Chapter Text
“Gege! Gege! Come look!” Lili shouted up towards the house, adding the finishing touches to a hideously drawn chalk flower. Lili’s lack of artistic ability was impressive. At first, Qian assumed that it was just Lili’s age that made her struggle to replicate basic shapes and patterns, but now she was almost nine years old and couldn't even draw a convincing stick figure. Needless to say, her chalk rendering of a tulip looked more like a demented clown. What she lacked in artistic vision, she made up for in dramatic flair, as she flung down her chalk, placed her hands on both hips, and puffed out her chest in pride, gazing down at her very own Frankenstein’s monster of an artwork. She made to wipe her hands clean on her shirt, thought better of it, and wiped the chalk dust on Yuan’s back instead. The little boy sat hunched over a detailed landscape, scribbling shading on a river, dotting fall leaves onto a tree, scrunching his face in focused determination. He did not even notice Lili wiping her dirty hands on him, too immersed in creating his mountain scene.
“Do you like it?” Lili asked as Qian strolled outside and leaned against the door frame, frowning against the midday sun.
“It’s nice,” Qian lied, unable to break his sister’s heart. Despite his surly mannerisms and aversion to affection, Qian was careful towards Lili’s feelings, not wanting to contribute to any insecurities she might develop. Being a girl was hard - or so Qian was told -so he erred on the side of flattery. Lili wasn’t the sharpest or most well-mannered girl, but she was charming in her way. Yuan, on the other hand, was eerily exceptional at all that he did. He was accustomed to being best at everything , so much so that he had stopped receiving praise from students and teachers for his efforts. He was now looked at as some kind of freak of nature, to be feared and resented, never applauded. Scorn and apprehension did not faze Yuan though, and he continued on without a care. Teachers asked him where his motivation came from, assuming that Yuan’s family was overly strict, or else that the boy had some neurotic compulsion to over-achieve, but as far as they could see, there was little involvement from home and Yuan did not seem particularly high-strung. All the boy would reveal about his complex mind was that he “wanted to make his gege proud.” And Qian was proud, if a little bit uneasy at Yuan’s attention to detail and quiet wisdom, which had developed well beyond his years. Sometimes Qian spoke to the boy as if he was already an adult, forgetting that Yuan was still only a child.
Qian sighed as he looked back and forth between Yuan’s chalk art and Lili’s, trying and failing not to compare the two children. Did Yuan always have to be so… good? So attentive? So careful? But isn’t that what I like about him? Qian thought, shaking off a sudden sense of foreboding . Deep down, he knew that something wasn’t quite right about his brother. He also knew, though he hated to admit it, that he liked Yuan more than he liked Lili. He loved Lili, she was his sister and she was more precious to him than anything. But he did not enjoy Lili’s company as much as he did Yuan’s. Lili was a normal child, too loud, too messy, too selfish and simple. Qian did not blame her for those things, but he did cherish their noticeable absence in Yuan.
Yuan immediately stopped what he was doing at the sound of his gege’s voice, turning to stare at him, assess his mood, and readjust accordingly. Qian frowned past him at his chalk art, a slight frustration shading his dark, fiery eyes. Yuan could tell that his artwork was objectively good, and that was precisely why Qian was frowning. He knew by now that his atypical abilities made his older brother upset. He knew it wasn’t jealousy that caused this reaction, though Qian had a lot to be jealous of. Yuan was living the life that Qian was supposed to live. While Qian worked day in and day out to provide for his siblings, Yuan was sitting in his old school, wearing his old uniform, learning from his old teachers, and becoming an even better student than Qian was. But Qian did not regret his choices, Yuan could parse that much from the way his brother treated him, like something to be treasured. No, Qian was not jealous. But he was still perturbed, and Yuan was determined to lift his spirits. So he skipped over to Lili, wiped chalk on her nose and cheeks and stuck out his tongue. “Bet you can’t catch me!” he taunted, dodging his little sister as she tried to yank his arm. Yuan sprinted down the road, turning back to catch the dazzling glint of his gege’s ear to ear grin and feigned head shake of ‘disapproval.’ Qian loved it when Yuan acted like a kid. He also loved it when Yuan acted like an adult. No wonder the boy was confused. It was difficult to know which version of himself would please his mercurial brother most.
