Zhe Shan · Chat

Noon, Zhe Shan's bedroom. You don't remember why you came here. Perhaps you just wanted to smash something; smashing Zhe Shan's things is much more satisfying than smashing the servants'. He reached out and lifted the pillow and bedding—originally intending to find a piece of clothing to tear to vent his anger, but instead touched a stack of stiff paper sheets. Pulling it out, it was a rolled-up painting scroll tied with a faded red string, clearly showing its age. You paused, then untied the red string. The scroll slowly unrolled, first revealing the tail of a small horse, then the tip of a youth's boot resting in the stirrup, followed by two legs standing straight and tall—wearing a black riding habit, trouser legs tucked into the boot shafts, standing firmly and steadily on the ground. Further up was a smiling face, eyes curved, missing a front tooth, chin tilted up as he sat on the pony's back, incredibly proud of himself. You recognized that face—it was yourself before the age of eight, when you could still run and jump, and chase kites across half the manor in the spring. The edges of the painting paper were slightly yellowed, and there was a thin crease in the bottom right corner, as if it had been repeatedly crumpled and flattened. You stared at those two legs, your vision gradually blurring. You reached out, wanting to touch the knee of the youth in the painting, only realizing when your fingertips touched the paper—you couldn't touch it. It was paper, it was fake, it was something you could never return to. "Crash—" The inkstone on the writing desk flew out and smashed against the doorframe, ink splattering everywhere. "Clatter" went the teacup, then the brush washer, and then the entire bookshelf was violently pushed over. You clenched the painting in your hand, using your other hand to smash whatever you could reach. The sound of shattering porcelain was continuous. A heavy, tuneless growl escaped his throat, like a trapped beast with a broken leg. "Get out—all of you get out—!" The servants outside scrambled away in terror. Someone around the corner lowered their voice and shouted, "Go get the eldest young master! Quick!" You were exhausted from the smashing, trembling as you slumped over the armrest of the wheelchair. The painting was still clutched in your hand, one corner crumpled, yet you couldn't bear to actually tear it. Tears dropped one by one onto the face of the youth in the painting, smudging the toothless smile into a small blur of ink. You desperately tried to wipe it with your sleeve, but it only smudged more. Finally, you buried your face in your palms, your shoulders twitching violently as you sobbed. "Xiao Feng—" The door was flung open. When Zhe Shan rushed in, fine sweat beaded his forehead; he had clearly run all the way back. He swept his gaze over the messy floor, and his eyes fell upon his younger brother, curled into a small ball in the wheelchair and crying so hard he could barely breathe. His heart felt as though it were being fiercely squeezed. "Get out!!" Zhe Feng's voice leaked through the gaps in his fingers, hoarse like sandpaper scraping against sheet metal. "You get out too!" Zhe Shan didn't leave. Stepping around the broken porcelain, he approached and knelt on one knee in front of the wheelchair, reaching out to touch Zhe Feng's shoulder. You suddenly looked up, staring at him fiercely with bloodshot eyes, and threw the crumpled painting right at his face: "Why did you hide this?! You pity me, don't you? Every day you look at my legs, do you just think..." Before you could finish, you were pulled entirely into an embrace. Zhe Shan's arms clamped around you extremely tightly, so tight that you struggled twice but couldn't break free. Your older brother's chest heaved violently, his heartbeat heavy and fast, thumping against the side of your face through the fabric. Something warm dripped onto the back of his neck—whether it was sweat or something else, you couldn't tell. "I don't think you are pitiful," Zhe Shan's voice sounded muffled by his ear, low and hoarse. "It's me who owes you..." You froze for a moment, then began to beat Zhe Shan's back like crazy, fist after fist landing with dull thuds, as if trying to carve all eight years of resentment into this body. "Why do you... why do you get to be perfectly fine... I can't stand up, do you know that? I can't stand up—" "I know..." Zhe Shan didn't dodge, tightening his embrace even more. "I know." The strength of your blows gradually weakened, finally turning into fingers clutching the fabric of your older brother's back, knuckles turning white, trembling violently. <choice_group> <choice id="1">You bury your face in the crook of Zhe Shan's neck, your tears soaking a large patch of the bamboo-green fabric.</choice> <choice id="2">Observe current details</choice> <choice id="3">Advance the current plot</choice> </choice_group>