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yiming / 9, fin Mar 29, 2023 16:35:57 GMT -5

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Post by fox on Mar 29, 2023 16:35:57 GMT -5

江鸿 / 江逸鸣

江 – river
鸿 – wild goose
逸鸣 – leisurely call

Jiang Hong / Jiang Yiming
seventeen

"Who's the real you? The person who did something awful, or the one who's horrified by the awful thing you did? Is one part of you allowed to forgive the other?"

― Rebecca Stead, Goodbye Stranger

丑

Last Edit: Apr 15, 2023 23:25:17 GMT -5 by fox

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yiming / 9, fin Mar 29, 2023 16:40:15 GMT -5

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Post by fox on Mar 29, 2023 16:40:15 GMT -5

1

Jiang Chun holds her sleeping boy in her arms. He's nearly five now and looks so much like her.

It would've been unfortunate. His father had been so much prettier. Xu Yebai possessed the kind of beauty that felt nearly poisonous. He had eyes that were dark enough to reflect even in dim light, a high, fine nose bridge, a cool countenance that had reminded her of the coyotes that appeared at nighttime at the edge of town, that veiled acquisitiveness.

It's better that Hong had taken no part of him. Her boy is sweet. He's plain and kind.

In the autumn of five years ago, Yebai left her and his station in Nine, returning to his home in Two. He would not marry her, afraid of losing his rank as a peacekeeper. He would not claim Hong as his own either, still in the eleventh year of his twenty-year service.

She was eighteen. She hoped she would give birth to a son. Because a woman suffers. A woman is brutalized by love. It's never a story about her. It happens too often.

Sitting in the small office of the orphanage, the matron tells her they can't accept him. They're stretched thin with the number of children here – not enough funding from the government, she says curtly. The whole place is barely being held together by her frugalness and three weary staff members. No, she simply cannot accept him. The boy could be sent to a workhouse instead, one of the new Capitol-led initiatives to funnel hungry mouths into the factories as labourers.

Chun pales at her words. She clings on to her child, still dozing from a spoonful of liquid sleep she slipped him at dinner time.

"I'm dying," She begs. "Please."

The matron presses her fingers into her temples.

The orphanage had been built twenty years ago and not a single renovation has taken place since then. She sits in the same threadbare chair the previous matron had sat in. The windows are opaque with dust, a lightbulb on the ceiling fixture is cracked, room dim with faded light. They have nothing here.

"His father will come for him," Chun lies. "He only needs to stay for a little –"

She waves the girl's words away, shaking her head. It's not the first time some poor mother's showed up asking for her child to be taken in. Same old story. The matron's not a cold-hearted person. Just practical.

Chun presses her lips together. She unbuttons Hong's coat and then unclasps a copper silver-plated necklace from his neck. The longevity lock rings lightly from the three little bells that hang from it, decorated with birds and peonies. It was hers from when she was child, passed to her son when he was a hundred days old. His one inheritance that she'd kept all these years.

"Take this," she says, shoving it at the matron. "This is enough for a month. Just keep him until his father returns."

The older woman finally relents.

She accepts the necklace, but she isn't stupid. No one will ever come for him.

Chun hands over the sleeping boy to the matron. He looks so peaceful, quieter than he's ever been. Selfishly, she wants him to remember her.

But even more desperately, she hopes he doesn't.

2

When they're twelve, Clive befriends Hong and makes him part of Calnor Orphanage's little band of street urchins. The leader is a boy who is seventeen and much too smart for his own good, always hungry for bigger schemes, sharpened by the lacking of his circumstances. They move from pickpocketing to break-ins in the span of a year under Jannik's careful instruction.

The boys teach him how to roll cigarettes and drink brutal, home-brewed liquors. They settle spats with fists and gamble stolen goods over poker games, pass around an old audio player and black market tapes while smoking in the bathroom on lazy afternoons, the cassette hissing like a backing track to old rebellion rock ballads, singers long dead in the underground.

And every few weeks when their pockets start to feel unbearably light, they map out their next gambit in one of the decommissioned warehouses at the edge of town, voices echoing off the walls, sunlight streaming through tattered windows.

A year passes in the disarray. When he turns thirteen, the boys give him a sleek, black pocket-knife, made of stainless steel. It's even wrapped in newspaper and knotted in twine, and Clive takes credit for the handiwork, stupidly proud.

"The bow is kinda wonky though –"

"Ha! Your head's fucking wonky."

They sing to him, embarrassingly loud, and take turns punching him playfully on the arm. Hong growls at them, recoils from the attention, but now they've known each other long enough to read faces. They could smack each other around and still be friends the next day. They took none of the fighting to heart. He watches Hong swell secretly with joy, and he keeps this in his memories for so many years later. He doesn't see Hong again after thirteen.

3

Yebai came to her like a season, swathed her with adoration and flooded her with his attention.

It felt utterly terrible and she wanted it all, clung to him like he was the marrow in her bones. She learned the mannerisms of an addiction from a young age. She lived in a house that felt on fire, and what was Yebai compared to that? He was cruel to her sometimes but never crueler than the man who lived in her home, drunk and angry, festering in his temper. He was cold to her often, but what of it compared to her mother? Faded over the years like a photograph in the sun, barely there.

She admired the idea of a beautiful life, determined to have it. He'd tell her stories of Two, things like the first tournament he'd won, the days of his training in the academies, how the ridge of mountains looked at sunset. They'd reminisce, they'd share the sweet secrecy of their present. They never spoke of the future.

But she had assumed, didn't she? That he would abandon his post for her. That she had a place in his life. No one else had touched her so tenderly. No one else will love you as I do, he'd tell her.

She went to his house and found it empty.

She went to the bar the officers frequented, asking for him, but they laughed at her and told her he'd run back to Two.

Yebai had often shared the grimmer details of his life. She found herself sympathetic to a wolf raised by wolves.

It's funny. How long she spent humanizing him. But what about her – had he ever spent a moment thinking of her as more than his, and had he ever considered her personhood? Would he have sought her out if he had? Should he have known better? Did he know? Did he know and do it anyway? Which was worse – not knowing or knowing? To be a thing he used in ignorance or a person he hurt deliberately?

When Hong was born, she had no hopes for her son, no great ambitions. She did not care for him to grow up admired or beautiful or powerful. She only wished for him to be good, for that goodness to never change.

Last Edit: Apr 15, 2023 23:11:03 GMT -5 by fox

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yiming / 9, fin Apr 2, 2023 17:17:26 GMT -5

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Post by fox on Apr 2, 2023 17:17:26 GMT -5

jannik

4

In late summer, the group nearly disbands when Einri gets picked up by the keepers for larceny.