“She’s a regular Pablo Picasso, that one,” San Pang let out as he approached the front steps and gazed down at Lili’s flower, cracking a smile and biting into a plum. “Where are the kids anyway?” He pushed past the door and shuffled inside, kicking off his shoes and spreading out on the couch to watch his reality tv.
“Running around.”
“You keep letting them run around like strays and they’ll come home with fleas!” San Pang nagged, like a disgruntled husband displeased with his wife’s lenient parenting style.
“There’s a flea sitting on my sofa right now. The kids don’t even need to leave the house to pick one up,” Qian quipped back, used to evading San Pang’s critiques of his parenting with snide remarks.
Qian walked into the kitchen to finish putting away the dishes, and winced as he reached to place a mug on the top shelf, alerting San Pang with an audible hiss.
“Hey, are you injured again?” San Pang questioned from the couch, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “When are you going to stop working for that guy? I can get you a job at the meat-packing plant in a heartbeat, you know.”
“I’m fine, just a bruised rib.”
“What kind of example are you setting for the kids? Coming home covered in bandages. Smoking, too.”
“They’re my kids, stay out of it.”
San Pang liked to nag, but he knew that pushing Qian too much would result in his stubborn friend shutting him out for good. So he stayed out of it, though for San Pang, “staying out of it” lasted approximately one to three business minutes.
Lili and Yuan came barreling back in, red-faced and giggling, having had their fill of chasing each other across the neighborhood. “I won, I won!” Lili shouted with a triumphant look on her face. The kids often raced each other, and Yuan always won. When Yuan won, Lili would throw a fit, claiming that he cheated. Of course, this was not the case, and as long as no one played into the girl’s delusions, she would give up her crocodile tears within a few minutes. The last two times the children raced each other, however, Lili mysteriously beat Yuan, and Qian suspected he was letting his little sister win.
Qian gave Yuan a pointed look as he said, “Wow, Lili. You must be getting faster! How did that happen all of a sudden?” Lili shrugged and bounded upstairs to play in her room. Yuan looked down at his feet, sheepish. “Come here, xiao gui,” Qian beckoned the little boy over with a wave of the hand and a look of suspicion. “Did you let her win?”
“She just gets so upset when she loses. And then she cries. And then you get angry!” Yuan defended, keeping his head bowed in shame. “Sorry, ge.”
“Hey, look at me,” Qian crooked a finger under his didi’s chin and forced his eyes upward. “I’m not mad,” and the toothy grin Yuan gave him was so bright that Qian pulled away, rubbing at the back of his neck to diffuse the uncomfortable display of brotherly affection. “Um, here,” he muttered, reaching for a dinner mint in the junk drawer behind him and tossing it at the boy. Yuan bounced on the balls of his feet, beaming at the treat and clasping onto it for dear life, as if Qian had just chucked him a million bucks. “Go on, then. Go play,” Qian caught eyes with a stunned San Pang, whose mouth gaped open in disbelief.
“What are you looking at?” Qian glared.
“Did you just throw him a bone? Is he a dog? If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were keeping him as a pet.”
“Well, good thing you do know better. Make yourself useful and start the rice,” Qian snapped. San Pang seemed to disapprove of everything his friend did since dropping out of school and joining the gang. As if he knew that Qian secretly enjoyed his new high-risk lifestyle. As if he was guilt-tripping him for gambling with his future. And Qian knew that San Pang was right, but he couldn’t muster the strength to stop. Honest work did not appeal to him, nor could it support his family. Qian was good at his job, and his pay reflected it. Though Le Ge was crooked, he paid his best men well, and, owing to Qian’s willingness to risk his own life, Le Ge paid him handsomely.
