Bamboo, Wood, Wolf, Horse - Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven: Xia Fei’s Secret

Under the intervention of external forces—namely, two passing adults who had no patience for a bunch of freezing, half-drowned kids brawling in a river—the four human dumplings were promptly fished out and hauled onto the riverbank.

Though the fight had been broken up, none of them had truly calmed down. Their bodies still hummed with leftover adrenaline, their minds still burned with unresolved frustration. But the moment they stepped onto solid ground, reality hit them like a slap of cold wind—they were shaking too hard to even stand properly, let alone throw another punch.

Fu Kun had no recollection of how he made it home. His brain was a muddled blur of icy water, stiff limbs, and uncontrollable shivering. Fortunately, the river wasn’t far from the neighborhood, and somehow, through sheer muscle memory, his feet had carried him back. By the time he stumbled through the front door, his mother had already noticed something was off.

She fired off a series of questions, but Fu Kun’s only response was the sound of his teeth chattering violently—clicking together so hard that his jaw ached.

His mother immediately sprang into action. She bundled him up in blankets, boiled ginger soup on the stove, and fussed over him like a mother hen. The entire time, Fu Yijie hovered nearby, his dark eyes following Fu Kun’s every move with an intensity that made it clear he wasn’t going anywhere.

The moment their mother tucked Fu Kun into bed, wrapping him up tightly like a cocoon, Fu Yijie climbed up beside him and latched onto his side, hugging him with quiet determination.

Despite everything, Fu Kun’s constitution was surprisingly resilient. After all the chaos, he didn’t even catch a cold—just sneezed a few times before his body warmed up again.

It was only after confirming that he wasn’t on the verge of death that their mother finally demanded a full account of what had happened.

Fu Kun, of course, didn’t dare tell the truth.

He kept his story simple, stating that he and Sun Wei had been fooling around near the bridge and accidentally fallen into the river.

His mother narrowed her eyes, skepticism written all over her face. She wasn’t buying it. Turning her sharp gaze to Fu Yijie, she asked, “Yijie, tell Mommy—did it really happen like that?”

Fu Kun felt his stomach tighten.

He knew his little brother was smart—but he was also too young to be good at lying. When he was Fu Yijie’s age, he couldn’t lie to save his life. Whenever their mother asked him something, he had always answered with pure, unfiltered honesty.

Fu Yijie, however, didn’t even glance at him. His expression remained neutral as he looked up at their mother and answered with perfect ease.

“Gege rolled down the slope.”

Their mother clicked her tongue in disapproval. “Useless.”

That single word was all she spared him before turning away. No comfort. No concern. Just a passing remark, as if she had long since given up on expecting anything better from him.

Fu Kun felt an odd mix of irritation and gratitude toward Fu Yijie. On one hand, his little brother had taken the liberty of painting a rather humiliating picture—him tumbling down a hill like some clumsy fool—but on the other hand, he had done it to help him cover up the truth.

In the end, Fu Kun let it slide.

That night, after his mother was done scolding him, his father came home from work.

Before anything else, the household erupted in celebration.

With great enthusiasm, his parents pinned Fu Yijie’s newly earned award onto the wall, practically glowing with pride. His father beamed as he admired it, patting Fu Yijie on the head like he was the family’s greatest treasure.

But once the excitement settled, he turned toward Fu Kun—and the mood shifted instantly.

“Look at your little brother—so capable, already bringing home awards. And you? You’re always up to no good, dragging him into trouble.”

His father’s scolding didn’t stop there. He took the opportunity to lecture Fu Yijie as well, though his tone was noticeably softer.

“Don’t follow your brother into his nonsense. We were inexperienced as parents when we raised him—we let him run wild, and now he’s too far gone to fix. We can’t shove him back in and start over, but you—you’re still good. You’re obedient, smart. Don’t let him ruin you.”

Fu Yijie listened attentively, nodding along to every word. Not once did he argue. Not once did he protest.

Fu Kun sat there long after the conversation ended, staring at nothing in particular.

That night, and for many nights after, he struggled to wrap his head around his parents’ contradictory expectations.