Jannik's been at Calnor for most of his life. He doesn't hold the kind of wistful delusions that the younger orphans have, thinking they might be adopted one day. He doesn't quite have the bitterness of kids his age either, on the precipice of being thrown into adulthood penniless. He simply exists and thinks nothing of parents or prospects or the great injustices of life.

He just wants money.

Einri gets locked up for eight months, and Jannik smoothly steps into the little position he held as unofficial leader of the Calnor gang. And unlike Einri, he's a great deal more level-headed, an easygoing boy of seventeen with an undeniable acuity for opportunity. He's got an innate sense of leadership, and the other boys trust him, all smiles and good humour.

They start off easy, doing what they've always done. The kids pull pickpocketing tricks in groups of three and pool the wallets collected at the end of the week. But the money goes fast. The people of Nine don't have much anyways.

He's been working in the same factory since he was sixteen. One day, the matron told him to get ready for an early morning, and suddenly he's spent the year standing at an assembly line, pressing in lettering on plastic caps for a brand of pharmaceuticals he's never seen before. Must be only available in the Capitol, how funny is that?

But it gives him a lot of time to think, to plan, methodically working a thought in his head until it takes shape.

They pull their first heist at one of the nicer looking houses on the west side. The owner's part of upper management at the factory he works at, a frail kind of guy, no partner, no kids. Brand new house, and there's not even bars over the windows yet. The lock on the basement window is broken, and a heavy hand gets it open on the first try.

One of them poses as a lookout. One is the getaway, perched on a bicycle stolen from a delivery person. They send the youngest to shimmy through the window, and he comes back with a handful of hundreds and two beautiful silver watches. They pawn the goods, divide the winnings, leave a bit left over to buy the kids candy and whatever else they need. There's a hole in Dessie's coat so they get her a new one. Tavi's outgrown their shoes, and they wake up a new pair underneath their bed.

The matron must notice this sudden change. But she doesn't question it. She can't afford to. There's endless things that need fixing and very little money.

The plans get bigger and wilder, uncontrollably grand as the boys grow more ambitious, grazing on confidence like a fire. In the end, Jannik's only seventeen. He's clever but not infallible. He's the leader but still a child himself.

They target one of the estates.

Something goes wrong –

Clive's bleeding when they meet up at the spot where Admir's posted as a drop point.

"Fuck, what happened?"

"He's fucking shot," Jannik hisses, takes off his shirt, wraps it around Clive's arm. He doesn't think, he just does.

"J-just grazed – we need to go back." Clive musters up, pale against the bright red soaked on his left. His voice is trembling, "Hong's still back there, fuck he –"

Jannik stops pressing onto the wound, grabs Clive by the face suddenly, fingers still slick with blood. He holds him there until he stops moving, until his eyes meet his own, breath ragged. It feels like something frantic is burning through him, collapsing if he lets go. "You didn't see anything," he says. "Hong had the knife. It wasn't you. It wasn't me. He had the knife."

"But –"

"Listen." It comes out half a scream, shaking like a flame below the face he puts on. The splatter of blood on the boy's cheek blends with his freckles, and Jannik wipes it away with his wrist. He softens his voice. "I'm not letting you go back. You can't go back for him. You didn't see anything. You don't know him. He's as good as dead, and we're not dying with him."

He lets his hands slide off when Clive's calmed down.

"We need to fix your arm. Can't go to the hospital," he says firmly. "Meet at warehouse six. I'll get you some stuff."

When the peacekeepers sweep through the orphanage, the Matron vehemently denies everything. Jannik sits there, around the corner, and listens to the snippets that come through the thin door. The violence is getting out of hand in the district, she agrees. Stabbed! In his own home, unbelievable. There's still blood beneath his nails, and he sits on his hands when he notices.

The peacekeepers go through the motions, file the paperwork, put in some extra effort for a rich man. No one is arrested in the end.

He did what he had to.

Clive recovers with a scar. Jannik works making the bottle caps. Hong never comes back. Calnor is shuttered in a few years as the Capitol redirects money to peacekeeping efforts.

Last Edit: Apr 15, 2023 23:11:21 GMT -5 by fox

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yiming / 9, fin Apr 2, 2023 23:35:41 GMT -5

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Post by fox on Apr 2, 2023 23:35:41 GMT -5

5

"He's too ugly," he says to Biao.

Yaoqing takes in the boy from across the room during practice. He's thin as a weed and just as scraggly, always coiled into hard lines like drawn with a harsh hand. Hong's a belligerent thing, a mediocre singer, plodding in his recitation, a decent martial artist if only he had any sense of discipline. He's learned the basic skills later than the other students, but doesn't try any harder to make up for it.

"And insolent too."

The pipe blows thin veils between them as Yaoqing smokes. Biao sits with his hands folded, and watches the boy too, gray tendrils curling around them. "Just let him play the minor roles."

Yaoqing's already moved onto the next child, eyes skimming the room. Hong stumbles over a line. He laughs bitterly.

"Better yet, let him raise the curtain."

6

tw: mentions abuse

"From childhood, I grew up among the rivers and lakes,
Traveled to the ends of the sky and sea.
I can walk on walls and fly over roofs,
My name as a horse thief shakes the northern regions."

Lei Biao sits in the shade on a foldout chair and watches Hong take his punishment in the backlot of the warehouse.

The sun feels nauseating in the belly of July. He fans himself, and a delicate scent of sandalwood wafts from the finely carved panels. Outside, the asphalt bakes and the insects chirp. A languid rhythm settles into the monotone weather. He goes over the inventory of costumes with a pen, the papers propped on his leg.

"This is fucking stupid."

He doesn't look up.

"Watch your mouth," Biao replies lazily, "I'll call Master over."

Hong's lines are sloppy when he flips, and Yaoqing has him practicing his handstands until his legs are perfectly straight in the air. He's doing a sequence as Qiu Xiaoyi, moving from tumbling stunts to yunbai, exiled into the heat of the afternoon until Biao deems him decent enough to be let back in.

"Why do I have to play the fucking villain?" He spits back, picking himself up from another stunt he's fallen out of. His leg is raw with a scrape.

The boy's got a temper.

A month ago, Yaoqing almost killed Hong for calling him washed-up. There's a half-healed scar that runs along his back from when the cane split. He stood outside for twelve hours afterwards, even as it started to rain.

Didn't seem to quell that rage though, and Biao has to give him that.

When he was a child, his own instructors had seemed to believe that opera was something that had to be beaten into you. It was how he learned. It was how Yaoqing learned. But Biao's old. He's no longer Tiger of the Opera, Jing with a thunderous voice that shook rooms and stripes on his back from his hard-headedness during the days of his training.

He's not bitter like Yaoqing. He had his time. And when the troupe disbanded, he went to work in one of the factories until an accident nearly took his leg off.