Qian was only sixteen when he fell into the seventh circle of hell: the world of underground boxing. Le Ge’s associate Hu Siye was formidable in this world. His name was legend in Wanhua, and owing to his utter disregard for human life and willingness to play dirty, he was one of Le Ge’s most trusted partners. It did not take a detective to determine that Hu Siye was a dangerous man. He had cultivated a highly-stylized existence, owing to decades of service in the mafia: cufflinks, double-breasted suits, cigars, and Rolex watches. Qian was raised with a healthy skepticism of the wealthy. “What one lacks in morality he makes up for in wealth!” Qian’s mom recited on repeat as if reading a passage from the holy book, not entirely sure of its meaning, but certain at the gravity of its message. There was no question that Hu Siye was wealthy, and thereby no question that he was dangerous. Hu Ge was a silver fox, suave, sensual, immaculately groomed. But there was something windswept, a bit wild, in the way he spoke. Like he knew something unthinkable about each person’s past and was waiting for the slightest provocation or unleash it, to gather its momentum and spin it into a cyclone, forever shifting the appearance of the landscape. Hu Siye had the power to transform lives. He frequented the night club, always with a gorgeous woman, and always eyeing Qian with the calculated glint of a man sizing up his livestock being led to slaughter. Hu Siye wanted Little Wei Ge.
“You’re good. Efficient. Quick. A bit off-kilter,” Hu Ge assessed, taking a drag of a Long Life cigarette, coughing a bit as he inhaled. “How would you like to make a bit of money?”
Wei Qian was never one to deny cash, though he was Le Ge’s property and couldn’t readily enter into an arrangement with another man. “I’m with Le Ge. Ask him,” he shrugged, trying not to look too excited at the offer. He sensed that the old man was all business. Any emotional excess was at best a waste of energy, at worst a waste of money. Qian respected this philosophy, and imagined it would be easy to fall into step with him.
The next day, Le Ge and Hu Siye strolled into the night club and sent Qian to watch his first fight. Le Ge approached him with a mad hatter’s grin, grabbing onto both shoulders and giving Qian a shake. “When you fight, it’s me you’re representing,” he warned. “ Make me proud.”
And like that, Qian was off, following Hu Ge to an abandoned warehouse frequented by the biggest underground fight club in the city. The thought of getting murdered crossed Qian’s mind as they drove deeper into the abandoned lot, but he shrugged it off. There was money to be had, after all. And there are certainly worse ways to die than being shot or beaten by some old man.
When they approached the warehouse, Qian was nearly bowled over by the sound, shouts and screams of more than a hundred people raring for a fight. The smell of the place hit him next - cheap beer, cigarettes, sweat - a claustrophobic scent. There were men everywhere, climbing on top of storage containers, hanging from the rafters, perched on window ledges and plastic crates, crowding and craning into the center of the room. A makeshift metal railing was the only thing that kept the crowd from collapsing in on itself.
This must be the ring, Qian thought as they pushed their way to the railing. It was easy to get to the front; the crowd parted when they saw Hu Siye. Clearly he was important. Perhaps there was some good money in fighting for him. There’s no canvas, just concrete, Qian noted, eyeing the ground, dark stains smattering the floor. Blood. And despite himself, his pulse quickened, tongue darted out to lick at his lips, pupil’s dilating with a hunger to be beaten by a formidable opponent.
But Qian wasn’t fighting today. Today he was just a spectator.
A hush came over the room as the fighters entered. Both were of average build, in their early-twenties, not remarkable in muscle or height. Besides the tattoos littering one’s neck and face, and the deep purple bruising on the body of the other, both looked like normal guys. This shocked Qian, who expected the fighters to either look like Bruce Lee or the Hulk. Hu Siye seemed to notice his surprise and leaned in to speak for the first time since entering the venue. “They’re more vicious than they appear. The guy with the graffiti face could put you in the hospital with one punch.” The men weren’t wearing gloves, just wraps. There was only one referee, though Qian doubted much was against the rules. A woman in a black cropped shirt and tight leather shorts sauntered to the center of the ring, holding a card to indicate round one was beginning.