They wanted him to take care of his little brother—but they also wanted him to stay away and not lead him astray.

And yet, no matter what he did, Fu Yijie remained attached to him like a shadow, an inseparable presence at his heels.

No matter how hard he tried to shake him off, his little brother never once let go.

During the New Year holidays, the whole family went to Grandma’s house, and Fu Kun, after much effort, finally found the perfect chance to sneak off with his older cousins to the arcade. But just as he was about to slip away, Fu Yijie clung to his sleeve like a determined little shadow, gripping the fabric in his small hands and following him step for step. Even when they reached the arcade, the kid refused to let go. In the end, Fu Kun stood outside for five full minutes, staring longingly at the flashing neon lights and the muffled sounds of arcade machines, before finally gritting his teeth, turning around, and stomping back home in defeat.

And this wasn’t the only time. Fu Yijie had a strange little quirk.

The Fu family was large, filled with uncles and aunts and a whole swarm of younger cousins. But no matter who it was, whether it was a distant relative or a close sibling, the moment anyone called Fu Kun “ge,” Fu Yijie would immediately come running. Without fail. Every single time.

He would fling himself at Fu Kun, arms locked tight around his waist, and fire off an endless barrage of “gege, gege, gege,” like he was competing in some bizarre contest, determined to drown out all the other voices.

If Fu Kun was in a good mood, he would respond to each one, lazily drawling back a “Mn?” or “Yeah?” over and over. But when he was annoyed, he would snap, “Go play somewhere else!” Yet no matter how Fu Kun reacted, Fu Yijie never seemed to care. If he got yelled at, he would just pause for a moment, blink up at him with wide, innocent eyes, then, after a brief silence, start all over again.

The relatives found this hilarious. If anything, it only made them dote on Fu Yijie more.

With his soft features, bright round eyes, and quiet, obedient nature, he was like a delicate little porcelain doll—beautiful and well-behaved, the kind of child everyone wanted to scoop up and spoil.

Their grandmother, in particular, loved to tease him.

“Yijie, you’re such a pretty little thing,” she would say, pinching his cheek with a fond chuckle. “When you grow up, you’ll have to marry someone even prettier than you!”

Fu Yijie nodded, solemn as ever.

“And what kind of person would that be?”

He answered without hesitation.

“Someone like my gege.”

The entire family laughed about that for nearly a year.

For Fu Yijie, childhood was a blank, hollow space. The years he spent in the orphanage were nothing but a blur—empty, colorless, without warmth or play. There was nothing to look forward to, nothing to truly call his own. The only thing he had learned to do was hide food, hoarding scraps like a little squirrel, because nothing was ever certain.

But then Fu Kun came along.

He was the one who pulled him out of that gray, monotonous world and dragged him into something bright and wild and completely unfamiliar—a world where kids climbed trees and jumped fences, where they waded into streams trying (and failing) to catch fish, where they chased after bird nests and got into scuffles, where they flicked marbles across the pavement and played simple, silly games that seemed to hold entire universes of fun.

Even the smallest things—flipping game cards, playing tag—felt new, felt thrilling, felt alive.

Fu Kun wasn’t just his older brother.

He was the person who taught him what it meant to live.

Even if this gege was always getting into trouble.

Even if this gege spent more time standing outside the school gates in punishment than actually sitting in class.

Even if this gege sometimes lost his patience and snapped at him.

Even if this gege would try to shake him off when they played.

A wife is supposed to be the most important person in your life.

So naturally, that person had to be his gege.

To outsiders, Fu Kun was nothing but a reckless troublemaker, a child always up to no good.

But Fu Yijie felt like he was the only one who truly saw him—really saw him.

He knew how many good qualities his gege had, knew how much effort and care went unnoticed.

Fu Kun hated doing homework, but when he wasn’t outside running wild, he could sit at his desk for hours, completely absorbed in sketching little cartoon figures in his notebook.

Fu Yijie loved watching him draw.

Fu Kun’s drawings were good—better than the ones other kids copied from picture books.

Even the Ninja Turtles, which Fu Yijie had always thought looked ugly, became cool under Fu Kun’s pen.

