For the past eighteen years, Tong Xilin had been searching for love.
For the first sixteen, he wanted fatherly love. But Tong Yuzhi didn’t love him that much and passed away early.
After turning eighteen, he met Kong Ji. Yet the fatherly love Kong Ji gave wasn’t pure. So he wanted pure love, but he turned out not to even be the true object of that affection.
Kong Ji’s words were practically laying it bare: The entire foundation of my kindness to you is based on the fact that you resemble him.
Tong Xilin replayed everything he’d done before—those acts of ingratiation or awkward probing, those feelings he thought were so well-concealed, including every question he’d asked Kong Ji today. At this moment, they all became glaring punchlines.
A clumsy, adolescent crush—how could it possibly escape someone like Kong Ji, who’d long since gone numb and treated emotions as pastime?
Glaringly obvious.
A pathetic overestimation of himself.
He had no strength to move. He lay on Kong Ji’s lap, crying. He blinked several times, trying to hold back those scalding, humiliating tears, but he couldn’t suppress them at all.
Kong Ji scraped his index finger across, wiping them away.
“Why are you crying?” he asked softly.
“It’s too bright.” Tong Xilin pointed at the overhead light, preserving his last shred of juvenile dignity. “I miss my dad.”
Kong Ji didn’t expose the lie. He stubbed out his cigarette, then patted Tong Xilin’s shoulder like soothing a child.
“Why did you tell me all this?” Tong Xilin murmured to himself.
Kong Ji traced Tong Xilin’s face over and over, studying it intently, and answered thoughtfully: “It’s a good thing for you.”
Tong Xilin couldn’t understand.
He grabbed Kong Ji’s hand and bit down hard at the base of his index finger. The tip of his tongue tasted the saltiness of his own tears.
Kong Ji was a little surprised. His brows furrowed slightly, but he didn’t pull his hand back. He gazed steadily at Tong Xilin, allowing him to leave behind a bloody bite mark.
Within that force, he felt a strange sense of parting.
“I should go to sleep.”
Dazedly, Tong Xilin finished biting. Dazedly, he pushed himself up from the sofa. Dazedly, he pushed away Kong Ji’s hand offering support. The moment he bit down, the tears had stopped. Rubbing his eyes, he walked toward the bedroom.
“The honey water,” Kong Ji reminded him. “Drink it. Otherwise, you’ll feel awful tomorrow.”
Tong Xilin turned back and picked up the cup. The water had long since gone from warm to cool. The sweetness of the honey coated his mouth, making him nauseous.
He held a mouthful, then set the cup down, frowning as he stood by the coffee table. After thinking for a moment, he went to the bathroom and spat it out.
He didn’t have the energy to shower. The clear signals from his body told him that standing any longer would make him pass out.
He conscientiously brushed his teeth. After washing up, he headed toward his room, didn’t look at Kong Ji, who was still leaning back in the sofa, and said crisply: “Goodnight, Uncle.”
Kong Ji sat alone in the living room for a very long time.
Messages came in on his phone. Still Little Fan, sending words of affection, hoping to get a chance for a date.
Kong Ji tilted his head and glanced at the screen, didn’t reply, couldn’t even be bothered to pick it up. He drew his gaze back and continued staring at Tong Xilin’s door, rubbing the bite mark on his index finger slowly with his thumb.
He sat alone for the length of three cigarettes, until there was no sound at all from Tong Xilin’s room, just the rustle of rain outside the balcony. He picked up that cup of honey water—the one Tong Xilin had barely sipped—and slowly drank it down.
Tong Xilin dreamed all night.
In the dream, perspectives shifted bewilderingly. One moment he was himself, another moment Tong Yuzhi, another moment Kong Ji. No logic whatsoever.
He dreamed of when he was very small, of that long slope at the entrance of the alley. He had fallen again. His chin scraped bloody against the cold, slick pavement.
He looked up at Tong Yuzhi walking ahead. Tong Yuzhi also stopped and turned back to look at him, speaking in that familiar indifferent tone: “Get up on your own.”
The perspective shifted then. Through Tong Yuzhi’s eyes, Tong Xilin saw his small self, wearing a washed-out, pale, old padded jacket, cuffs all frayed. Not crying, not making a fuss, propping himself up on the frozen road, trying to get up.
In the dream, he felt pity. Controlling Tong Yuzhi’s legs, he stepped forward, bending down to pick himself up.
The perspective shifted again. He returned to the body of little Tong Xilin. He felt a pair of strong hands lifting him. He looked up and saw Kong Ji’s face.