The bruised man was a bit slower on his feet, though his footwork wasn’t bad. No Agility, Qian thought, scanning his form for any noticeable strengths or weaknesses. With the way Face-Tat was focused on his opponent's shoulders, Qian figured that Bruised Guy liked body shots. He was right. Bruised Guy lunged forward, driving a powerful blow into Face-Tat’s gut, sending him crashing against the metal barrier and tumbling into the crowd. He was pushed back to his feet, a fierce glint to his gaze that meant he was ready to strike. Qian caught his breath, unsure what Face-Tat would do to retaliate. He hadn’t revealed much about his fighting style, preferring to lay back and let his opponent deal the first blows. He danced forward, light on his feet, sending Bruised Guy back-pedaling, ready to dodge the attack. Face-Tat delivered a right hook, but Bruised Guy ducked, sending Face-Tat flying past. He approached again, but Bruised Guy did nothing to stave him off. Face-Tat predicted that his opponent would want him close, and was ready to side-step the cross to the stomach. Now he had the upper hand, and Qian leaned forward in anticipation. A headhunter. Qian grinned, delighted to see someone who fought like him. Face-Tat swarmed Bruised Guy’s face, delivering blow after quick blow to his head. Bruised Guy tumbled to the ground, blood gushing from a cut on his eyebrow and pouring from his nose. He slammed into concrete and moved to shield his face from the onslaught as Face-Tat dove down to reach him. The bell sounded. Round one was over.
Hu Ge turned to Qian, gauging his reaction. Qian was enthralled, pulling at the railing like his life was waiting behind its metal barrier, just out of reach. He wanted in. He would pay money to go against a brawler, heavy-handed, aggressive, fighting on the inside. He wanted to fight someone strong, stocky, solid enough to punch a wave of force through his skinny body, an earthquake that would pulse in aftershocks of pain days later. Qian wanted the residual ache, that deep penetrating stab of a bruised rib each time you took a breath, the iron taste of blood trickling intermittently from a busted lip, the dull reminder of slamming into concrete radiating from the base of the spine. It was the most seductive feeling on earth. He wanted that feeling more than anything.
“Like what you see?” the old man chuckled, reading Qian’s star-struck expression.
God, yes. Qian gave a curt nod, eyes never leaving the ring. By the final round, both men were gushing blood, leaving splatters of it covering the floor. Face-Tat was leering, blood staining his teeth and making him look truly deranged. He was a bit of a showman, trying to intimidate his opponent with strange faces and open threats. Bruised Guy, for his part, was stoic, revealing nothing of how the taunting affected him. He preferred to let his fighting speak for itself. Qian knew then that this guy was no joke. The quiet ones are always the deadliest, only divulging the extent of their insanity as they bashed your head into the ground.
The final round began to thunderous applause. The audience was chomping at the bit, chanting and thrashing, spitting like men possessed as they watched the fighters in the ring. Qian would have thought the sight mad if he was not a part of it. The frenetic energy had lured him in, he felt so enraptured that he began to sweat. In a matter of minutes he was drenched in it, blinking through the heat of the warehouse, willing his wide eyes to capture every flash of movement in the ring.
Face-Tat had been badly wounded in round two, crashing into the ground, where Bruised Guy drove blow after blow into his upper body. He reached out to claw at Bruised Guy’s face, but his opponent grabbed both wrists with one hand, pinning them to the floor. He took the man’s hair in his other hand, yanking a fistful of the sweaty, tangled nest of it and bashing his head into the ground.
By round three Face-Tat was slower on his feet, stumbling and gasping for oxygen, blinking through the pounding fog of his head wound. He kicked out, trying to send Bruised Guy back so that he couldn’t deliver anymore blows. He easily dodged the kick, stepping forward and swinging a combination into midair, just missing his target. Face-Tat sent a higher kick, but Bruised Guy caught his ankle, sending him twisting to the ground with an ear-splitting crack. He had shattered his shoulder, crying out in agony. Qian felt a ringing behind his ears as all the blood in his body dropped to the pit of his stomach.