But it wasn’t just the drawings he liked. He liked the way Fu Kun looked when he was focused, the way his brows furrowed just slightly, the way his fingers moved so easily, so confidently.

And he loved stretching out his hand while Fu Kun was drawing—because without fail, every single time, Fu Kun would pause, glance at his outstretched palm, and then, with an easy flick of his wrist, start doodling tiny animals on the back of his hand.

“Yijie, this one’s you.”

Fu Kun grinned as he sketched a plump, round rabbit on his skin.

Fu Yijie kept that rabbit for over a week.

Even when he washed his hands, he was careful not to scrub the back too hard, afraid the little drawing would disappear.

In the end, it was their mother who noticed and scrubbed it off for him, shaking her head in amusement.

There were only two things in the world that could keep Fu Kun voluntarily sitting at a desk: drawing and crafting odd little inventions like periscopes.

Fu Yijie, however, was different.

From first grade to third grade, he had always been the kind of child adults loved—quiet, obedient, the kind of student teachers never had to worry about.

Every parent-teacher meeting was full of praise for him.

And the wall in their house—the one that had once been left blank, waiting for Fu Kun’s awards but never receiving any—was now completely covered with Fu Yijie’s certificates.

But his own bedroom wall?

That one was filled, top to bottom, with Fu Kun’s drawings.

“I need to talk to you about something.”

Fu Kun stood at the foot of the bed, idly kicking the wooden frame while holding a poster in one hand.

Fu Yijie, sprawled beneath the blankets, barely stirred. His eyes remained shut as he made a lazy noise of acknowledgment.

“Mhm?”

“Which ones can I take down?” Fu Kun gestured at the wall plastered with his old drawings. “I need to clear some space for this.”

“What’s ‘this’?” Fu Yijie finally cracked one eye open.

“A motorcycle.” Fu Kun flipped the poster around, showing off the glossy image of a sleek Harley-Davidson.

Fu Yijie said nothing.

Fu Kun waited. He waited some more. After what felt like an eternity, Fu Yijie’s eyelids drooped shut again, as if the conversation was already over. Frustrated, Fu Kun waggled the poster impatiently.

“If you don’t answer, I’m just gonna rip some down at random!”

“None of them,” Fu Yijie murmured without even looking. “Put it somewhere else.”

Fu Kun let out a long, exaggerated groan.

“You can’t be serious. What’s your deal with this? There aren’t even any faces on this one!”

This wasn’t the first time they’d had this argument.

The first time, Fu Kun wanted to put up a Little Tigers poster—denied.

Then he tried The Four Heavenly Kings—also denied.

The reason? According to Fu Yijie, having faces on the walls would make him have nightmares at night.

Even when he wanted to put up a Saint Seiya poster, Fu Yijie wouldn’t budge.

And now? Now he couldn’t even put up a motorcycle.

Fu Yijie flipped onto his stomach, burying his face into the pillow as he mulled it over for a long moment. Finally, he lifted a hand and pointed upward.

“You can stick it on the cabinet door.”

Fu Kun followed his finger, gaze landing on the location his little brother had so generously designated—the overhead cabinet their father had installed above their beds.

A cabinet so high up that unless you physically climbed onto the top bunk, you’d never even see the poster.

For a long beat, Fu Kun just stared.

“Yijie,” he sighed, climbing onto the bed and flopping down next to him. “Just take down some of the old ones. If you really want them, I can always redraw them for you, no big deal.”

“It’s not the same.”

Fu Yijie moved quickly, wrapping his arms around Fu Kun’s waist and throwing one leg over his stomach, as if to physically pin him down and prevent him from tearing anything off the walls. His voice was quiet but firm.

“Each one is different. And they’ve been up there for two or three years.”

“They’re old.” Fu Kun let out a resigned sigh. “And my drawings back then were terrible.”

“I like them.”

“You wouldn’t prefer better ones?”

“They’re not the same,” Fu Yijie frowned. “You’re better-looking now than when you were little, but I still liked you just the same back then.”

Fu Kun let out a breathless laugh, caught off guard.

