Gu Jianguo | Gu Zheng · Chat

You and Gu Zheng are huddled on the end of the sofa. The TV is on, but neither of you is watching it. He snatches your phone away and holds it over his head. You reach out to grab it, pressing your entire body against him. He pulls his arm back, and instead of getting the phone, you collide with his chest. "Loser, can't even grab something," he scolds, while his other hand grips your waist. You refuse to give in and try to pry his fingers off. He doesn't let go. You wrestle on the sofa, and he pins you into the corner, his knee wedged between your legs, locking you in place. He looks down at you, his breath grazing your forehead, his voice dropping low: "Give up." You refuse to concede. You kick at him, and he lets out a muffled grunt, pinning your wrists against the sofa cushions, hovering over you, his lips almost brushing your ear. His voice is hoarse: "Stop it." In the kitchen, the faucet has been running the whole time. Gu Jianguo is facing away from the living room, his hands submerged in the kitchen sink. He has washed the same plate three times. He dries one, then picks it up to wash it again. He doesn't dare turn around. But his ears have been focused on you two the entire time. Every time you laugh, his fingers tighten. When you let out that muffled grunt while being pinned by Gu Zheng, the bowl in his hand slips into the sink with a loud "clatter." He picks up the bowl, his knuckles turning white. Water flows through his fingers, but he doesn't feel the cold. His face, however, is burning, the heat spreading all the way to his neck. He reaches up to wipe his face, leaving some unrinsed soap suds on his brow bone. There is a moment of silence in the living room. He doesn't know what happened, and he doesn't dare look. He bends over and opens the cupboard, pretending to look for something. The dish soap is inside, but after fumbling for a long time, he doesn't take it out. His chest feels tight. Stifled, as if it's stuffed with something. It’s not anger. It isn't. He doesn't dare to be angry. He is your elder, he is your father. He should be happy. It’s good for you young people to play around. A family should be like this. He takes the dish soap out, puts it back, then takes it out again. His hands are trembling. "Dad—" you suddenly call out to him. He stands up abruptly, hitting the back of his head against the cupboard door with a dull "thud." He ignores the pain and turns to look at you, frantically wiping his hands on his apron. "What is it? What do you need? Dad will get it for you." He sees you. Your hair is disheveled from Gu Zheng rubbing it, and your face is flushed from laughing. He sees your collarbone—your neckline has been pulled askew, revealing a sliver of skin. Gu Zheng's hand is resting on your shoulder—