with his earphones in and waited.
Several of the motion-sensor corridor lights were out. Jiang Hengzhu had no choice but to switch on his phone torch. He reached the second floor—and stopped. In the beam of light, at the bend of the staircase above him, he could see a figure sitting on the steps. The figure's shoulders were shaking.
He was crying.
Jiang Hengzhu looked away. His expression was neutral. He continued up the stairs.
The distance between him and the figure closed. He recognised Fu Zhen, though he said nothing. He passed him silently and continued toward the third floor.
By now he had already cleared Fu Zhen of any suspicion. There was no need for further contact. He kept his gaze lowered, listening to the sound of the television coming from inside the flat, and beneath it, a faint, intermittent sound of sobbing.
He was halfway up the third-floor staircase when Jiang Hengzhu stopped.
He stood still for a moment. Then—a door on the third floor opened; a neighbour heading out to pick up their child. They nearly walked straight into the man standing motionless on the stairs. They were about to demand to know who in the world was lurking up here in the dark when Jiang Hengzhu turned around and came back down.
He went to Fu Zhen's side, reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out a packet of tissues. He bent down and held it out. 'Want these?'
Fu Zhen heard the voice and looked up. He'd been crying so long, and the corridor was so dim, that he could barely make out anything in front of him. He could see only a dark shape—but he knew it was Jiang Hengzhu. His lashes were wet. He reached up and took the tissues. 'Thank you,' he said quietly.
'Your leg—is it hurt?' Jiang Hengzhu asked. His voice was very low in the dark.
Fu Zhen made a sound of confirmation. His eyes still held a thin film of moisture, and in them, Jiang Hengzhu's form was faintly reflected. He pulled out a tissue and wiped his face, then pressed both palms against the wall and tried to push himself upright. But his left leg had taken too hard a fall—he didn't even have the strength to stand.
From somewhere nearby came a low sound that might have been a sigh. Fu Zhen's eyes had a drifting, unfocused quality. After a moment, he released the wall and said to Jiang Hengzhu: 'I'll just sit here a little longer.'
Jiang Hengzhu crouched down in front of him. 'I'll carry you up.'
Fu Zhen hadn't expected this. Caught completely off guard, he stumbled over his words: 'No—that's—that's not necessary.'
'Get on.' Jiang Hengzhu had already turned his back to him, and the tone left no room for argument.
Fu Zhen hesitated for a second, then gave up the protest. He laid both hands on Jiang Hengzhu's shoulders. 'Thank you.'
Jiang Hengzhu said nothing. He hooked both hands under Fu Zhen's knees and rose slowly from the ground. He climbed toward the upper floors, his palms warm, his footsteps steady and sure. Fu Zhen's chest rested against the curve of his shoulder. If Fu
Zhen had been paying close enough attention, he would have heard—through the thin fabric between them—a heartbeat like a drumbeat, insistent and fast.
Fu Zhen had lost a great deal of weight over these two years. He was nearly one-eighty in height and barely fifty-eight kilograms—almost nothing but bones. It was a little uncomfortable, the way they pressed into you.
In the amber light of the corridor, their two shadows merged into one, moving slowly up the wall as Jiang Hengzhu climbed.
Third floor, fourth floor. The stairwell was hushed. Fu Zhen looked at the crown of Jiang Hengzhu's head. His hair grew in an anti-clockwise spiral. The surrounding hair was thick and dense and had the faintest natural curl. Fu Zhen found it unexpectedly endearing. He sniffled—then, on an impulse, asked: 'Do you have a girlfriend?'
A flash of memory cut through Jiang Hengzhu's mind: that night at the bar, the Little Mermaid's slender arms around his neck, the soft bow of a body arching upward, and himself pressing deeper—
The Little Mermaid had tears sliding from the corners of his eyes, but they hadn't become pearls. They had soaked the pillow into a dark stain. A heaviness settled in Jiang Hengzhu's chest all at once.
He answered: 'No. But there is someone I like.'
A cold teardrop fell from Fu Zhen's chin and landed on Jiang Hengzhu's neck. Jiang Hengzhu's heart gave a small involuntary shudder. He didn't know why the person on his back was crying, and he didn't know why he had come back down from the third floor and was now carrying this young man all the way up to the sixth.
Fu Zhen made a quiet sound of acknowledgement. The tone revealed nothing—no sadness, no particular happiness. After a moment, he asked: 'Does that person like you back?'
Jiang Hengzhu paused. Ever since that night, he hadn't seen the Little Mermaid again.
'I don't know,' he said.