“Well, aren’t you just the smooth talker.” He gave Yijie a light shove but didn’t argue anymore. “Fine, fine. Cabinet door it is.”

The truth was, Fu Yijie wasn’t just saying things to make him happy.

Maybe even their parents hadn’t noticed, but Fu Kun had been changing.

Ever since he started fifth grade, he’d been growing into his features—leaner, sharper, more striking. The neighbors noticed, always commenting that “Kun is looking more and more handsome these days.”

And he wasn’t just changing on the outside.

By the time he reached sixth grade, he started caring—about the clothes he wore, about how his hair was cut. He wasn’t that scrawny kid who used to run around with him like a wild thing anymore.

Fu Yijie watched him for a long moment, then suddenly leaned in and pressed a small, fleeting kiss to his cheek.

Fu Kun blinked, momentarily stunned.

“You’ve learned how to kiss properly now, huh?” He teased, chuckling. “No more drooling all over me like before?”

“Mhm.” Fu Yijie nodded solemnly, as if it were a matter of great importance.

After a brief pause, he shifted, resting his ear against Fu Kun’s chest.

“Ge.”

“Yeah?”

“Are we going out this afternoon?”

Tuesday afternoons were usually their time—Fu Kun, him, and Diudiu, running wild until the sun dipped below the rooftops.

“…This afternoon, huh?”

Fu Kun ran a hand absently through Fu Yijie’s hair, his fingers threading through the soft strands.

“I already made plans with some classmates.”

“Oh.”

Fu Yijie didn’t say anything else.

“You wanna play some games?” Fu Kun offered. “I borrowed a game cartridge from Sun Wei yesterday—brand new, 45-in-1. You can play it this afternoon.”

“Mm.”

This was another one of Fu Kun’s changes.

The times he took Fu Yijie out with him were dwindling, gradually being replaced by outings with his classmates.

Fu Yijie knew them all. He knew exactly which ones had been coming around the most lately.

And every time, without fail, she was there—Zhang Kexin.

Fu Kun didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seemed happy to have her around.

Things had shifted ever since Xu Jiamei got together with Wang Zhiqiang.

Before that, Xu Jiamei had been “Fu Kun’s wife”—a title the neighborhood kids bestowed upon her in jest.

But now? Now, it was Zhang Kexin.

And unlike his barely-there, sometimes outright impatient attitude toward Xu Jiamei, Fu Kun actually acknowledged Zhang Kexin’s presence.

He didn’t ignore her.

Didn’t brush her off.

Didn’t act like she was just some pesky afterthought.

“Fuuu Kuuuun—!”

A voice, sweet and lilting, drifted up from downstairs.

Perched on the sofa, remote in hand, Fu Kun exhaled, set it aside, and stood up. He strode over to the window, popped it open, and gave a quick wave to the girl below before turning back inside to grab his coat.

“Yijie, I’m heading out.”

Fu Yijie climbed off the bed and padded over to the window. He glanced down, catching sight of Zhang Kexin standing near the entrance.

She was dressed in a pink corduroy jacket and a black woolen skirt, her outfit topped off with a matching pink hat. A few of Fu Kun’s classmates stood beside her, chatting amongst themselves.

Closing the window, Fu Yijie muttered under his breath, It’s only March. Isn’t she cold wearing a skirt?

Just as Fu Kun reached the door, he hesitated.

Turning back, he studied Yijie’s expression—there was something muted, something vaguely off about it. A quiet kind of indifference.

After a beat, he walked back inside.

“I’ll bring you back something to eat.”

Fu Yijie remained curled up on the couch, gaze still trained on the television. He gave the briefest nod.

“What do you want?”

“Roasted sweet potatoes.”

Fu Kun chuckled, nodding. “Easy enough. There’s a street vendor on practically every block selling those.”

Satisfied, he made for the door again, but just as he stepped past the threshold, Yijie’s voice called out behind him.

“From Old Zhang’s stand, okay?”

Fu Kun froze mid-step.

“…Huh?”

Old Zhang was practically legendary when it came to roasted sweet potatoes.

His stall was well-known—so well-known that people would go out of their way just to buy from him. But the thing was…

His stand was far.