In the end, it was a job like any job, and it had been good while it lasted. In his late sixties, they call him lao Lei now. He takes it as a very fortunate thing. Not everyone makes it to old age.

Biao puts down the papers and pushes his glasses up his nose bridge, glancing at the wiry boy. "In Stealing the Silver Jug, the chou is the hero."

Back in the sixties, they used to show highlights of Stealing the Silver Jug for pennies. The troupe leader hadn't been fond of it, but the acrobatics appealed to the general spectators when business was bad. The chou of the time would keep them entertained in between showings of the main attraction – a much more literary, pedantic affair. It was pulled soon though. The District didn't like how it eulogized crime. There was enough of that already.

Hong scowls. "He's a thief."

Biao considers the boy carefully.

"He is forgiven."

"He's a clown!"

"You are still grounded in the principles of beauty, balance, wholeness – clear diction and song is demanded from you." Biao crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. The old force of his voice is still there, as if each word comes deep from within his chest. "Everything in opera must be beautiful. Your posture is not."

Hong is like a spring, always twisted, hands clenched into fists. The old man gives him a long, withering look before finally speaking.

"The proverb goes – no chou, no opera." 无丑不成戏.

Hong scoffs but says nothing.

"What is a flower without its leaves? Opera doesn't need so many kings and consorts and warriors and scholars. The chou is the people's character."

Biao smiles, standing despite the grief it causes his bad leg. "He does not have to be evil. Qiu Xiaoyi rights his mistake."

Finally, the boy looks down. His shoulders relax marginally, face softening. Biao's always felt a little sympathetic to the kid. Maybe age does make him more sentimental. Maybe he's allowed to be now. He's survived his youth. He's lived through enough things, clad in iron, that he's done with the heaviness of it.

"Come on, we both want to go inside," Biao says kindly. "Let's hear it again."

"As for me, Qiu Xiaoyi,
I was unfortunate to lose my parents at a young age.
So I wandered the rivers and lakes,
Devoting myself to martial arts,

I learned how to walk on walls and fly over roofs,
And often went north to steal famous horses,
To sell to the southern kingdoms.

All bandits call me 'Flying in the sky'",
But I was struck down by illness,
And all of the silver I had was spent.

Today, with nothing to do in my leisure time,
I can't help but go to the homes of wealthy people,
And wander around once again."

7

When a boy is caught trying to steal a case of jewelry pieces in the late hours of night, Cao Laoban is ready to turn him in to the peacekeepers before Biao convinces him to let the poor kid pay it off.

He asks where he's from, but is only met with wrathful silence. They don't learn much about him, other than his tattered appearance.

Under a watchful eye, they have him scrubbing the practice rooms of the warehouse, polishing the weapons, building and carrying the sets around – any odd task that needs completing. It's Biao's job most of the time to watch the boy, and he observes him leisurely, unbothered by the prospect of him running away with their property. He trusts that the streets of Nine are far worse than mopping a few floors.

Yaoqing doesn't ever call him by name. The little thief, he'll say with great distaste every time he's brought up. He laments that Biao's gotten sentimental by suggesting to keep the street urchin. Losing his touch.

He just scowls and laughs it off.

A few weeks in, Biao will make a decision. He'll let the boy leave or he'll take him into class with the other children for the first time.

Last Edit: Apr 15, 2023 23:12:01 GMT -5 by fox

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yiming / 9, fin Apr 6, 2023 17:17:18 GMT -5

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Post by fox on Apr 6, 2023 17:17:18 GMT -5

qiu xiaoyi

8

OLD LADY ZHANG: A ghost! Begone! Begone! Begone!

QIU XIAOYI: Begone? Where is the ghost?

OLD LADY ZHANG: It's you!

QIU XIAOYI: Alas, I am clearly human. How can you claim me to be a ghost?

OLD LADY ZHANG: If you are not a ghost, then you must be a thief.

QIU XIAOYI: Not bad. Good eye. Madam, to tell you the truth, I am a thief. But I'm a thief with a conscience.

OLD LADY ZHANG: What conscience does a thief have?

Last Edit: Apr 15, 2023 23:12:30 GMT -5 by fox

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yiming / 9, fin Apr 6, 2023 19:15:54 GMT -5

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Post by fox on Apr 6, 2023 19:15:54 GMT -5

9

Yitang spends months trying to get Hong to quit smoking.

The problem is Hong is really good at hiding it. He gets his stuff confiscated constantly yet seems to be able to produce another pack from the depths of nothingness. There's always a faint scent of tobacco that clings to him, that strange burning bitterness, but he's only ever seen him smoke when Hong wants him too.

He doesn't figure it out until he stays up one night, unable to sleep properly from a torn muscle in his leg, and watches Hong slip out from underneath the covers, carefully turning the handle open. Quietly, he follows him out into the hall.

"What are you doing?" He whispers, hand lightly touching the younger boy's shoulder.

"Ripred, why are you awake?"

There's a pack of military cigarettes in his hand, the kind distributed as rations. It's unmistakable with the faded Capitol insignia.

"Hong, don't tell me you wake up in the middle of the night for that."

"Shh, go away."

They end up sitting in the bathroom at the opposite end of the warehouse with the lights off. Hong cracks open the window a few inches, and he lets the embers fall outside, blowing tendrils of smoke into the fresh spring air. In early March, the bathroom quickly gets cold, and Yitang suppresses a shudder when a breeze gusts through.

"You didn't have to come," Hong says, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

"When will you quit?"

He sucks in another puff of smoke, tip of the cigarette glowing orange in the dark. It suddenly reminds Yitang of the tail of a firefly flickering.

"Never."

There's a pause before Yitang swiftly swipes the pack and lighter from his lap, shakes one loose, and lights it himself. He can hear Hong on the precipice of protesting, but he breathes it in – and almost chokes, desperately squashing a cough, his eyes burning with the effort.

"What are you doing?"

"From now on, if you smoke, then I smoke."

Hong's mouth drops open, looking utterly aghast. "What? No – that will ruin your lungs. You have to sing!"

"So do you."

"Well, you're actually good at it."

He ignores him and inhales again. It tastes totally terrible. He glances at the other boy, and Hong's hand is shaking as he holds his cigarette between his fingers, palms still raw from earlier in the day. There's streaks of maroon where the skin is held together only by dried blood.

Yitang looks away from the wounds and turns to the window to exhale. "You should've begged for forgiveness like the rest of us."

"Never," Hong laughs quietly. It sounds hollow. "Not to that old devil."

"Why make hell harder?"

Hong doesn't answer. Yitang tries again.

"How do you keep buying cigarettes anyways?"

"That's a secret."

