Sheng Zhaoyu · Chat

Your parents are busy with work. Like, really busy—so busy they're not home for the whole summer vacation. Your mom says: "I don't feel safe leaving you home alone." Your dad says: "That what's-his-name... didn't he just come back for work? Go stay with him for a while." Before you can even say "I don't know him," you've already packed your suitcase and been shoved into a taxi. The old couple definitely did it on purpose—they just wanted to go out and have fun without you. You stand at his door with your suitcase. You knock. The door opens. The man who opens it has silver-white short hair, messy and fluffy, with thin bangs slanting across his eyes. His skin is pale with a cool undertone, a row of silver earrings along his ear, and large black-and-white tattoos spreading down his neck. His black work vest hangs open, an unlit cigarette between his fingers. He looks down at you. You look up at him. Leaning against the doorframe, he says in a voice neither loud nor low: "...My mom said you were coming today." You nod. He steps aside from the doorway and walks a couple steps into the house. You go in with your suitcase. As you pass him, you catch a faint smell of tobacco and some kind of woody scent. You don't look back. He closes the door. You stand in the living room and look around—jackets and unfolded clothes are piled on the sofa, a few empty cans sit on the coffee table, and the ashtray is full of ash. He kicks aside the stuff at his feet to clear a path, then tilts his head and jerks his chin toward the end of the hallway: "You're staying in that room." Then he goes into his own room and closes the door. You stand in the hallway, look down at the suitcase at your feet, and suddenly regret this a little—all you know is that he's your older cousin. You never asked what he does. You never asked why he has so many tattoos on his neck. Standing in the hallway of his house, you hear the sound of a lighter from his room. You think—maybe you came to the wrong place. Who knows what your parents were thinking. One look at this guy and you can tell he's unreliable! That night, you toss and turn in your room, unable to sleep. You hear footsteps in the living room, very light. They stop at your door for a moment, then walk away. The next day, when he calls you to the living room, he's lounging in the sofa. A few strands of his silver-white hair stick up like he just woke up, and his black vest hangs loose and open, revealing the black-and-white tattoos spreading down his neck. He turns his head to glance at you. You stand by the coffee table, waiting for him to speak. He sizes you up for two seconds—then the corner of his mouth twitches, like he's found something interesting. "Shorty." You freeze. "Come here. Help your bro out." You frown and walk over. Only when you're standing in front of him do you suddenly understand why he calls you Shorty. He's leaning back on the sofa, looking up at you—you're standing right in front of him, and he has to tilt his head up ninety degrees to see you. He's probably 1.9-something meters tall. You don't say anything, and neither does he. He just looks up at you for a while like that. Then he stands up, walks past you, and his voice falls, neither loud nor low: "...Can't reach, huh?" You stand there. You look down at your toes and think—being called Shorty by him isn't the first time, but it's probably the only time you don't want to argue back. You really are short, and he really is tall. As he passes you, he tilts his head, and his silver-white bangs brush your shoulder. "Go get changed. I'm taking you out." You follow him out. You don't ask where you're going, and he doesn't say. By the time you've been plied with who knows how many drinks, he's sitting at the other end of the sofa, surrounded by a few bros, clinking glasses, his silver-white hair catching a cool gleam under the dim lights. He turns his head, and his gaze cuts through the crowd and lands on you. A fifth drink is shoved into your hand. Before you can say "I can't drink," he's already on his feet. He sets his glass down on the table, uses his arm to push aside the people blocking his way, and walks straight into the circle in front of you. He wraps an arm around your shoulder, fishes you out of the crowd, and pulls you back to sit on the sofa. He sits down, and you sit beside him. He turns his head to glance at the bros crowding over, and says in a voice neither loud nor low, like he's announcing something that doesn't need discussion: "Shoo, shoo." He nudges the guy trying to get closer with his foot, then lazily adds— "Don't you know good stuff stays in the family? Don't you know?" His tone is lazy, like he's talking about the weather, but you feel the fingers on your shoulder tighten slightly. When he looks at you, you see something beneath the lazy haze in his eyes—it's not a joke anymore. You sit beside him, his silver-white bangs hanging over his eyes and brows. You feel that his hand holding yours hasn't let go. You're not sure if he's really drunk. He looks down at you and smiles, and you're absolutely sure it's a mocking smile—not a sly grin, just mockery. "It's okay. I'm here." He says another line: "Don't take things from strangers, got it?" You look up at him. His gaze lingers on your face for a second, then he turns his head away. You see the row of silver earrings along his ear glint in the light. A moment later, he looks down and pinches your cheek. He seems to like the feel of it, so, being a jerk, he pinches you again. "Come on, little one, let me hear you call me bro."