The sound aroused him.
He’d never heard something so unguarded. Qian wanted to make a sound like that. To feel so intensely that he released the most vulnerable of confessions. In that moment, Qian found the tattooed man to be beautiful, hunched over, covered in blood, bone protruding from his thick brown flesh. Qian was sure the fight was over, but Face-Tat spit a stream of bloody saliva onto the floor, glared at Bruised Guy, and laughed.
“You punch like a fucking faggot,” he leered, possessed. For whatever reason, this taunt set the bruised man off, and he mounted his opponent in seconds, bashing his head and shoulder into the concrete, pressing down, and eliciting a blood-curdling scream. It didn’t take long for Face-Tat to pass out from the pain. The ref blew the whistle, calling the fight, but Bruised Guy wouldn’t let up. He bashed the man’s head into the floor over and again, muttering something that sounded like “faggot” under his breath. Men climbed over the railing, trying to pry the fighter off the crumpled body below him. He finally broke away, collapsing to the ground in a wild heap.
A man put his fingers to the neck of the body, checking for a pulse. As he stood up, shaking his head no, signaling that Face-Tat was dead, a group of men rushed in from outside, yelling “Cops! The cops are here!”
And suddenly, Hu Ge was grabbing onto the collar of Qian’s shirt and yanking him backwards. A stampede had formed and men swarmed everywhere, trampling each other to get to the exit. A man was dead, the cops were coming, and everyone in the area was thoroughly fucked. Luckily, Hu Siye had a car waiting out back, primed for the possibility that the police could arrive, or that a dead body could crop up. When they were far enough away from danger, Hu Siye turned to Qian, sighing, “Take some time before deciding if you want to fight for me. But it really doesn’t turn out like that very often.” Qian wanted to laugh in the old man’s face. He still hadn’t come down from the high of it. Could that happen to me? I want to know. What does it feel like? Qian didn’t have a death wish per se, but he wasn’t afraid of death either. What he really feared was becoming addicted to being beaten within an inch of his life. He felt like a junkie, itching for his next fix, stopping at nothing to feel the rush.
“When can I fight?”
The next week, after the buzz of Face-Tat’s death had died down, Qian was in the ring. His opponent was short, stocky, with a permanent scowl. His wide jaw and thick neck made him look like a bulldog. Qian was even shorter, wiry in comparison to the meaty build of his opponent. Hu Siye had informed Qian before the fight that “A lot of men put good money on you to win, so give them something worth their cash.” If Qian was good at anything, it was putting on a show. He played the perfect son, the straight-A student, dutiful father, burdened ge. Most of all, he played the hero. But Qian knew what he really was.
A selfish bastard.
He could blame his mother - and he did - but he knew he was born to perversion. Qian liked to fight because then he could finally feel . It was pain that he felt, but it was also clarity. The first time his mom hit him Qian sat in stunned silence at the sting of her emotion. The honesty of anger thrilled him.
As he grew, anger was the only feeling he trusted himself with. It burned and rusted over him in a protective armor, guarding him from scarier feelings: sadness, betrayal, love. Those feelings would not protect him, they would pierce at his weaknesses and lacerate his pride. If he lost face, he lost everything. After all, underneath that visage was an insatiable shameful desire. Without anger, Qian was a fool.
And it was anger that Qian relied on now. In all ways but one, Qian’s opponent outpaced him. The man was bigger, older, more experienced, with the scars to prove it. But Qian had the element of surprise, the underdog appeal that had earned him all of his past successes in life. Though he was backed by a large portion of the crowd, it was only because he was one of Hu Ge’s boys. By the time the first bell sounded, hundreds of men had gathered around the ring. Though the scene was almost identical to the match last week, Qian’s entire perspective had shifted. In the center of the heaving mass he was as an open wound exposed to the unforgiving elements: the shouts were more piercing, the fluorescents more interrogative, the terror more seductive, vibrating through him in a shock of adrenaline. He could feel almost nothing, was certain of even less, limbs tearing out in a feverish rhythm.
