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Sun Fei’s smile is a wistful little thing. It does not reach his eye; not even the blood orange incandescence from the nearby dēnglóng reaches that dark-as-night husk. But the boy has always been like that – shrouded in the shadows of mystery, with an eye that takes more than it gives, and a tongue that twists words into lies and half-truths, insults and nonsense disguised as riddles.
That is why he is the one officer of Red Chanpuru that is never questioned.
And that is why his brothers do not ask him what he means when he says that he can hear the wind’s voice; when he says, from a view that overlooks all of Bankoku-gai’s bustling streets, that he can see the past, the present, and the future. That is why they pretend that they do not see the lone elm leaf abandoned on the porch railing, the very leaf that, just moments ago, Sun Fei seemed to inspect between his fingertips with that same lifeless curl to his near-colorless lips.
But Nirei always asked questions.
“Your name is Suo, isn’t it?” a boy with a freckled nose and hair like mimosas states rather than asks, sweaty hands clutching a miniature notebook and pen.
Sun Fei smiles. “Yup! That’s what everyone around here calls me.” A half-truth. It’s easier than a blatant lie; though, it would be easier to avoid any more questions altogether. “And before you ask about this thing,” he starts, gesturing to his floral-patterned leather eyepatch, “I’m only wearing this to keep an ancient Chinese spirit sealed in my right eye.”
Nirei’s polite smile falters. “I thought it was because of a past injury…”
“Yup!” Sun Fei chirps. “Or what’s what everyone around here says.”
And, perhaps, the first truth – a full truth, this time – that escaped Sun Fei’s lips was just how much that pissed him off.
“You’re always like this, Nirei-kun,” Sun Fei starts, every word a knife he plunges into Nirei’s chest. “You’re always questioning everything.” His name. His right eye. His ‘weakness.’ He takes those knives and twists them. “And that has always pissed me off.”
At the same time…
“I’m just a guy who happened to be in your class.”
…as he twisted those knives over…
“We haven’t even known each other for a year.”
…and over…
“We aren’t anything.”
…as those knives became his fists, sharp and brutal…
He knew that Nirei, his face a swollen mass of bluish-purple and dark red, would look at him – into an eye that has never, ever given anything to anyone – through his tears, through the pain…
“Aren’t we friends?”
Sun Fei laughed because he knew what would happen. The sound was not a mockery, but something endearing; if he were mocking anyone in that moment, it would have been himself. Because from the very beginning, Sun Fei knew that Hayato would have to disappear one day. That Hayato would have to leave Bofurin in order for Sun Fei, an officer of Red Chanpuru, to return home.
But Sun Fei no longer knows what home is.
He no longer knows what name to call himself, if he even deserves a name. He is not human – just an idea, a thing sloppily put together without anywhere to go.
Bound by blood, he is nothing but what he is told he should be.
But he hopes that the wind voices his unspoken words, that Nirei sees the things he could not say, that someone will find him and take him home.