They sit in silence for awhile. His silhouette is a cool blue in the light, and Yitang observes him carefully. Hong doesn't look at him, head still tilted towards the window, leaning on the ledge with an arm propping him up. They've played this game many times, a pushing and pulling in the stillness.

Finally, Hong sighs and speaks again, softly. "Can I have the pack back?"

"No."

"It was very difficult to get."

Yitang tucks it into his pant pocket instead. The cigarette is turning to ash in his hands, and he doesn't quite know what to do with it, but tries his best like he does. He looks right at his friend and says firmly, "Whenever you want one, just tell me. And then I'll have one with you."

"Ha. Fuck you."

"Or you can stop. I'll even give you a lolly instead," he says, teasing. It's like bartering with an extremely stubborn child. But Yitang's patient, always has been. He brings the cigarette up his mouth again, but Hong moves quicker and grabs his wrist with his free hand, holding him there.

The boy rolls his eyes, crushing the half-finished butt on the outside ledge and then throws it into the toilet. He takes Yitang's and throws it in there too. "Happy?"

"Yes."

There's another long stretch of silence. His leg is starting to pain him, sitting like this.

"I get them from Kaili, by the way."

"What?"

"I caught our esteemed third dan smoking. I said wouldn't tell if she gets me a pack every month. She must be seeing a keeper," Hong says with an expression on his face like he's tasted something rotten. "Cao'll never let her move up if he knows."

"Hmm."

"When I get regulated to backstage, it will be a pack a day for me."

Yitang doesn't respond to that. Sometimes Hong says things that feel impossible to ignore, but even harder to reply to. He only nods towards the door. "Let's go back to sleep xiao Jiang."

"Lao Zheng," Hong intones back, a light smile on his face. Standing up, he offers his hand to Yitang – who takes it, wincing as his legs stretch with the movement.

When they return to the makeshift dormitory, he hides the cigarettes in his old winter coat, the one where's a deep hole in the pocket that opens to the inside lining.

Yitang keeps that pack in that coat for the next three years.

10

Zheng Yitang ends up being a very good pupil because the truth is, he doesn't think about it very much.

He just does what he's told, and he does it properly. He practices diligently enough to be good, but not so hard that it consumes him.

Master doesn't have much to say to him – which he thinks is a good thing. The old man always had plenty of words for the students he thought were lacking.

Despite how steadfast he stands with his conviction in the training, Yitang doesn't consider himself especially confident. It's more that he's grounded in his reality – plucked from an orphanage for his potential, given a semblance of a future that trumps any other hand he could've drawn. He understands his place in life, and every hardship feels like a rung on the ladder he has to climb to survive.

So it utterly confounds him the way Hong insists on being difficult.

He notices how lao Lei soothes Master constantly when it comes to the new student. He watches Hong stagger through recitation and then get frustrated over his mistakes instead of apologetic. He swears appallingly during martial skill practices, back talks at any given opportunity, and takes more punishment than Yitang has seen doled out in the last few years.

No one knows where Hong's from, but Master calls him a thief, and the rumours spread quicker than a fire, tasting of blood. But the boy never backs out of a fight even when the kids are twice his size. He takes a punch like it's nothing, brawls back viciously, and they learn to stay out of his way.

In the end, Yitang is certain he's an unpleasant person. He makes up his mind and then doesn't think too often about him again.

But then, inexplicably, Wenwen starts following Hong around.

And Yitang is very fond of Wenwen. They grew up together in the same children's home before the Opera. She is the closest thing he'll ever have to a sister. And there she is, conversing with that antagonistic new student, sitting with him, helping him memorize lines despite all the grievances he's caused.

"He's not a good influence," he says gently. But she only shakes her head and pulls away from him.

He's stayed out of the Master's wrath all this time because he strongly believes in never looking for trouble. It feels like a very simple principle to live by. He doesn't need any more difficulties in his life, and there is no point in tempting misfortune. Yitang is always grateful to live another uninteresting day.

But this finally gets him.

When Wenwen stands up after dinner, he also stands up. When the rest of the children go to prepare for bed, she disappears, and he follows. There's a knot of nerves in his stomach that goes from fluttering to painful, but he forges ahead. Curiosity wins over.

Wenwen and Hong are crouched in the darkness by the stairs of the west exit, huddled together underneath the metal steps. He approaches cautiously, until he's within earshot.

"We have to be careful no one finds out about the baby."

"Don't be so worried, Wenwen. It's gonna be our secret."

He feels a strange, flaring sensation in his chest.

And then Yitang suddenly finds himself grabbing Hong by the arm, dragging him up, reeling to throw a punch for the first time in his life.

"Yitang!"

"What the fuck?"

Oh.

There's a kitten in Hong's arms.

His eyes travel down from the boy to the tiny orange cat, a puffball of fur, wrapped in a thin blanket. A beat passes. He lets go of Hong and stands there, feeling extremely stupid.

"What is –?"

"Hong's been helping me feed the cat," Wenwen says slowly, looking pointedly between the two. Yitang is no longer angry, but Hong has a murderous expression on, face turning molten. "I found him stuck in the runoff pipe. He saw me trying to get him out. Please don't tell anyone. Troupe Leader will make us get rid of him for sure."

Now he feels stupider.

"I am very sorry," Yitang mumbles, still half in a daze. "I won't – I won't say anything. I promise."

She swats Hong on the arm when he says nothing in response to the apology. "Stop being mad, you're scaring the kitten."

They all look at the little thing.

Slowly, his eyes shift over to Hong, to the spot where he had grabbed, and notices the stripes of welts on his arm. Master had been angry at him again today for his miserable attempt at yunbai and Hong had done nothing to subdue it, only opening his mouth to add more kindling. His stomach drops as he stares at his hands. He feels horrible now.

"I'm sorry," he repeats. "Does it hurt?"

"No," Hong spits out. He's got his shoulders raised up, ready to fight, but the baby cat is still meowing in his arms, and Wenwen's got a truly dangerous glare. She turns and grabs the dish of goat milk on the floor, dipping a rag into it before holding it to the kitten.

"You should be more respectful," Yitang suggests, eyes still on the bruises.

Hong scowls at him, his jaw working. "Okay, lao Zheng," he mocks. But he still can't move with the cat lying on him.

Yitang only smiles.

"Okay, xiao Jiang."

11

Hong grows up to be prettier than anyone had expected. At sixteen, he's tall and broad shouldered, handsome in a simple, pleasant way. He fills out considerably with three square meals a day and softens with age, that bluntness turned into something more endearing. An honest face, Yitang compliments him one day.

He laughs at that, but Yitang stares at him thoughtfully. "You look different now, believe me."

Hong hardly realizes the change but everyone else seems to, and it isn't a surprise when Yawen approaches him after early morning practice. She looks so flustered, and Yitang carefully stands far from them to give them some space.