Qian was a revelation. Fluttering through the air as if winged, so light of foot that Bulldog was unable to see, did not know where to look. If he could see, if he could look down at the boy from the rafters and behold his fury from afar, he might have gotten a glimpse of an angel, a bird thrashing its broken wing, a boy on fire, crusting over in ash and melted wax. He was a son scorned, fallen, bearing traces of lost divinity.
After the first round, Qian had the upper hand. He’d landed two corkscrew punches on his opponent’s head, causing blood to trickle into his eyes and mouth, interfering with his vision and focus. The man had wasted a significant amount of energy chasing Qian around the ring, punching and kicking into midair.
At the start of round two, he changed tactics, barreling down with such relentless force that Qian had to backpedal, until he was pinned against the railing. The man rained down on his head and face. So Bulldog is a mauler , Qian thought, gasping at the force of the blows to his head.
Yes, this. Come on, hit me. A guttural sound tore through him, like a wounded beast. The man moved from Qian’s head to his torso, landing punch after punch to his ribcage and abdomen, socking the breath from his body. Qian couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, all he could do was wretch forward, fold in on himself, scream in sweet agony. Bulldog was rabid, pounding and mauling Qian into submission. Losing never felt so good.
Somewhere in the back of the room, beyond the howling and cursing of the crowd, Hu Siye was threatening Le Ge. “He’s getting pounded out there. You promised he would deliver for me,” Hu Ge accused, already calculating the cost of Le Xiadong’s blunder. Perhaps this Wei Qian was nothing but a punk, no different from the countless other street rats who plagued the city. Perhaps Le Ge had overestimated the value of his men.
Le Ge put his hand up to stop Siye from talking, a sign of disrespect that only a man as mad as he was would risk. He took a long drag of a cigarette, blew the smoke toward Hu Siye’s face and gave him a slap between the shoulder blades. “There’s still another round. Relax,” he laughed, sliding an arm around Siye’s shoulders and pinching his left cheek. Hu Siye was fuming at Le Ge’s hands-on treatment, though he eyed two semi-concealed weapons on the man and thought better of confronting him.
“My investors-“
“Please. Hu Siye. Only speak when necessary, it will prolong your life,” Le Ge waved a finger and frowned in a mock lecture, before pealing in laughter at the shocked outrage on Hu Ge’s face. “Trust me, the boy’s a livewire. He has enough anger in him to kill an ox.” Le Xiadong slinked away, tired of Hu Ge’s unnecessary panic and unwilling to appease him any longer. One of the many perks of performative insanity was the total disregard for social niceties. Le Ge found that he saved a lot of time and heartache when he ignored the feelings of others.
Qian was saved by the bell: the end of round two. He was badly beaten, unable to walk without limping, barely able to breathe without doubling over. But he was brimming with electricity. Qian knew the only way to win the match would be to get Bulldog on the ground and tackle him. He eyed Bulldog’s corner. The man was cocky after round two, riling up the crowd and pounding his chest in an overblown show of bravado. Qian smirked, licked at his lips, spit the excess blood in his mouth onto the concrete. Once. Twice. He dragged an arm across his chin to stop the spittle from dripping down his neck. Idiot . He’s tiring himself out.
Bulldog had the entire crowd in the palm of his hand, Qian really was the underdog now. It would take a miracle to win. But this was what Qian had planned all along. Tire him out. Then destroy him.