“Run,” Tong Xilin said to himself in the dream.
The running footsteps brought a strong sense of falling. A “thud thud” sound echoed like reality. He jolted awake from the dream to find bright daylight sneaking through the gap in the curtains. The rain had stopped.
The “thud thud” from the dream was Kong Ji knocking on the door.
He pushed the door open a crack and looked at Tong Xilin, who hadn’t come back to his senses yet. He watched the still-dreaming expression on the kid’s face and the hair sticking up on his head. His eyes were soft. “It’s eleven o’clock.”
Tong Xilin made an “Ah” sound, buried his face and rubbed it. His temples throbbed with pain.
“Headache.” He pressed his head into the duvet and mumbled.
Kong Ji walked over, sat on the edge of the bed, lifted Tong Xilin’s face, and kneaded his temples.
“First time drinking will do that.” He asked Tong Xilin, “Will you drink again in the future?”
“Tastes better than sweet stuff.” Tong Xilin let him press for a while, then noticed the still-unfaded bite mark on Kong Ji’s hand and poked it. “Does it hurt, Uncle?”
“What do you think?” Kong Ji extended his hand for him to see.
Tong Xilin didn’t look. He rolled over and got out of bed from the other side, stretching. “I’m gonna go take a shower.”
Kong Ji watched his back as he walked out of the room without looking back, withdrew his index finger, and lightly snapped his fingers.
He had thought Tong Xilin would dodge him again, like he had for the past half year, avoiding all intimate contact. But he didn’t.
Yet something about Tong Xilin had indeed changed. He could feel it, couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
Tong Xilin gave himself a thorough shower, standing under the spray and letting the water pour over him like a plant.
A hot shower after a hangover was very refreshing. The stuffiness in his body was washed away, and his throbbing head recovered. He stood in front of the mirror drying his hair, looked at his own face, and leaned close to the mirror to examine it.
Really looks alike.
He thought.
But I’m not you, and you’re not me.
Coming out of the bathroom refreshed, Kong Ji wanted to take him out to eat. Tong Xilin didn’t refuse and nodded obediently. “Alright. Let me change.”
The boxes he’d moved back from school were still unpacked, filled with the seasonal clothes Kong Ji had sent him. Tong Xilin didn’t open them. He didn’t look at the clothes in the wardrobe either.
He pulled out an old backpack from deep inside the closet—the one he’d carried when he followed Kong Ji home last year. It was stuffed full of old clothes.
Kong Ji had once told him to sort through them and throw them away. Tong Xilin hadn’t been able to part with them—they were all bought with money.
He dug out a T-shirt. Pale, soft yellow, the simplest design, with only a square color-block print on the back for decoration. It had been crumpled in the bag too long; the fold creases were exceptionally clear.
He’d grown taller this year. Fortunately, the T-shirt had been bought large in the first place—Tong Yuzhi always bought him clothes with the plan that they’d be worn for several years. Now, wearing it didn’t look awkward.
He pulled on a pair of denim shorts that ended above the knee. Old shorts too. He stood in front of the mirror and looked at himself—that familiar Tong Xilin from the small town.
Scratching his hair, he walked out and called to Kong Ji: “Ready. Let’s go, Uncle.”
Kong Ji was standing on the balcony smoking. He turned his head and took in Tong Xilin’s outfit, raising an eyebrow and biting the cigarette.
“Old clothes?” He came over and tugged the cuff, unfolding the rolled-up edge.
“Mm.” Tong Xilin acknowledged, then went to the entryway to put on shoes.
He had no choice in shoes. All his old shoes had been disposed of by Kong Ji. The shoe cabinet was filled with an assortment of expensive new shoes.
He glanced them over and took out a pair of the simplest white sneakers.
Kong Ji stood behind him, sizing him up, from head to toe.
Shut away in school studying for a whole semester, Tong Xilin had been kept pale. Wearing light yellow didn’t look bad.
After looking him over, Kong Ji took a white bucket hat from the cabinet—a match for the shoes—and placed it on Tong Xilin’s head.
“Now it’s suddenly stylish,” Tong Xilin said, looking with him at their reflection in the mirror, smiling a little.
“You naturally have delicate features.” Kong Ji pressed his head through the hat. “These clothes are too old. After we eat, I’ll take you to buy some new ones.”
“No need.” Tong Xilin pulled the door open and walked out. “I’ll buy them myself.”
He walked ahead with a light step. After entering the elevator, he leaned against the car and messaged Zhou Qi, humming a carefree tune through his nose, like a student genuinely following an adult out to eat.
