For a Friend
[📘 Content Warning:
This story contains Boys’ Love (BL) themes. Reader discretion is advised. Please read the disclaimers mentioned in the Instagram post.]
Yibo was still smiling like an idiot.
The sounds of the garage—the low hiss of the air compressor, the soft clatter of tools, the background chatter from the street—somehow faded for a second.
All he could hear was the thud of his own heartbeat and Zhan’s quiet, amused breathing.
“You really just showed up here?”
Yibo asked, still rubbing the last traces of grease from his fingers onto the rag.
His eyes were bright, slightly disbelieving.
Zhan leaned against the edge of the garage wall, arms folded, the collar of his oversized blue sweater pushed up by the helmet strap still hanging from his elbow.
“Well, I figured if the mountain won’t text the man, the man should visit the mountain.”
Yibo gave a short laugh and shook his head.
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Doesn’t need to.”
Zhan replied.
“I just needed to see if you were still alive under this pile of engine parts.”
“Barely.”
Yibo muttered, tossing the rag aside.
“Sundays are brutal. We don’t take full delivery orders, so I end up doing back-to-back repairs. That scooter out there? Broke its suspension. The car? Came for a wash but the wipers are busted. And someone’s electric bike just died because they plugged in a wrong charger. It’s chaos.”
Zhan looked around, finally taking in the full scene—
The shelves stacked with tools and spare parts, a faded fan spinning half-heartedly overhead, a tiny kettle in the corner beside two metal stools.
A thin film of dust coated everything that wasn’t in constant motion.
And right in the middle of it, Yibo—grease on his knuckles, hair slightly flattened on one side, and a gleam in his eyes like he actually loved the madness of it all.
“You look like you belong here.”
Zhan said, softly.
Yibo blinked at that.
“What, like a mess?”
“No.”
Zhan said, smiling faintly.
“Like someone who’s building something. With his own hands.”
There was a pause.
Yibo looked at him for a moment—really looked—then cleared his throat and motioned toward the stool in the corner.
“Want to sit?”
He asked, trying to make his voice sound casual.
Zhan walked over and dropped onto the metal stool, glancing at the small plastic fan nearby.
“I might melt in here.”
“I can open the back door.”
Yibo said, already moving to do just that.
A fresh breeze drifted in, carrying the smell of wet concrete and blooming magnolia trees from somewhere nearby.
The light shifted, warmer now, softer.
Yibo came back and stood across from him, one hand resting on the scooter he’d been fixing.
“Sorry I didn’t text. I wasn’t ignoring you. Just been swamped.”
Zhan shrugged.
“I know. I didn’t come to scold you. I just… missed talking to you today.”
Yibo met his eyes.
“Yeah. Me too.”
———————————————————-
Yibo wiped the sweat from his brow, flexing his shoulders with a low sigh.
The last motorbike had been patched up and pushed to the side.
Grease still clung faintly to his wrists, but the bulk of the work was done.
He turned to his helper, a lanky teen with buzzed hair and a permanent smirk who answered to his name—despite not being particularly chubby anymore.
“Pangzi.”
Yibo called, grabbing a clean rag.
“Keep an eye on the shop. I’ll be back in a bit.”
Pangzi gave him a lazy salute.
“Okay, ge. I got this.”
Yibo headed to the faucet near the back wall, pumped water into a rusted metal basin, and scrubbed his hands and face with strong-smelling soap.
He dried off with a towel that looked far too clean for this garage and came back around front, where Zhan was standing in the warm late afternoon light, arms crossed, eyes scanning the street.
Just then, the uncle from the nearby grocery store leaned out of his little shack of a storefront and squinted at Zhan.
“Yibo ah…”
He called.
“Who’s this young man? Never seen him before.”
Yibo smiled, still drying his hands.
“This is Zhan. My friend. We travel to Deqing together every day.”
The old man raised his brows in mock surprise.
“A friend? You? Finally!”
Yibo laughed and turned to Zhan.
“Zhan-ge, wanna go grab tea and snacks? There’s a bakery around the corner. I promise it’s good. I go there all the time.”
Zhan nodded.
“Sure. Haven’t had anything sweet all day.”
But just as they began walking, two bikes roared past them—four guys, all grinning too widely, too smugly.
“Yo, Yibo!”
One of them called out.
“What’s up, man!”
Yibo’s smile vanished in a blink.
His jaw tensed.
He didn’t respond, just sent them a cutting glare.
Zhan noticed.
“Who are they?”
Before Yibo could answer, the grocery shop uncle muttered from behind his counter.