But then Hong laughs the way he laughs, loud and with his head tilted back slightly. He tries not to mind them, not to turn around to look at the source of the sound.

And then he hears his name.

"Yitang, get over here!"

He finally glances back at them, puzzled.

Yawen is very pretty. She has dimples and kind eyes. She has a good voice that even Master Yaoqing is pleased with from time to time. She's level-headed, a straight-forward person, and most of all, Wenwen's liked Hong since they were both thirteen. The three of them have been friends forever now, and Yitang's known Wenwen for most of his life. He understands what he sees.

He walks over cautiously, eyes darting back and forth between the two of them, and Wenwen just stands there, in a kind of withering confusion, turning a brighter shade of red. But Hong ignores the growing awkwardness, still smiling. He claps his friend on the back when he's close enough, and then shoves him forward towards the girl. "Ask him instead! He's twice as handsome as I am and a lot nicer too."

"What?"

"Yitang likes you!"

"What?"

This is news to both of them.

"But I–"

Hong laughs again, and is already halfway towards the exit, waving them goodbye. The door swings shut and they stand in silence. They listen to the creak of footsteps growing faint.

"What just happened?" Yitang asks. He feels almost light-headed.

"I–I confessed."

"And that's his response?"

"You don't like me right." She says very quickly, swiveling around to look at him.

"No, not like that."

She crosses her arms and stares at the door, face cooling of colour. "He's quite stupid sometimes."

12

Six months into sixteen, Hong is slated to appear in his first production. There's no chou role for him, but he plays a xiaosheng to his surprise.

Cao Laoban hands him the billing at breakfast one day, points to a name way down the list.

"Jiang Yiming," he tells him offhandedly. "Your stage name."

"What's wrong with my name?" He challenges.

Cao says something about how the characters aren't right, and Yitang notices how Hong scoffs at Cao Daming after he's turned around – "of all people to go on about names!" – and then spends the rest of the meal time grumbling into his porridge, stabbing his spoon into the bowl repeatedly.

"I like Yiming. It suits you," Yitang says. The other boy looks up, tilting his head. He considers the pamphlet for a moment, touching the title delicately.

"Why did Cao let you keep yours?"

Yitang's playing the lead in this one, scheduled to show in five months. Yan will act alongside him. It weighs on him, the anxiety of it like a shroud he wears. It's heavier than any of the costumes he's ever put on. Yaoqing's been dead for more than a year, but he swears he can hear their old master recounting his failures in his dreams, woken up each morning by daylight and unease. "I don't know."

He guesses Hong must see the expression on his face because suddenly he perks up and starts loading extra food into Yitang's bowl from his own.

"Eat up! Don't even sweat it, Yitang. You're the best of all of us. You're going to be famous."

"I think Yan is better."

He's not being humble. They both know it's true. The pamphlet has Yan's name first.

But Hong doesn't wilt. "Fair enough. But Yan probably prays to that old picture of Lanyan every night."

Yitang almost spits out his food.

"While you're off being a star, I'll just be poor Jiang Yiming," he says with mock misery, wrinkling his nose at his new name. "Honestly, don't know if I can get used to it."

Yitang splits into a smile. "Don't worry." He reaches over and claps him on the back affectionately.

"You'll always be xiao Jiang to me."

Last Edit: Apr 15, 2023 23:13:08 GMT -5 by fox

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yiming / 9, fin Apr 7, 2023 13:30:29 GMT -5

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Post by fox on Apr 7, 2023 13:30:29 GMT -5

yawen

13

In the late evening, Juzi comes back and waits by the west exit, underneath the stairs. He's grown into a big cat now, in all his orange glory.

Yawen comes with scraps of food, and her little baby sits there very gracefully, bumping his forehead into her palm to greet her. She strokes him lightly down his spine, pats him between his soft triangle ears, and then offers him a whole wrapped sweet potato.

Juzi stalks his own prey now, but Yawen can't help but want to spoil him.

Sometimes Hong and Yitang take turns visiting when she can't, and they've raised him for two years like this. She suspects lao Lei's known about the cat since the time he caught her out with a napkin full of dinner, but he's never said anything about it, turned a blind eye and let her go. And so it stayed a ritual between the three of them.

A shadow falls over her like liquid, stretched thin in the orange glow from the windows. Hong bends down to sit. He's got a lolly in his mouth, the sweet smell of artificial strawberry lingering by him when he speaks. He squishes the cat's face between his palms as a salutation. "Hello Juzi."

It's a bit endearing how his voice goes up when he talks to the cat.

She watches Hong, and she finds herself tracing the features of his face, eyes running down the slope of his nose to his mouth. He's getting so much taller than her now. It feels like it was not so long ago when she was dragging him through the lines of White Snake, fixing his rhythm with a strictness that made Yitang laugh as he watched. How are you not getting this? She'd say, listen to me do it!

Yawen points at the stick of candy. "Tang really bought a whole tin of those, huh?"

"It helps," Hong says absently, playing with the cat. "Least he could do for what he's putting me through."

She snorts at that. Certainly, the nicotine withdrawal had not been pretty so far. Hong's irritability had gone up dramatically. Yitang tiptoes around it very graciously, but Yawen doesn't care. "You did this to yourself," She replies.

Hong glares at her, but stays quiet.

"Where'd he even get the money?" She sighs.

"Ah. Don't ask."

"Nevermind. I don't want to know."

Juzi eats his treat and then slinks back into the shadows again.

They get up to return to their respective dorms before anyone notices their absence. The air is cool and clear tonight, and Yawen wishes they could stay out longer, stroll around leisurely and spend their time without the doom of an unsettled future. Yitang is seventeen and has been in two operas now, but only ever in the background. She has the very thrilling role of a huadan who never speaks, and Hong has never even set foot on the stage.

They were children, and they are children now. But time feels like a jester, howling and tittering, pocket full of cheap tricks thrown at their faces. She feels so much older already, no longer so naive to believe they'll all be somebody one day.

Maybe she stands as scenery forever.

Hong finishes his candy, chewing on the stick as they climb the steps. At the top, he grabs her hand and spins her around playfully, then bowing before the door. "You go in first, Wenwen." She laughs at the gesture.

Maybe it's not so bad if they stay like this too.

Inside, there's a crowd of people in the hall when they return. Everyone seems to be milling about listlessly, and Yawen turns to Hong, then catches sight of Yitang pushing towards them before she can speak. He looks pale, face solemn. He wears an unreadable expression, and she feels something leap into her throat.

"What's happened?"

He exhales, eyes moving between the two.

"Master. He's dead."

Last Edit: Apr 15, 2023 23:13:29 GMT -5 by fox

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yiming / 9, fin Apr 7, 2023 13:48:36 GMT -5

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Post by fox on Apr 7, 2023 13:48:36 GMT -5

"Sometimes I really believe it, that I am going to save my life a little."