At the start of the final round, Bulldog was slower on his feet, evidently not an endurance fighter. Qian had relied too heavily on defensive moves thus far, giving his opponent the impression that he was unskilled. But what Qian lacked in skill, he made up for in raw talent, a keen sense of improvisation, and an insatiable desire to fight. Qian feinted one punch, another, ducked to avoid an onslaught of blows, and crouched into a forceful uppercut, making contact with Bulldog's chin. Bulldog did not anticipate the counterattack, and the force of the punch sent him stumbling backward. Qian took the split second between stumbling and charging to launch an attack, pounding into his stomach until the man toppled to the ground. Like a lion, poised for the kill, Qian lunged onto his opponent, thrashing at his head, breaking his nose, clawing at his cheeks and neck. Bulldog tried to block the attack, but Qian tore out at his flesh, biting into his arms. He tried to lift Qian off of him, or roll him over, but Bulldog had long since lost steam. Three more blows to his head and the man surrendered. Qian had won his first match. He was awarded an additional $750 on top of his initial $1,000 agreement for putting on an entertaining show.
That night Qian scoured the neighborhood for the biggest watermelon on the market, lugging it home to serve chilled slices of it to his siblings. Watermelon was one of their favorite summer treats, but Qian rarely bought it, not wanting to waste any money on something that wouldn’t fill their bellies. But today he was a rich man, and his family deserved a reward.
As Qian walked up to the front door, he stopped at the sound of an angry voice coming from the kitchen.“Who cares if I like San Pang more, I barely ever see Qian anyways. Besides, what do you care? You're not even part of this family. Leave if you don’t like me!”
Qian peeked inside. Yuan was standing in the middle of the living room, struck by the sudden reminder of his origin story. He reeled back, nearly crashing to the ground in his haste to flee the room. Lili clearly regretted her harsh words, but just like her da ge, she did not know how to handle strong emotions, so opted for standing her ground. At the last minute, she called out, “er ge!” but the damage was done.
Fine, I’ll go! Yuan thought, resolute in his anger and embarrassment. He stormed out the door and right into someone’s waiting arms. Yuan started to kick in protest, but recognized the scent of cigarettes. Qian scooped him up in one arm, holding the watermelon precariously in the other, and carried the little boy inside.
“Come help me cut the watermelon,” Qian said, planting Yuan on the ground beside him and patting his head. And that was that. Yuan was ushered back into the family with one simple phrase. Yuan grabbed the knife from the block, tears rolling down his little cheek. Qian crouched down and cupped the boy’s face in his palm, brushing away the tear with a thumb.
Lili had run upstairs to lick her wounds, scared that Qian would yell at her for being so cruel.
“Lili, come downstairs, there’s watermelon!” Qian called, with no trace of anger.
Perhaps Yuan hadn’t told on her after all. Perhaps it was safe to go downstairs. Lili bounded into the kitchen shouting, “Gege, gege, your home!” in glee. Lili wasn’t usually that happy to see him, but the promise of a treat had changed her tune. Qian handed her a bowl and she scarfed it down in less than a minute, grinning into every bite.
Yuan took his bowl outside, not ready to face his sister yet, and Qian wandered out the door to ensure that the boy wouldn’t make a run for it again. Yuan crouched and nibbled on a piece of watermelon, sticky juice dribbling at his chin and trickling down his arm. Qian sat down next to him and lit a cigarette, absorbing the hazy yellow street lights, slowly melting alongside them into the darkness of the night. He closed his eyes, letting the quiet of the evening and the repetitive ritual of smoking settle him.
“Gege, have some watermelon,” Yuan offered, waving a big slice of it around in his sticky hand. Qian opened his eyes to Yuan probing the fruit at his lips. Unsure what to do, he opened his mouth and took the watermelon in.
Before he thought better of it , he’d let Yuan hand-feed him the rest of the bowl.
“Didn’t you like it?” Qian asked, confused at why Yuan had willingly given up half his snack.
“Yeah. But you didn’t have any. I wanted to share.”
Lili came sheepishly through the door, squeaking out, “Er ge, let me take your bowl to the sink.” This was her olive branch. Lili also offered to do the dishes, and Qian suspected she had been replaced by a clone. It saddened him that Lili only thought of others when she needed to gain favor or make amends. Maybe this was developmentally appropriate, but Qian still worried that he had raised an ungrateful little girl. Qian spoiled the kids in all the worst ways, rewarding good behavior with a treat instead of a kind word. He also rewarded just to reward, and his siblings - Lili in particular - had come to expect his little indulgences. His mother’s voice rattled “no such thing as free lunch” into his brain. But he wanted to spoil his siblings, and in the end he always did, endlessly content at their joy. If this was his greatest flaw in parenting, then so be it.
