Widow Omega can no longer be called Widow Omega since his husband isn’t dead. So, we can only call him the Little Painter.
The Little Painter clung tightly to the man’s neck, crying breathlessly. Perhaps all his past resilience was because crying seemed futile, nobody really paid heed, but now with a real audience, the Little Painter let out his grief so intensely that the man felt helpless, his heart numb with pain.
In the house, the sound of crying was stifling, making it difficult for listeners to bear. The elderly butler sighed and shook his head, thinking of taking the young officer waiting outside to the commander’s study.
He whispered quietly, “The commander is in a bad mood, the madam is arguing with him about divorce, perhaps the second young master could persuade him.”
The young officer didn’t want to see his father, especially since he was preoccupied with the concern for the recovered general, so he declined, “I need to see the general now, please apologize to my parents for me.”
The old butler had no choice but to escort the young officer out and instructed the caretakers not to disturb the eldest young master in his room.
The crying inside the room eventually subsided, the man’s apologies and consolations were effective, as the Little Painter was a reasonable one, and also because he loved him, the man always had the most opportunities to make things right.
“Ruo Ruo, the floor is cold, and you hate the cold, don’t kneel on the floor,” the man said, lifting the Little Painter into his arms.
The Little Painter’s entire weight pressed onto the man’s thighs, his hoarse, sticky voice resisting, “I won’t sit, it will hurt you.”
“It doesn’t hurt, really, I don’t feel much there anymore,” the man gently brushed his nose against the Little Painter’s face, finding the cheeks damp with tears cool to the touch, so he instead kissed away the tears with his warm, dry lips.
The fractured bones had healed, but the nerves were dead, leaving the man’s legs mostly numb, though the agony of old wounds compounded by recent injuries made for a grim sight.
“Did you fix the rain shelter on the roof?” the Little Painter buried his face in the man’s neck, nuzzling affectionately, as he had often dreamt.
“Mhm,” the man held him close, feeling the Little Painter’s face brush against his scars, those ugly marks suddenly itching as if new flesh were growing.
The man, once prone to stubble, used to insist on rubbing his scratchy face against the Little Painter’s soft one, now he was more worried that his uneven scars might hurt his Little Painter.
He didn’t mention how he had climbed the wall using just his arms and how he despised himself when he fell to the ground.
“I thought it was a stray cat on the roof those days.” The Little Painter felt like crying again, “Why didn’t I go check? I should have known; cats don’t make that much noise. I’m so stupid.” And then he cried again.
“I wanted to go outside and check, but it was too cold.”
“It’s so cold outside, you must have been freezing.”
“I’m sorry, it’s all my fault, I should have knocked; how could I not warm your bed this winter, letting our Ruo Ruo sleep cold and alone.” The man hurried to wipe the Little Painter’s tears.
He had left at the end of winter, missing a whole spring and autumn. The Little Painter had endured so much that year, the man couldn’t bear to think about it.
He hadn’t slept well in a long time.
“It’s your fault,” the Little Painter held back his sobs, sorrowfully defending himself, “I don’t cry anymore, I can do a lot now, I don’t just stir-fry veggies.”
“I only cried today, I won’t cry in the future,” he added.
The normally tearless Little Painter was quite bold when facing the commander, angrily demanding the medal of honor that the legendary middle-aged man had taken from him.
“You took my medal, you need to give it back,” the Little Painter said.
“Your medal? A general’s medal, do you know what it represents? It’s the face of the alliance!” the commander, already furious, retorted.
“I may not understand many things, but I know that obedience obtained through coercion and threats is meaningless, and the nation’s dignity cannot be built on lies and deceit,” the Little Painter stood his ground, angered, “If you were as upright as the rumors suggest, you shouldn’t have done such things. How can you impose your thoughts on others?”
Having not been contradicted like this for many years, the commander was furious, slamming his pen down and sternly questioning the man, “Is this the person you insist on marrying?”
The man had nothing to say, only pulling the Little Painter behind him, his protective stance clear.
Years of despair and struggle had already created a deep rift between father and son, if it were not for his need to retrieve his old sweater, the man might not have returned here a month ago.
Receiving no response and feeling his authority challenged, the commander then turned to yell at his silent wife, “This is the good son you raised!”
“Are you yelling at me? How many times have I advised you to respect our children’s wishes? Have you ever listened?” the commander’s wife, seemingly frail and quiet, had never defied her husband before, but the accumulation of disappointments had finally burst forth.
“You…” the commander’s temples throbbed, his retort choked off, quickly interrupted.
“What are you saying! You matchmake on a whim. I’ve told you so many times, Yan has someone he likes, and the partners you pick are even worse. Your interference in these matters is pointless beyond satisfying your delusions of control, you are just selfish!”
“I am selfish?” the typically imposing commander was taken aback by his wife’s unfamiliar harsh tone, and the Little Painter, hiding behind the man, silently agreed.
“You’re not selfish? I’ve spent years with you, raised two fine sons, and yet you’ve ruined our marriage. Both Yan and Lan suffered because of you, and now you blame me?” the commander’s wife, overwhelmed with emotion, argued, her usually gentle demeanor now fervent.
“I’ve said it, I’m not staying with you, I want a divorce, I’m leaving now, and no one can stop me,” her eyes filled with tears, she stood but quickly slumped back into her chair.
The previously stern-faced commander rushed to her, “Quick, don’t get angry, your heart isn’t strong, calm down, calm down.”
“Get out, get out, I don’t want to see you,” the commander, unable to face humiliation, tried to dismiss the others.
After a stern look from his wife, the typically authoritative commander begrudgingly pulled out his keys and threw them to the man.
“Take these, West Sea Garden, you deserve it.”
He didn’t want to argue anymore, his family seemed to have given up on him, initially willing to compromise, now everyone had turned against him.
If it hadn’t been for the commander cutting off the man’s livelihood years ago, the man wouldn’t have sought that dangerous reward and wouldn’t have lost the use of his legs.
No one cared about his regrets, the door slammed shut, the man in the wheelchair turned to the Little Painter, “Ruo Ruo, do I have a new sweater this year?”
“I buried it on the mountain,” the Little Painter replied sheepishly.
“It must be beautiful,” the man decided they would go dig up his own grave right then; it must contain many wonderful things, as the Little Painter always saved the best for him.
“Of course, I’ve improved,” the Little Painter sneakily glanced at the man, then glanced again.
Caught up in crying and arguing, he had just noticed the scar that stretched from the man’s nose to his right cheek, still handsome with a touch of roguishness, looking a bit like a bandit from a TV show.
“You look like a bandit now, the kind that would steal chickens from the village,” the Little Painter joked, always imaginative and steadfast at heart, as if any pain that befell him would quietly dissolve into the water.
“Am I not a dashing rogue?” the man laughed as well. The long-standing grievances suddenly seemed to vanish, the momentary discord in his heart eased; now, the man only wanted to kiss his Little Painter, but his broken legs prevented him from being as spontaneous as before, so he had to ask for help.
“Ruo Ruo, come here,” he said.
The obedient Little Painter knelt before the man at the end of the long corridor, allowing the man to kiss him thoroughly.
They had only been staying temporarily in that coastal town because the Little Painter wanted to paint the island breezes, the birds and the wildflowers, and also because the dock always needed extra hands.
Now they had a large villa with a garden, and the man worked as a regular instructor at a nearby military academy.
At night, when training ended, the Little Painter would come to pick up his husband.
His hands were once again covered in paint, the Little Painter’s art still lacked technique, but the warmth and sunshine within it could truly move hearts.