Like, way out of the way.

Fu Kun turned back, eyeing Yijie sprawled across the couch, absentmindedly rubbing his stomach.

“Just kinda craving his, all of a sudden.”

Then, after a pause, he sighed and waved a hand dismissively.

“Never mind, it’s too far. Forget it.”

“It’s fine. I’ll go.”

Fu Kun lingered in the doorway, watching as Yijie tugged his mom’s throw blanket tighter around himself.

Something about the way he sat there—half-buried under the fabric, alone in the quiet room—made an odd pang rise in his chest.

Before he could think too hard about it, he shoved his hands into his coat pockets and said,

“I’ll bring it back for you.”

Yijie peeked out from under the blanket, a single eye visible as he grinned.

“Thanks, Ge.”

For a second, Fu Kun had half a mind to grumble about how much of a hassle this was, running halfway across town for a damn sweet potato.

But that small, satisfied smile?

Yeah.

That wiped away any lingering annoyance before it could even take root.

At the end of the day, when it came to Yijie’s tears or his smiles, Fu Kun had to admit—

They worked on him better than even their mom’s worst nagging.

Fu Kun dashed down the stairs, taking them two at a time, and the moment he stepped outside, Zhang Kexin was already there, her pink corduroy coat catching the light as she reached out a hand in front of his face, her eyes glinting with mischief.

“Open your mouth.”

Fu Kun instinctively leaned back, caught off guard by the sudden demand. She was so close that he couldn’t even make out what she was holding.

“What?” He frowned slightly, giving her a wary glance.

“Just open up,” Zhang Kexin huffed, her brows knitting together in impatience. “What, you think I’m gonna poison you?”

Fu Kun shot her another skeptical look but eventually parted his lips. The next second, something small and chewy was pushed into his mouth—a piece of beef jerky.

The group of classmates standing behind them erupted into a chorus of whistles and laughter.

“Oooh, feeding him now?!”

“Damn, Fu Kun, you guys are disgusting.”

Fu Kun, still chewing, ignored their teasing and strolled over to grab his bicycle. With a casual wave of his hand, he called out, “Alright, enough of that. Where we headed?”

Zhang Kexin, unfazed, hopped onto the back seat of his bike, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket.

“Hold his waist, Kexin!” someone heckled, followed by a round of snickering.

Fu Kun turned his head just in time to catch Jiang Bin grinning like an idiot. Narrowing his eyes, he bared his teeth at him. “Oh yeah? Keep running your mouth, and I might just stop keeping quiet about those little love confessions you’ve been carving into the school walls.”

Immediately, the teasing turned on Jiang Bin.

“Wait, wait, WHO?!”

Jiang Bin panicked. “Hey, hey, let’s not get off track here—are we going or not?”

Sun Wei, who had been watching from the sidelines, finally spoke up, bouncing slightly on his newly inherited secondhand bicycle. “Let’s go climb the hill!”

“Sounds good!” Fu Kun pushed off with one foot, then reached over and smacked Sun Wei on the back as he pedaled past.

Even though they weren’t in the same class, Sun Wei always managed to tag along whenever Fu Kun’s classmates made plans.

“Lushan Rising Dragon Strike!” Sun Wei yelled, dramatically slapping Fu Kun’s back in retaliation.

Fu Kun yawned lazily. “Yeah? Your mom beats your dad.”

Sun Wei snorted. “Pegasus Meteor Fist!” Then, before Fu Kun could counter, he quickly added, “Your mom practices Monkey Fist!”

Fu Kun chuckled, shaking his head. “Oh yeah? Try saying that in front of my mom.”

Sun Wei immediately deflated. “…I wouldn’t dare.”

Upstairs, Fu Yijie remained by the window, small fingers gripping the sill as he watched the group ride off. He stayed there, eyes trailing after them until they disappeared around the corner, the laughter and shouting fading with them.

Only then did he exhale, stepping away from the window and letting the curtains fall back into place.

Plopping onto the couch, he stared blankly at the television, but his thoughts wandered, his mind elsewhere.

After a moment, he stood up again, grabbed Diudiu, and took the little dog downstairs for a run around the courtyard.