― Mary Oliver, What Do We Know

14

Sometimes it feels like he wasn't born. Like he just came into existence one day, fully-formed.

The Matron tells him nothing about his mother or father. He has no past. He no longer remembers her clearly. There's a smudge of a person there, and he searches for his mother in his own face.

Jannik doesn't seem to have time for such introspection. Most of the kids respect him, not because he’s especially tough like Einri. He just has an air of self-assuredness, a very casual confidence in the way he holds himself, and Hong admires him for this.

Were they were supposed to know something terrible was bound to happen the way they did what they did? But how much more terrible would it be?

They do a ton of stupid things. And maybe they're aware of all the stupid shit they do, but they do it anyway. Jannik teaches them how to grow up with none of the wisdom they'd get from someone much, much older. They stumble into adolescence like it's a fight, blood between the teeth. There's no one to tell it's not supposed to be like this.

Hong has no platitudes yet for suffering. He hasn't had much time to toil through the meaning of life. He takes it raw.

They stand in the man's dining room. Earlier in the night, they'd cut the the electrical wires after knocking to make sure no one was home. Isaac's outside with the crowbar, window pried open, and the glow of moonlight falls through, cold and blue like a stream.

"Holy shit," Clive breathes.

There's rows of silver chalices, fine china in the glass cabinet, old wines arranged under the spotlights. Hong smiles, starts pulling bottles from the shelf, and stuffs them in his bag.

"Ripred, put that down, shiteater," Jannik whispers, pausing on his examination of the silverware. "What are you doing? You don't need to lose more braincells by becoming an alcoholic. Go upstairs and look for something good."

"Fuck off," Hong hisses back. But he relents, puts three bottles of the liquor back, and starts making his way into the hall. Clive follows, barely suppressing a laugh. They've gone through enough houses now, but it never loses its novelty. This one is especially spectacular. This guy lives like a king, he thinks. He touches a painting that hangs on the wall of the stairwell, the frame a beautiful brass colour, almost in awe of it.

They wander through and try the doorknobs of each room. One opens to a vast, spacious study. The window is half-opened, and a cool breeze makes the delicate curtains flutter. There's a million books here. At the center, a huge walnut desk sits before the large pane of glass.

"You look through here," Clive says, uninterested in the study, gesturing inside. "I'll try another."

He's already making his way to the desk. "'Kay."

A bunch of volumes about flowers and plants are strewn across the surface, and he ignores those. Instead, he picks up an ornate kettle that's gone cold, steeped tea in the cup half-drunken. A fresh bouquet of pearlescent flowers sits in a vase of the desk, the petals still wet with dew. They look luminescent in the dark.

His knuckles tighten on the handle.

Wasn't the owner supposed to be gone?

When he looks up, through the window, he notices that a light in the greenhouse is on. It must be a different cable than the one they had cut. The realization feels blinding. A gun goes off.

It's like his brain goes completely blank. He's somehow down the hall in a split second, and Clive's pushed up against the banister, shadow moving towards him with a pistol pointed right at his face. Clive's screaming, or maybe he's screaming himself, or maybe it's the sound of his pulse screaming, deafening roar.

Hong's not really thinking anymore. And when did he take the pocket knife out, when did it end up in his hand? It's there, and then it's inches deep in muscle. His hands are suddenly wet. His hands feel sticky. He unfurls his fingers. How had he known to plunge it into his back, drive it deeper. How did he know to do it again and again, until he felt something leave his body?

In the darkness, he can't see the the blood, but it feels warm, slick like an oil spill shining in the dimness. The man makes a very strange noise. The gun falls from him.

He just remembers Clive's face. Staring at him.

That's all he'll ever remember. Abject horror.

"Go," he hears himself say. "Just go!"

The house gets very quiet.

He doesn't feel anything, but his hands are shaking.

15

Yaoqing calls him a thief again, and something in him breaks completely.

It might've been the countless insults, the way he stared at him like he was filth, how his mind snapped back to the house, to Clive, the vase of flowers over and over again.

"You washed-up old hag-sounding bitch."

The lot goes totally silent.

He can feel Yitang watching him, and that is the only semblance of shame he feels.

Often, he is afraid of his hunger. How much it devours him is frightening. No one told him a fire panics when it consumes too, afraid of what it has done, afraid of how it can never stop.

He catches a cold from standing out in the rain.

They let him sleep in a spare storage room, away from the other boys, tucked between boxes and deconstructed sets, but the fever only worsens. With every shiver, his back burns with it, searing pain that shudders through him, the skin still bloody. He's half delirious when he opens his eyes to a swath of blue fabric hanging above, embroidered with swallows, the sound of birds singing in the room, but it’s pitch black outside.

The air smells like dust and death and hell.

Hong scrapes the floor with his nails and heaves himself up, shaking underneath the weight. He crawls out from the blankets. Fuck. The air is so unbelievably cold, the room trembles violently, but still he stumbles towards the door.

He must leave.

He's going back to Calnor. He'll turn himself in if he has to. It's what he deserves. He can't stay here.

The door handle slips from his grasp, and he lies there on the ground, forehead pressed to the floor, shivering. It feels like hours. The agony doesn't subside.

Maybe he dies like this.

But then, someone is there, hovering above him in the dark. And then he's being carried back to bed. A cool hand brushes back his hair. There's the taste of medicinal bitterness, sweetened and cherry. The spoon is startlingly cold. Someone holds him, murmurs to him softly until he's fallen asleep.

In the morning, he's soaked with sweat, the fever broken sometime during the night.

He remembers someone bringing him to the cot.

He must've dreamed it.

He must've.

16

"Where are you going?"

Hong feels himself tense. His body always held itself as if it were on the edge of a cliff. Sometimes, the smallest agitation feels like a life or death thing.

Lao Lei sits on a foldout chair on the other side of the steps in the darkness. He has a length of yarn in his hands, the bottom tied to a pinecone that's entertaining a small orange cat.

He blinks, nonplussed at the sight of his Juzi, but then remembers he's supposed to be running away.

"I'm leaving." The words come out ragged in its harshness instead of firm, breaking with bitterness, thick with mock remorse. "Sorry I can't be your little thief anymore."

But the man only laughs at that, still watching the cat tumble around, his tail swishing from side-to-side as he stalks the pinecone. The pair of spectacles hanging around his neck glint with movement as he leans back in the chair. "At least come and say goodbye to your teacher properly."

"You can't trick me into staying again," Hong spits, jutting his chin out.

He should hate him for taking him to that very first lesson. He should completely despise him for being the one that filled his head with idiotic fantasies of a warm bed and a tolerable future. The old man should've just let him go, fuck off into the dregs of Nine instead of putting him in this hellhole. He's the reason that he had to endure Yaoqing.

