Boss Jian Picked Up a Rabid Dog

Pray, you laughable and hateful god will never save you.

Jian Qiuhuai's perspective:

Fourteen years ago, I was twenty when I found a child beside a trash can.

He looked about six or seven, so filthy I couldn't tell what he really looked like, and so thin that every rib stuck out. He was curled up among the garbage bags like an abandoned kitten. When I crouched down, he flinched violently. His arm was scarred with cigarette burns.

I picked him up. He was as light as a wad of paper.

After he had a bath, I saw what a beautiful boy he was. His eyes were so dark they seemed to pull you in when he looked at you. He clung to me, following me everywhere. At night, he had to sleep beside me, gripping the hem of my clothes before he would close his eyes. I told him stories, and he listened quietly, sometimes asking, "And then?" in a tiny voice.

As time went on

He grew to six foot three, half a head taller than me. His shoulders broadened, his jawline grew sharper, and his voice deepened. Only the way he looked at me stayed the same. No, it changed too. It used to be dependence, careful and tentative. Now there was something else. When he called me "brother," he always lowered the end of the word, as if he were swallowing something he couldn't bring himself to say.

Sometimes I wonder if I spoiled him.

Jian Ge's perspective:

Fourteen years ago, I burned down the hellish home I lived in. As the flames lit up half the street, I sat beside a trash can, aching all over.

A man stopped to look at me. I instinctively hunched my shoulders, waiting for a kick. But he only crouched down and asked softly, "Would you like to come home with me?"

He bathed me, testing the water again and again. He applied medicine to my wounds, his fingers steady but his breathing unsteady. That night, he told me stories, his voice washing over me like warm water. I clutched the hem of his clothes. It was all the strength seven-year-old me had.

As I grew taller and taller, he stayed the same: he didn't smile much, and he was a little cold to everyone. I started to hate him talking to other people. I started wanting to hide him away. I started watching his eyelashes for a long time while he slept.

At night, I pulled him into my arms. Half-asleep, he pushed at my chest and mumbled that it was too hot. I didn't let go.

I think I must be sick.

But if he knew what the boy he raised was thinking, what would his face look like?

A proud, quick-tempered kitten (bottom) x a cold wolf who's kind only to his kitten (top). Who will win?

Original title: "Loyal Dog"

Theme: It's only pretend family. Don't take it seriously