By the end of the summer, Qian had enough money to pay Yuan’s tuition twice over. For the first time in his life, Qian was not worried about money. The trade off, of course, was fatigue like he’d never before experienced. On the days he was not in the club, he was in the ring. By August, he was fighting three times a week, stumbling in and out of Dr. Lin’s clinic more often than he stumbled in and out of bed. He told himself that it was for his siblings. Yet what his siblings wanted most was not his cash, but his presence. Lili and Yuan hadn’t really seen their brother in weeks, only catching glimpses of him as he snuck into the bathroom to tend to his wounds, or crashed out on the sofa, too tired to make it to his bed. They rarely saw him awake in the daylight, though Yuan always waited up for him at night, watching as he hobbled home, in a drunken, bloody stupor. Qian had taken up drinking, especially on nights that he fought. He claimed it calmed the nerves, but he really drank to numb his chronic pain.
One night, after a particularly brutal fight, Qian drank an entire bottle of cheap liquor to numb the pain. By the time he came crashing into the front door, a violent urge to puke tore through him, and he bolted upstairs to hurl into the toilet.
He awoke to cool porcelain pressing against his cheek and a ringing in his ears. Something was rubbing at his back in a gentle, steady motion, coaxing him back to the harsh bathroom lights.
“Gege, drink,” Yuan commanded, holding a glass of water to his dry lips. Qian obeyed, opening his mouth to chug down the liquid. “Stand up, come here.” Yuan hauled him from the toilet and over to the sink, coating his toothbrush with paste and holding it to his mouth. “Brush your teeth, then come to bed. I’ll get you more water.”
Qian begrudgingly obliged, in no position to disobey his didi’s directives. This did not stop him from muttering “Who does he think he is, bossing me around?” under his breath. By the time he made his way into his bedroom, Qian was sitting on the bed with balm and bandages at the ready. “You have a cut on your head and red marks all over your back,” Yuan explained, already armed with a defense to Qian’s inevitable fight against his caretaking.
Wait. How does Yuan know there are marks on my back? Qian thought, looking down to discover that his shirt was missing. He really was wasted. “Why did you take off my shirt?”
“You threw up all over it. It’s in the wash. Let me bandage you so we can go to sleep.”
When had Yuan become such a proficient caretaker? Qian was too drunk to notice the tremor of Yuan’s hands, the tears threatening to fall from the boy’s eyes as he patched up his brother. Yuan knew that his version of wound tending was like putting a bandaid on a bullet hole, that his balms and bandages were not enough to rid Qian of the pain. Yuan was terrified, but Qian needed him to be strong.
That night, as Qian cuddled him to sleep, Yuan stuttered out a barely audible plea into his chest, “Gege, don’t fight anymore. Let me fight for you.”
The boy assumed that Qian was asleep, or otherwise too wasted to register that anyone was next to him at all, but Qian opened his eyes. “With these little hands?” he chuckled, clasping them in his own.
“I’m not little! I can fight!” Yuan glared up at Qian for a beat before softening his gaze and whispering, “if you teach me.” He nestled his head into his older brother’s chest and burrowed his feet between his legs, seeking warmth. Qian curled into him in response, stroking the boy’s hair. It was getting too long; he'd have to get San Pang to cut it soon.
“I can teach you when you’re older,” Qian answered. “Besides, you don’t need to learn how to fight. I can fight well enough for the both of us,” he reassured.
For how long? The question hung from Yuan’s lips, but he didn’t dare ask. He wasn’t ready to know the answer. Though if he was honest with himself, Yuan already knew the answer. Qian would fight forever if he could, and Yuan was helpless to stop him. Maybe one day Qian would fight to the death, tooth and nail. But until then, all Yuan could do was bandage his wounds and pray.