Chapter 11: Sharing a Bed

Chen Qiao planned to exercise before showering, but three proper push-ups left him exhausted.
Weak—no wonder girls bullied him.

He fetched hot water from the coal stove’s tank, refilling it for his sister’s post-study shower.

The bathroom was basic, rough cement walls studded with grit.
The door didn’t lock, just tied with a rope hook.
A recessed slot meant for a washing machine, unpowered due to short wiring, bred damp-loving bugs—pill bugs and others Chen Qiao didn’t recognize.
Harmless, but their sight made his skin crawl, a reason he feared bathing alone as a kid.

A shower pipe hung, spewing only cold water, no showerhead—just a ∩-shaped tube, usable only in summer, stinging when it hit.

Bathing with buckets saved water, he noted post-shower.

He hand-washed his uniform and hung it on the rooftop rack, then headed to the bedroom he shared with his sister.

The second floor had three rooms, a living area, and a tiny bathroom-sized granary.
Dark, with only a high, small window, it was stuffy and smelled.

The room by the stairs was a storage cluttered with construction lumber, like the rooftop shed.
His Little Tyrant console and cartridges hid there.

The living area held a bulky CRT color TV and a Wanyan DVD player.
With it, Chen Qiao watched pirated anime discs—EVA, confusing but cool with its robots and pretty girls.
His sister watched Hong Kong and Taiwan idol dramas, borrowed from classmates or rented from video shops.

Back then, at illegal cafes, he only gamed, unaware computers could stream novels or videos.

His and his sister’s bedroom was next to their parents’ via a thin wall.
Two beds: a newer panel bed against the right corner, two sides to the wall, and an older wooden bed, slanted beside it, slightly higher and larger.

The panel bed had a red sheet with a double-happiness character, not yet swapped for a summer mat.
The old dog-patterned sheet was in the wash.
They used whatever was available—a thin blanket, two pillows.

He and his sister still shared the panel bed.
In winter, it was fine for warmth.
In summer’s heat, they sometimes split, but often shared again to stay near the fan.

The wooden bed, their parents’ old marriage bed, was well-crafted with head and footboards.
Chen Qiao had plastered it with bubblegum stickers.
It was cluttered with toys—yo-yos, mini 4WD cars, scattered Yu-Gi-Oh! and Three Kingdoms cards.
Bored, he’d sort them, sometimes napping atop the pile.

He’d wake on the other bed beside his sister, who teasingly left cards stuck to his face or body.

“You love sleeping with your precious cards,” she’d say.

The beds took up most of the room.
The desk held her two piggy banks and a nearly finished cross-stitch: “Man is a drifting boat, home is the shore,” with half a house, a stone bridge, and a sailboat.
Comparing it to the original, she’d tweaked the house to match theirs—classic sister.

Sleepless—not winter, no need to warm her bed—he grabbed a notebook from her award stash, turned on the old floor fan, and wrote his novel by hand.

Typing was faster; handwriting was slow, his arm and fingers aching, needing time to adjust.

The downstairs door opened—his sister, right on time.
His dad’s return was louder, chatting noisily with friends, disturbing neighbors.

She’d shower, wash clothes, and add coal to the stove for tomorrow’s cooking.

Chen Qiao wanted to rush down to see her.
Hours apart felt like ages.

He restrained himself, curbing the urge to act childish.
To gain her respect, he needed to show maturity, sway her to his side.

Half an hour later, Chen Fei Fei came upstairs with washed clothes, hung them on the roof, and returned.
Seeing the light, she called, “Chen Qiao, not sleeping?
It’s ten!
Watching TV all night?”

Usually, he’d pretend to sleep when she got home.

She touched the TV’s back—not warm.

“TV’s boring,” he muttered.

Alone, he couldn’t enjoy it.
Closing the notebook, he yawned, genuinely tired.

Fresh from her shower, Chen Fei Fei wore a knee-length blue checkered nightdress, her half-wet hair loose, slightly curved at the chest, a black hair tie on her wrist, a towel over her shoulders, delicate feet in pink slippers.

She neatly placed two uniforms on the nightstand for morning.

“You wash your clothes yourself or use the machine?”

“Hand-washed.”

Not tossing them in the machine showed respect for the bloodstains.

“The blood didn’t come out.
Leave them for me next time.”

“Okay.”

He accepted her kindness without protest.

