Chapter 10: Parting

Wen Mo marveled at Pei Zeyang’s drive. He stared toward the door a long while before looking away.
All right.
This was actually fine.
Wen Mo didn’t chase after him.
He didn’t do what he had done when stopping Pei Zeyang from registering at the community office—run next door and block him, insist he could manage alone and didn’t need Pei Zeyang going this far.
He didn’t want to. He had found… compared with forcing himself to adapt to solitary life, staying strong through every accident and difficulty, never troubling anyone, he liked being noticed, cared for, and accompanied far more.
Yes.
He liked it. Company, care, someone thinking of him.
He knew he shouldn’t take it for granted—but that was how he had grown up. His parents loved him, looked after him, stayed with him. He never felt lonely, empty, helpless.
He came home to food on the table. His mother washed fruit he liked and let him play a while before calling him to eat.
Someone talked with him, listened to school stories, new friends, what he had done today.
Home was always lively. He didn’t worry about much—only had to be happy day by day.
Lately Wen Mo kept telling himself to be strong, grow up, care for himself. In truth he still preferred the carefree past.
So he wouldn’t stop Pei Zeyang.
He didn’t want to go back to lonely helpless days, and he didn’t want to refuse Pei Zeyang’s kindness.
They had only known each other three days. Pei Zeyang wasn’t a chatterbox like some old friends—but his presence was intense.
Pei Zeyang watched him constantly—looks that lingered, stopping when he passed to see what he was doing. Without words, those looks felt solid, seeping into his senses, making him aware of Pei Zeyang.
He no longer felt alone.
Pei Zeyang had pushed into his life; the everywhere presence didn’t bother him.
Wen Mo had easily grown used to him. Now that Pei Zeyang was gone, the apartment was quiet again—uncomfortably so, empty, as if something were missing.
He didn’t like it. Wen Mo lowered his eyes and kept eating.
He thought of going to Pei Zeyang’s place that afternoon to learn cooking together. Friends visiting each other was normal. He wouldn’t trouble Pei Zeyang—he wouldn’t trouble anyone—
The doorbell cut his thoughts.
Wen Mo paused a second.
Wasn’t he off to practice cooking? Back so soon?
Instinct said Pei Zeyang was outside. His mood lifted at once. Like a little bird he fluttered up and hurried to the door. “Coming, coming!”
The lively, pretty bird opened the door. “Pei Zeyang, is that you?”
“…Yeah.” The voice outside answered.
Compared to Wen Mo’s brightness, Pei Zeyang looked awkward. He rubbed his neck, a hundred fake motions a second, ears faintly red as he looked away. “So, I just moved in. The kitchen’s empty.”
Yuan Chen had bought the place and never lived in it—besides a bed, no real furniture, let alone kitchen gear.
…
Somehow this was all Yuan Chen’s fault.
Pei Zeyang found that whenever he tried to do something for Wen Mo, trouble showed up—making him seem less reliable and mature.
Annoying.
No better option now—borrow from Wen Mo.
“Can I use your kitchen and ingredients?”
“Sure!” Wen Mo agreed gladly.
Pei Zeyang had come back for him. He was happy, eyes curving like crescents. “Of course—borrow as long as you want!”
—
That afternoon Pei Zeyang used Wen Mo’s kitchen to learn cooking. Wen Mo was in the living room, digging out clay he hadn’t touched in ages.
Wen Mo had always liked handicrafts. Born blind, he had never seen the world; he knew things by touch and imagined them in his mind.
He loved shaping what he imagined and showing others.
Whether it matched or not, he found it fun.
His clay skills weren’t great—people said the shapes were odd. He didn’t mind; it was a hobby. Being corrected even made him happy.
He had just finished a little dog when footsteps came and a figure leaned over him, almost covering him.
Wen Mo felt Pei Zeyang close. He looked up—before he could speak, a piece of fried chicken strip was fed into his mouth.
“How is it?” Pei Zeyang asked.
“Delicious.” Wen Mo nodded hard.
This batch was fried just right—not like last time, all crumbs when you bit in.
Wen Mo gave a thumbs-up. “A hundred points!”
Pei Zeyang’s tight brow finally eased.
He fed Wen Mo another dumpling.
The step-by-step method was Wen Mo’s idea—start with semi-prepared food; even that wasn’t easy; go slow. Pei Zeyang obeyed and finally succeeded once.
“Really good—you learn so fast.” Wen Mo praised.
“You’re so tall—you can sit here.” Looking up tired his neck. Wen Mo shifted aside to make room. “Sit with me.”
“More?” Wen Mo asked.
He had eaten bland meals while sick. Now his appetite was back; the chicken strip had made him crave something flavorful.
“A few fries left.” Wen Mo’s praise put Pei Zeyang in a good mood, but he remembered the doctor’s orders.
Wen Mo needed light food these days. He hadn’t fried much—just a couple of chicken strips and fries.
“Fries are fine.” Fed all afternoon, Wen Mo had gone from shy to opening his mouth on his own.
“Ah—”
Pei Zeyang: “…”
He had meant to say the fries were overdone, but Wen Mo’s mouth was open—so he fed him.