Kong Ji glanced at him from time to time. Tong Xilin chatted with Zhou Qi seamlessly, not looking up.
Lunch was at a Southeast Asian restaurant, fitting the early summer atmosphere.
Tong Xilin habitually sat by the window, elbows propped on the table, playing on his phone, two slender legs dangling under the table, waiting for the food.
“In a good mood,” Kong Ji noted.
“Mm.” Tong Xilin studied the phone screen intently, not meeting his eyes, continuing to message Zhou Qi. “Worked things out.”
Worked what out—Kong Ji didn’t ask. Tong Xilin wasn’t planning to explain, only adding: “After we eat, I’m gonna go find Zhou Qi and hang out. Also buy some clothes, and stuff I need for college.”
“You don’t need me to go with you?” Kong Ji asked.
Since Tong Xilin had come here, everything that needed buying had been handled by him.
“No.” Tong Xilin set his phone down. “You go do your thing, Uncle.”
Over the course of a whole afternoon, Tong Xilin not only bought clothes, he also found a summer job.
It was still the internet cafe next to Zhou Qi’s residential compound. Business was good during the break. Brother Chen didn’t hold the last-minute bailout against him—the terms were still what they’d agreed on before. Both sides were happy.
“Lost your mind again?” Zhou Qi had been up late last night playing. He was sprawled in the ice cream shop like a vampire that would die in sunlight, half-dead and groaning. “Your uncle out of money or what? You’ve gotta come out and do this job.”
Tong Xilin treated him to a massive ice cream sundae and ordered a bowl of shaved ice for himself. After two small spoonfuls, he pushed it aside and lowered his head to sort through the shopping bags on the sofa.
“And you bought a bunch of ugly clothes.” Zhou Qi leaned over the mountain of ice cream to steal some of Tong Xilin’s shaved ice.
“Ugly?” Tong Xilin seriously considered his opinion.
“Ugly.” Zhou Qi propped his face and looked at the pile of bags, then at Tong Xilin. “Not the same level as what you usually wear. What you’ve got on today is tacky too. Where’d you dig up these old clothes… except for the hat and shoes.”
“I think it’s fine.” Tong Xilin knew Zhou Qi just talked like that, no malice intended. “This is the real me.”
The latter half of his sentence was too soft. Zhou Qi didn’t catch it, leaning in with his ear. “Your real what?”
“Eat your food.” Tong Xilin pushed the shaved ice bowl toward him.
Kong Ji came home from the studio at ten-thirty that night. The moment he entered the living room, he saw the sofa absolutely covered in clothes and bags. Tong Xilin was crouched in front of it, sorting through them, holding them up against himself with one hand while snipping off tags with the other.
“Bought a lot.” Kong Ji thought his focused expression was rather cute. He came over and stood beside him, looking together.
“Welcome back, Uncle.” Tong Xilin looked up and greeted him.
At first glance, nothing seemed off. Upon closer inspection of the colors and styles of these clothes, Kong Ji felt his aesthetic sensibilities suffer an impact and a challenge.
He picked up one of the paper boxes—it was stuffed with five colorful bundles of socks.
“What is this?” He genuinely couldn’t hold back his laugh.
“Socks.” Tong Xilin stood up and explained earnestly. “Pure cotton.”
Kong Ji certainly knew they were socks.
“Why…” He wanted to ask why he’d bought such gaudy socks, not convenient for matching outfits.
Before he could finish, Tong Xilin scooped up two hoodies hanging on the sofa and called to him: “Uncle, can you take a look at these for me?”
In Tong Xilin’s hands were two colors—light blue and pure white. Same style. Same size.
“I like both, but having two is a bit wasteful.” He held each one up against himself in turn. “I want to return one.”
Kong Ji’s first notice went to the white hoodie.
Tong Yuzhi had owned a similar one before. He suited wearing white, and his son, having inherited his genes, suited it very well too.
“Keep this one.” He pointed at the white one.
Tong Xilin lifted his eyes to look at him. Not surprised at all.
He pulled the white hoodie on over his head, took a step closer to Kong Ji, leaned his face in to look at him, and asked quietly: “Does it look like him?”
“Hm?” Kong Ji looked back at him.
“My dad,” Tong Xilin said, his eyes curving.
Kong Ji fell silent.
Tong Xilin grabbed the hem and flipped it upward in one crisp motion, lifting the pale yellow T-shirt with it and revealing a narrow, tight waist.
“But I like the blue one.”
He tossed the white hoodie back onto the sofa, picked up the scissors, and—snip—cut the tag off the light blue hoodie.