Their mom’s white coat went to the hospital’s laundry for sterilization and ironing.
Her casual clothes were washed separately to avoid germs.
Their dad’s were too sweaty and dirty to mix.
The siblings’ uniforms, however dirty, were manageable.

“What’s your desk mate like?” Chen Qiao asked curiously.

Chen Fei Fei eyed him suspiciously.
“Why ask?
Know her?”

“Nope, just wondering who’s lucky enough to sit with you.”

“Hmm, Zhi Rou’s smart but lazy.
Really pretty.”

“Prettier than you?”

Chen Qiao didn’t buy it.

“Obviously.
She’s way better at dressing up.”

His sister lacked self-awareness, though his family-tinted glasses played a part.

“She probably copies your homework, gets decent grades, but could do better if she tried.”

“How’d you know?”

“Guessed.”

Being called smart by his sister meant Zhi Rou had skills, but Chen Qiao doubted she’d outscore his sister even with effort.
Maybe she secretly studied, playing on her phone to throw others off.

“You went to the cafe, didn’t you?
Zhi Rou used my QQ and chatted with you?
No wonder you weren’t watching TV.
She asked about you—your name, stuff.
I was confused why.
Didn’t you promise Mom and Dad to get first in class for a sister?
And you’re off to the cafe instead of studying.”

The sister thing was probably a joke, like their usual bickering.

Chen Fei Fei thought she’d upset him, sparking the sister talk.
Now it seemed like a whim, not serious.

For some reason, she felt relieved, unsure why.
Did she not want a sister?
Xin Yu was cute, though.
His studying was good, even for odd reasons—she should support it.

“How’d you know?”

He’d mentioned the sister plan to their parents after she left for study.

“Dad was at the snack shop with friends.
I saw them.
They were laughing about you wanting another kid.”

Chen Qiao covered his face, speechless.

She pulled out a phone battery and universal charger, aligning the prongs to the battery’s contacts, plugging it in.
The charger flashed red.

“Your desk mate’s?”

“Yeah.”

“Turn the fan this way.
I’ll dry my hair and sleep.”

Sitting on the bed, she roughly towel-dried her hair, not gentle with it.

Chen Qiao turned the fan.
“Sis, let me dry your hair.”

“No need.
A kid like you can’t do it.
I used to wipe your body and hair.”

On impulse, he placed the cross-stitch and needle on her lap.
“Work on this.
I want to see the finished piece.
I’ll dry your hair.”

He took her towel, combing her hair with his fingers, gently untangling knots, carefully drying it.

The fan’s breeze mixed with her shampoo’s scent.

His gentle touch relaxed her, eyes narrowing contentedly.
She hadn’t expected this from her restless brother.
Drowsiness crept in, her head nodding, stitching errors—rare for her.

She chalked it up to study fatigue, not overthinking.

“Stop here, drive safe,” their dad’s voice came from downstairs.

“Dad’s back.
My hair’s dry.
Let’s sleep,” she said, putting away the cross-stitch.

“Yeah.”

Chen Qiao climbed to the bed’s inner side, not fussing about separate beds or head-to-toe nonsense.

Before rebirth, he’d wanted separate beds, even a separate room, thinking the granary would do.
It felt improper sharing a bed, though she didn’t care.
Plus, his body was reacting.

He’d read pirated Huang Yi novels, his introduction to such things, fearing she’d notice and grow distant.
He slept facing away, wanting to put a blanket barrier if the bed allowed.

Drawing a “38 line” like desk mates would get him teased—she’d erase it instantly.

After their dad’s accident, their mom moved to the city for work, leaving the master bedroom.
Chen Qiao planned to take it, but his sister did.
When she went to city high school, he was alone.

Now, as a kid, he’d use his age to his advantage.
As she grew, she’d kick him out.

Chen Fei Fei turned off the light, closed the door, and climbed in.
Chen Qiao, against the wall, scooted closer, their arms touching.
His heart raced, nervous.

Her arm was cool—maybe his body heat was up.

She said nothing.
Just as he relaxed, she bear-hugged him, head half on his pillow, leg draped over him.
She often used him as a pillow.

Forced co-sleeping.

His body’s reactions?
She was half to blame—not all his fault.
Any normal boy would feel it.

He stayed still, wanting her to sleep, not affecting her studies or life.

This was enough.

In the quiet night, only the clock’s ticking and the charger’s flashing light remained.

The long first day was ending.
Tomorrow…

With that thought, Chen Qiao drifted off in her warm embrace.