Lao Lei smiles and raises his hands up. "I won't stop you."

This is the part where he turns and leaves.

But he doesn't.

Reluctantly, he shuffles to the other side of the steps and stands before the old man. Juzi stops playing to weave between his legs, rubbing his face around his ankles in greeting. The little orange ball makes a soft noise. His chest deflates slightly, but he balls his hands into fists and stares ahead as the cat purrs.

"I want to hear the part you've been working on before you go." The expression on his face is indistinct. Hong can't read it beneath the smile. "As a parting gift from you."

"No," he replies stubbornly.

"Recite it, and you can go."

Insects chirp in the long silence. The summer air is hot and humid even at night, his shirt sticking to his back. He can hear some movement from the warehouse inside, a light flickering on from a window above them, casting them in a mellow glow. Maybe it's easier if he just does this last thing. It's not worth lao Lei waking up the warehouse.

"Qi Xiaoyi, the shopkeeper.
The store is named 'Flying in the sky.'
Starting a new career is truly exhausting!
I put in effort mentally, physically, I've even worn my mouth,
diligently educating my subordinates.
Leading by example, I won't be at a loss.
Welcoming with a smiling face is the key.
'Flying in the sky's reputation spreads far and wide.

"Not so bad."

Hong rolls his eyes. "You're lying."

"Not so good either."

"I-"

"You are lacking in your tone. Your voice should be more crisp. Why aren't you standing with a pointed foot? You act like you're in a real fight during scenes for a wuxi. You're not. This is opera." Lao Lei points to the cat sitting at his feet. "If a jing is a tiger, then chou is cat. He must be light and nimble, quick and clear."

He bristles at the words. So the old man is having a last go at him, huh? "I don't need your fucking critique." He snaps, a streak of anger wrapped around his spine, being pulled taut.

Lao Lei ignores him. "What do you understand about this opera?"

"Qiu Xiaoyi steals some shit a few times. I don't know!"

"You're not trying."

He almost snarls. It feels like a slap in the face. He'd almost died, and this – this senior citizen was going on about him not trying?

"Fuck off and die. I don't want to be a chou."

"Why?"

Lao Lei is very calm and it makes him even angrier. He wants very badly to see him become provoked, to become monstrous too. He wants a reason to be unforgivably nasty and tear him apart, spit in his face, and be on his merry way out. "Because – because they're traitorous. They're scum, they're stupid. Tang Qin framed his friend. Servant Zhang tried to sell his damn daughter for fuck's sake – Yaoqing makes me play this shit because that's what he thinks I am."

His throat feels like it's closing up. His face is hot, body so full of anger that it trembles like a branch before the heat of a fire.

Lao Lei looks at him and he feels dissected. "You're not those things."

He thinks of the house.

Juzi leaps into the old man's lap and curls up, purring through the silence. The air leaves his lungs.

"I think I did something terrible," he finally admits.

His voice wavers and he hates himself very much for it. The words spill out of him and then lie there like a body, unbearably revolting.

"Then repent and be forgiven."

A sharp exhale leaves him. He suddenly feels so spent, trying to cling onto his fury. It burns him terribly, but he can't let go of it. Because then he would have nothing. Because then he would be bare, exposed, and people would see him, that he was every bit as awful as they knew him to be. He should have left months ago.

"I don't think I can be forgiven."

In the stillness, his voice sounds so small. He feels his shoulders fall despite how desperately he tries to hold on.

He begins to sob.

It's ugly. He's so mad that he's crying, that he can only cry harder. And it's so pathetic, but he can't stop, something uncontrollable bursting from him. His whole body shakes with it, falling apart before a stupid old man. He should have just died instead in that closet. He should've just died long before that.

There is no place here for him. He belongs nowhere. Hideous thing with blood on his hands.

The light above them turns off. It's dark again.

His breath evens slightly.

"Hong. You have suffered. That is enough."

There's a hand on his shoulder. He wipes his face, digging the heel of his palms into his eyes. He's so tired. He could sleep for a million years and still feel like it wouldn't be enough. Recoiling, Hong tries to shake off lao Lei, but he doesn't yield.

"Now you live," lao Lei says. "Now you go on with your life."

He breathes in, chest shuddering.

"Stay another night."

17

The last remnants of summer hang languidly in the warm afternoons, but the nights only become colder as autumn withers in. Hong sits in the hall waiting for Yitang, half asleep leaning on his elbow, an old sweater draped over his shoulders. There's a light touch on his leg that shakes him awake.

He blinks, vision coming into focus. In the dimmed light, Yitang looks thinner, sharper. His eyes are sunken with shadows.

"You should be in bed."

Hong scoffs, "Look who's talking. Your eyebags are enormous."

It elicits no response. He grabs Yitang's hand to heave himself up, but he flinches back suddenly.

"Ah, sorry."

He gives Hong his other hand instead.

For all the years he's known him, he'd always thought that Yitang was infuriatingly patient, bordering on stubborn, a thing that was as constant as the earth. What is a mountain compared to Yitang? He used to say with derision before Wenwen quickly sobered him up with a sharper retort. But now, it feels like there's a splinter in his bearing, something shaken loose. He speaks with the thin texture of cigarette paper, a strange flimsiness in his voice. Hong pauses and studies his face.

He reaches for him again. This time, he over turns his palm. They're sore with faint bruises. It makes his pulse stutter. "Yitang."

"I'm fine," he says lightly, closing his fist. "Let's go to bed."

"No."

His eyes shift away. "I'm tired, Hong."

Yitang's so polite with his unhappiness too. It's maddening.

He thought he’d be seething, prodigious at anger if nothing. But worry is terror that gnaws. It sinks his teeth into his belly instead. "You need to eat," he insists. "You skipped dinner."

"I'll have breakfast."

"No."

Yitang shakes him off, turning away. "Let's not fight."

"Wait – I have something for you."

He holds out the brown paper box he's been guarding and presents it to Yitang with spirited flourish. Inside, there's an assortment of cookies, flower-shaped thumbprint biscuits with jam centers, golden butter ones pressed with almonds, and perfect sweet discs of marble swirls. "Wenwen bought this for you." He shoves the box towards his chest. "You haven't been eating well. We thought you might like this. To help your appetite."

Hong looks at his face, expectant, but the older boy stares straight down at his feet. He wavers and takes the box delicately.

It feels impossible. He can't even get Yitang to look at him.

"What's wrong with you?" Hong finally huffs.

"I'm sorry. I can't."

"Well, we can't return it, so just have one."

There's a long pause. Push and pull, he's learned. Yitang doesn't brawl. He waits. Hong's grown proficient at playing this game too.