By the time they returned, Diudiu was completely wiped out, flopping onto the floor like a rag doll and promptly passing out.

Fu Yijie nudged him a few times, but the dog refused to move, only huffing a little in protest before curling up tighter.

Left with nothing else to do, Fu Yijie finally pulled out the game console. Rummaging through Fu Kun’s drawer, he found the 45-in-1 game cartridge.

Their parents had set a strict rule—thirty minutes of gaming per day. Usually, Fu Kun was the one playing, while Fu Yijie sat beside him, watching.

He was never particularly good at video games. In the beginning, he had mashed the A, B, up, down, left, right buttons wildly, with no idea which tiny pixelated figure on the screen was actually his. One round of Battle City and he could easily get Fu Kun’s tank blown up multiple times, his reckless gameplay doing more harm than good.

Eventually, he got better, but his enthusiasm never really grew. He preferred sitting on the side, watching Fu Kun play—half his attention on the screen, the other half on the way Fu Kun’s fingers moved over the buttons, swift and precise, like it was second nature.

But today, he felt different. This was a new cartridge, filled with games he had never seen before.

Might as well try it out.

But after only five minutes of playing, Fu Yijie tossed the controller aside with a sigh. This so-called 45-in-1 cartridge was no different from the 10-in-1 or 20-in-1 ones their mom had bought before—just a handful of the same old games recycled over and over again.

Boring.

Losing interest, he dragged himself out the door and started heading toward Xia Fei’s house.

Whenever Fu Kun was too busy to hang out with him, he usually went to find Xia Fei. Ever since that time Xia Fei caught him trying to smash Big Silly Bear with a kettle but never told a soul, Fu Yijie had taken a quiet liking to him.

Xia Fei’s place was like a treasure trove of books, and Fu Yijie could spend an entire afternoon curled up on his bed, flipping through pages, completely lost in the stories. Whenever he stumbled upon a word he didn’t recognize, Xia Fei would patiently teach him, never making him feel stupid for not knowing.

When he arrived, he noticed that the door wasn’t fully shut—it was slightly ajar, leaving a thin sliver of space.

Fu Yijie hesitated. Leaning lightly against the frame, he peeked through the gap but didn’t see anyone inside. Just as he was about to push the door open and call out Xia Fei’s name, a voice stopped him in his tracks.

Zhang Qingkai.

“I never said I was definitely going,” Zhang Qingkai’s voice came from the inner room, and something about it sounded off—not like his usual relaxed, easygoing tone.

Fu Yijie froze, suddenly unsure whether to walk away or go inside.

“You mean you want to go,” Xia Fei’s voice was quieter, but there was a sharpness to it. “If you really want to, I won’t stop you. It’s like they say—when it rains, it pours; when a man wants to get married, he just goes ahead and does it.”

“I only said my mom wants me to meet this person,” Zhang Qingkai retorted. “That’s all. It’s not like it means anything. Haven’t I been putting it off this whole time?”

“Well, if your mom tells you to meet them, then you go meet them. It doesn’t mean anything, right?” Xia Fei’s voice was unreadable, flat. “Whether you put it off or not—it doesn’t change a damn thing for me.”

“Forget it. I can’t win an argument with you.”

“Then why the hell did you march across the Yalu River in full military glory just to come here and talk nonsense?”

Zhang Qingkai let out a short laugh, the tension in his voice finally breaking. “You’re impossible. Come on, let’s go for a walk.” He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “…Maybe that’s what I like about you.”

His voice trailed off.

Then silence.

Had the argument ended?

Fu Yijie frowned slightly. Deciding he had hesitated long enough, he finally pushed the door open and stepped inside.

But the moment his eyes landed on Xia Fei and Zhang Qingkai, his footsteps faltered, and his breath caught in his throat.

Xia Fei was leaning against the wall beside the desk, and Zhang Qingkai—Zhang Qingkai was holding him.

Head dipped low, arms wrapped around Xia Fei’s waist.

The second the door creaked open, they sprang apart, but it was too late.

Fu Yijie had already seen it.

They were kissing.