“Mm, a bit over-fried.” Wen Mo, like a little critic, gave his honest review after tasting.
“Mm.” Pei Zeyang came back to himself from staring at his lips.
Wen Mo’s cold seemed better—color back in his face. His lips, once pale, were light pink now. After the chicken he had licked them—they looked moist, lower lip slightly full.
Pei Zeyang told himself he wasn’t a pervert. Wen Mo chewing, lips moving—he was drawn in naturally, couldn’t help looking longer.
Soft.
What would they feel like to touch.
…
Damn.
What kind of thoughts were these.
He was absolutely not a pervert.
“Same batch as the chicken.” Pei Zeyang answered absently, shocked at himself.
“Don’t fry them that long.” Wen Mo, unaware, kept teaching. “Fries cook faster than chicken—seconds in the oil, then out.”
Pei Zeyang grunted. “Got it.”
“Rest—you’ve practiced a long time.” Wen Mo grabbed his arm, wouldn’t let him go, felt on the tea table with his other hand. “Look at my little dog.”
“Little dog?” Pei Zeyang looked over and froze.
“Hm? What’s wrong—doesn’t it look like one?” Hearing something odd in his tone, Wen Mo held up the dog. “What’s wrong?”
“Not wrong—it’s just green.”
“Green?” Wen Mo had been blind from birth; he shouldn’t have had a concept of color. But his mother had taught him well—how to feel color.
Red was chili, tomato, apple, New Year couplets, red envelopes—warm, passionate, happy.
Green was grass and leaves—quiet, fresh, natural.
Plants were green.
Dogs weren’t.
Wen Mo asked: “What color should a dog be?”
Pei Zeyang thought. “All kinds. Common is white?”
Right—dogs were white.
Wen Mo remembered: white was snow—clean, fluffy, soft.
Dogs were fluffy; fur was soft.
“Besides white, other colors?” Wen Mo went on. “What color is a husky?”
“Black and white, red-brown, light gray.” Pei Zeyang said. “You like huskies?”
That surprised him—he had thought Wen Mo would prefer golden retrievers, gentle and friendly.
“I like all dogs.” Wen Mo smiled. “The neighbor kid had a husky. I ran into them sometimes—more familiar.”
“Old neighbors?” Pei Zeyang asked. “You didn’t live here before?”
“Right—another complex.” Wen Mo had no guard. Pei Zeyang asked; he answered—and volunteered what wasn’t asked. “Riverbank Garden.”
“That place was bigger. I rented it out.”
After discharge he hadn’t returned to school or found work. He couldn’t live on savings forever—he needed income.
The rent was a bit over twenty thousand a month—a large sum for Wen Mo.
But that was only part of it.
Mainly, a big house alone was too empty. He couldn’t bear the loneliness—feared it. He couldn’t stay in the home full of his parents’ traces and not see them.
Every day there hurt.
So he had relatives find an agent to rent it and moved into a smaller two-bedroom.
Moving was hard and disorienting—but afterward he felt better, slowly recovering from grief, and made new friends.
Now his new friend pressed two lumps of clay into his hands.
“Black and white.” Pei Zeyang told him.
“Oh oh.” Wen Mo understood, nodded slowly.
He went back to his dog. Pei Zeyang rested a bit and returned to the kitchen.
While he worked the clay, Pei Zeyang fed him again and again—from semi-prepared to simple quick dishes. Wen Mo tasted until his belly was round; no dinner needed.
At eight Pei Zeyang gave him his medicine and still asked: “Really not eating dinner?”
“Really, really not.” Wen Mo patted his full stomach, nearly burping.
“…” Pei Zeyang looked away from the motion. “Fine.”
It was late—time to go.
No spare bed at Wen Mo’s… even if there were, he wouldn’t crash at a neighbor’s. He had his own home.
“I’m heading back.” Pei Zeyang said.
“Okay.” Wen Mo nodded.
He saw him to the door. As Wen Mo was about to close it, Pei Zeyang asked: “Want to go out tomorrow?”
“Hm?” Wen Mo didn’t get it. “What?”
“Where?”
“The supermarket.” Pei Zeyang said. “I’ve used up most of your fridge. If you want to go out… we could hit the supermarket together tomorrow?”
“!!!”
“Yes!” Wen Mo agreed happily.
He really wanted to go out!
“It’s a date, then.” Wen Mo was delighted. “Come find me tomorrow.”
Just a supermarket trip—but Wen Mo said “date”… Pei Zeyang’s heart beat faster. His face went wrong. He froze, no reaction.
Wen Mo didn’t notice.
He only thought it was late; Pei Zeyang had been busy all day—should rest for tomorrow’s supermarket trip, maybe even go play somewhere.
He wanted Pei Zeyang to sleep well.
“See you tomorrow.”
“Bye.”
“Rest well tonight!”
The door closed.
Pei Zeyang stood outside a long time without leaving.
His face odd, he pondered a serious question.
Is this a date?
Probably not.
He had only said supermarket tomorrow.
But Wen Mo said date…
So maybe it counts.
So he had a date with Wen Mo tomorrow?
Pei Zeyang sucked in a sharp breath.