Finally, Yitang gives in. "I don't know if I can do it." His face is impassive.

He's not sure if they're still talking about the cookies anymore.

Something slips in his expression. The lamp in the hall flickers, and Hong watches the way his face changes.

"I don't think Master is too pleased with me."

It's intuitive, his hate feels visceral. His chest tightens in an awful way. He's suddenly got Yitang by the shoulders, and the boy blinks, looking up at him in surprise. "Listen. He's an asshole. He's pleased with nothing. He's just waiting to die."

Yitang drops his head back down, shrugging. "Canghai doesn't think I'm very good either."

"Cai? That shiteater? You want me to beat him up for you?"

His eyes widen. "No!" He frowns after a moment. "Don't call him Cai. That's not very nice."

"Oh, so I can call him shiteater."

Yitang smiles despite himself. It feels like a very fragile thing. Hong holds onto it as carefully as he can. He leans in playfully and drapes an arm around his shoulders. "I'll do it. Just say the word, lao Zheng."

"I know. But please don't."

"Don't practice with him anymore. Practice with me."

He can see how Yitang suppresses a grin, his eyes narrowing at the thinly veiled disbelief, arm slipping off and recoiling with dramatic vexation. "I'm that bad huh? Fine, practice with Wenwen."

"No. You are not bad at all, xiao Jiang. Come on, let's hear your falsetto," he teases, picking up a cookie.

"Eat your damn biscuit."

Yitang smiles. "Ah, senior brother!"

How many times have they done this now? Hong rolls his eyes but plays along. He clears his throat very seriously. "Younger brother!" He nudges Yitang impishly. "Walking hand in hand, leisurely and carefree."

18

LIN CHONG: Ah, senior brother!

LU ZHISHEN: Younger brother!

LIN CHONG: Please have a seat!

LU ZHISHEN: Please have a seat! Why haven't you visited the garden in the past few days? I've been looking forward to seeing you.

LIN CHONG: This? These few days, I've had a little mishap, so I haven't been able to visit senior brother.

LU ZHISHEN: Could it be that you're troubled by the matter of the high-ranking official's son again?

LIN CHONG: No, it's not because of that.

LU ZHISHEN: If it is, I'll take care of it for you.

LIN CHONG: Yes, if it were, I would have to earnestly ask senior brother for help.

LU ZHISHEN: If not, then let's go for a stroll on the main street, have a drink and relax a bit, what do you think?

LIN CHONG: This? Um, um, sure, sure!

LU ZHISHEN: Don't hesitate, let's go then. Please!

LIN CHONG: Please!

LU ZHISHEN: Meeting a like-minded friend adds to the joy.

LIN CHONG: Using alcohol to dispel dissatisfaction.

LU ZHISHEN: Walking hand in hand, leisurely and carefree.

19

Yaoqing dies, and Lei refuses to take over. Cao tries to teach for a bit, but no one pays him much attention. He walks around with an air of smugness until the first class crushes his ego. The troupe laughs in his face when he puffs up his chest and puts on an impression of their late Master that is more comical than terrifying.

In the end, things are such a mess that Biao Lei gives in and takes the reins on training the students. He declines to be called the title of Master, insistent that he is anything but that.

The troupe settles into their new era.

When Yaoqing dies, Hong excuses himself to the bathroom.

Lao Lei might believe him to be a good person now, but he stares at his reflection in the mirror and thinks something must be very wrong with him. The water runs cold in the sink. There's a funny feeling that starts in his chest.

It's not sorrow.

It's relief.

The old devil is finally dead.

20

At Cao's command, Hong becomes Yiming before his first appearance on stage. He spends a long time mulling over the characters, but spends even longer complaining about it.

"It's a good name," Yitang insists every time. "It's very musical. Yi and ming are poetic characters."

"Sounds kinda big-headed to me."

"You are kinda big-headed," Yawen says, nonchalant.

He gives her a dirty look but doesn't go on about it nearly as much after that. Off-stage, he is adamant about using his birth name, ignoring Cao completely when the troupe leader tries to call him by any other way.

But as the months pass, more and more people address him as Yiming, and he realizes it doesn't really bother him like it used to. He stops caring. He grows to like it a bit.

He turns seventeen. Yiming is a different person now. Four years older than when he came.

After Yaoqing died, he made leaps in his progress. Apparently trying to beat the opera into him wasn't his learning style. Apparently a little encouragement goes a long way. Ha, who would've thought?

Now it feels like he can breathe deeper. He finds it easier to endure. There's no more bracing himself, no more choosing self-slaughter over swallowing torment. He doesn't need to be so angry. In the end, the suffering never made him a better person. He's not softer because of it. He's changed in spite of Yaoqing.

These days, he spends time taking long walks with Yawen, calling and answering lines of the newest repertoire, eternally bickering and making up. He helps Yitang practice in the evenings, but ends up mostly trying to get him to laugh, half a fool for this boy. At night, he feeds their cat and enjoys lao Lei's musings. The seasons change like this. Life becomes more beautiful.

Sometimes he still feels distinctly lonely. He heard Calnor had closed a few months ago, and this last part of him holds onto Hong – just in case. He doesn't tell anyone of his childish desire. Other days, he dreams of the house and wakes up terrified. The guilt never leaves him. He's never forgiven himself, but years have passed, and very slowly, he lives on.

But most days, Yiming feels okay.

Last Edit: Apr 15, 2023 23:17:06 GMT -5 by fox

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yiming / 9, fin Apr 15, 2023 23:10:11 GMT -5

Quote

Post by fox on Apr 15, 2023 23:10:11 GMT -5

notes

names;

jiang chun
江春

xu yebai
徐烨柏

lei biao
雷彪

liu yawen
刘雅雯

operas;

Stealing the Silver Jug
盗银壶

Wild Boar Forest
野猪林

timeline;

sections in chronological:

(before)
3, 1

(13)
2, 4, 14, 7, 10, 5

(14)
15, 6, 8, 16, 9, 17, 18

(15)
13, 19

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Last Edit: Apr 15, 2023 23:21:41 GMT -5 by fox

fox Graphics 1,360 POSTS Pronouns: she/her last seen Apr 15, 2024 23:29:58 GMT -5 but a butt ?	yiming / 9, fin Apr 15, 2023 23:37:03 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by fox on Apr 15, 2023 23:37:03 GMT -5 set out 2 write a side character & here he is ripred_bot

calla RP Tutor 2,119 POSTS Pronouns: she/they last seen Apr 12, 2024 17:37:52 GMT -5 just a litle creacher	yiming / 9, fin Apr 16, 2023 0:11:09 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by calla on Apr 16, 2023 0:11:09 GMT -5 i can't breathe your honour this is my baby a million billion times accepted
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