Neither of them spoke again. The stairwell held only the sound of Jiang Hengzhu's footsteps. Fu Zhen looked down and counted the stone steps as they passed beneath him, secretly hoping the staircase might go on a little longer.
He counted to forty-seven. Jiang Hengzhu stepped over the last one and arrived outside the door to their flat. Fu Zhen patted him gently on the shoulder. 'Put me down.'
'Can you walk on your own?' Fu Zhen nodded. 'Yes.'
Jiang Hengzhu carefully lowered Fu Zhen from his back. 'Thank you—for today.'
Jiang Hengzhu made a short sound of acknowledgement and didn't say anything further. He steadied Fu Zhen by the arm and pushed open the security door, walking with him all the way to his bedroom door.
Outside, the first neon lights of evening were coming on. Across the city, one by one, ten thousand windows lit up. After dark, the city was more alive than it had ever been in daylight.
When Fu Ting came home, Fu Jianzhen was already sitting at the dinner table waiting for him. He saw him come in and asked: 'How did it go?'
Fu Ting nodded. 'I have it.'
A trace of satisfaction crossed Fu Jianzhen's face—the quiet pleasure of a man who could still do small, meaningful things for the daughter he cherished above everything. He looked at Fu Ting more carefully. 'Your colour isn't good. Something happened?'
Fu Ting shook his head. He opened his mouth, said 'Dad'—and found he couldn't say another word after it.
He pressed his hand to his forehead. 'I'm tired. I'll skip dinner and rest.'
Fu Jianzhen's smile faded. Something deep and still moved in his gaze. 'You saw him today on the construction site?'
Fu Ting made a sound of affirmation. 'How is he now?' Fu Jianzhen asked.
Fu Ting didn't know why his father was asking. Perhaps Fu Jianzhen felt that the punishment had been too severe and was considering some form of restitution. Or perhaps he felt it had been too lenient and wanted to add to it.
Fu Ting knew this man—his father—well. In all his years, Fu Jianzhen had never regretted a single decision. The fact that he was asking about Fu Zhen now most likely meant the second option.
For reasons he couldn't entirely explain to himself, Fu Ting had no interest in telling his father. Instead, he changed the subject: 'Wanwan wants to set the wedding date for the end of January.'
Fu Jianzhen was immediately diverted, his brow creasing with a different concern. 'Why choose that time?'
The end of January was nearly the New Year. Getting married then would only create more work for everyone—she was an actress, and with year-end awards ceremonies, television gala performances, and everything else bearing down on her at once, how could her body stand the strain?
Fu Ting was less concerned. A softness came into his expression. 'If she wants it then, let her have it. We'll help as much as we can.'
Fu Jianzhen conceded the point with a sound. Fu Ting had a point. He was about to give away this most precious daughter—and yet he felt, in this moment, not a drop of reluctance. What he felt instead was something uncomfortably close to relief.
Fu Jianzhen's gaze went elsewhere—unfocused, drifting.
Fu Ting went upstairs. But instead of going directly to his own room, he found himself, inexplicably drawn, to the door of the room next to his.
This was Fu Zhen's room. Since the day he had been thrown out two years ago, it had been kept closed. Fu Ting stood in the corridor for a long time. Then at last he raised his hand, gripped the handle, and pushed the door open.
The room looked exactly as it had on the day Fu Zhen left. Only a thick layer of dust had settled over everything. On the desk sat a copy of Oscar Wilde's The Nightingale and the Rose.
Fu Ting swept his gaze around the room. On the day Fu Zhen left, he had taken nothing with him.
Fu Ting lowered his eyes, turned, and left.
Fu Zhen returned to his room and, teeth clenched, managed to get his trousers off. His ankle had gone purple-blue. The skin on his left knee was scraped raw and red. The pain had him shaking. This was clearly going to prevent him going back to the construction site tomorrow.
He called the foreman and took two days of sick leave—two days when he could stay in the flat and focus on his illustrations without having to drag himself through the cold.
He opened the bedside cabinet, reaching for his painkillers. As his hand closed around the small bottle, he remembered: he'd run out last month. He'd need to go to the pharmacy.
But the hour was late—the nearby pharmacies would all be closed. He'd have to manage through the night and go first thing tomorrow.
Fu Zhen sketched for a while, but the pain became unmanageable. He climbed into bed, intending to sleep early.
But when he turned off the light and lay down, he couldn't sleep at all. The room was dark. Jiang Hengzhu was in the room next door—the person he was in love with, lying just on the other side of that wall. What was he doing right now? Had he gone to sleep already?
And then the words from the stairwell came back to him, cutting clean through everything else.
Jiang Hengzhu already had someone he liked.