“Troublemakers. Street dogs, all of them. Always hanging out near the square. They harass women, pick fights, steal helmets—worthless bunch. And for some reason, they’ve had it out for Yibo for a while now.”
Zhan frowned.
“Yeah… people like that aren’t worth your energy. We have to mind our own business.”
But the group had parked their bikes just a little ahead—right near that usual corner where a cracked stone bench sat beneath a peeling poster of a missing dog.
A local hangout spot for jobless thugs with too much time and too little conscience.
Yibo glanced at them, then nodded.
“Ge, let’s go before they start running their mouths.”
They started walking again.
But the moment they passed the group, one of the guys leaned forward from his bike and called out, his voice laced with vulgar mockery.
“Yo, Yibo—who’s this new chick, huh? Enjoying all alone? Come on, don’t be greedy—share it with the rest of us too.”
Zhan’s heart skipped a beat.
Yibo stopped dead in his tracks.
Zhan felt it instantly—the tension, the shift in air like a storm cloud rolling in.
He reached for Yibo’s arm.
“Yibo… no. Leave it. Just walk.”
But Yibo didn’t even seem to hear him.
His hands curled into fists.
His steps turned sharp, deliberate.
In two strides, he was at the guy’s bike.
Before anyone could react, he grabbed the thug by the front of his shirt and yanked him off the seat like he weighed nothing.
The guy let out a startled yelp just before he was shoved hard onto the ground.
“Yibo—!”
Zhan called, panic rising in his chest.
But Yibo had already dropped to his knees, straddling the guy and slamming a punch into his face.
“You want a share?!”
He snarled.
Another punch.
“Here—”
Punch.
“Take it all, you bastard!”
The man screamed, blood spurting from his nose.
His hands scrambled to block the blows, but Yibo was relentless, fists pounding with weeks of bottled anger.
Zhan rushed forward, grabbing at Yibo’s arms.
“That’s enough Yibo, stop!”
But Yibo didn’t budge.
“You think I’ve been quiet because I’m scared of you?”
He growled, punching again.
“You’ve been spouting shit for weeks!”
The man beneath him was sobbing now, squirming away.
Zhan grabbed Yibo’s shoulders, his voice sharp, pleading.
“Yibo! You’ll kill him—stop!”
Yibo froze.
His chest heaved, sweat and rage dripping down his face.
Blood stained his knuckles.
He looked at Zhan—eyes wild, burning.
Then slowly, he stood up, yanking the guy by the collar and spitting words like fire.
“This is your last warning.”
He hissed.
“If I ever hear you talk like that again… it won’t just be your nose. I’ll break your fucking bones.”
He turned his gaze to the other three, who stood frozen beside their bikes.
“That goes for you too. Try me!”
Zhan didn’t wait another second.
He grabbed Yibo by the arm and pulled him away, fast.
Yibo was still breathing hard, muscles tight with fury, but he didn’t resist.
He let himself be led down the street.
Zhan didn’t let go until they’d turned the corner, away from the scene.
Away from the silence of bystanders.
Away from the blood.
————————————————————-
The bakery was a tiny corner shop just a few steps from the garage, tucked between an old pawn store and a shuttered tailor’s kiosk.
Its glass windows fogged slightly from the warmth inside, soft yellow lights glowing against the dimming sky.
A tin bell jingled as Yibo pushed the door open, Zhan close behind him.
They chose a bench by the window.
The table between them was scratched from years of use, the edges slightly sticky despite a recent wipe-down.
On it sat two small cups of steaming milk tea and a shared plate of fried mantou with condensed milk, and a couple of warm egg tarts still nestled in their paper cups.
Zhan sat upright, elbows on the table, quietly watching Yibo.
Across from him, Yibo was staring at his own hands.
His knuckles were raw and reddened, one of them slightly split.
A bruise was forming at the corner of his mouth, and his bottom lip was beginning to swell.
They didn’t speak for a long while.
Outside, scooters hummed past
A dog barked somewhere down the street.
Inside the bakery, the fan spun lazily overhead, making the silence between them feel heavier.
Finally, Zhan leaned forward, his voice soft but firm.
“What was that, Yibo?”
Yibo didn’t look up.
“You can’t just lose it like that.”
Zhan continued.
“Those guys are trash, yeah, but you—“
He hesitated, choosing his words carefully.
“—you could’ve really gotten hurt. Or worse. What if they had weapons? What if more of them joined in? You can’t be reckless like this.”
Yibo exhaled, slow and sharp, and then finally lifted his eyes to meet Zhan’s.
“Ge…”
He said, voice low.
“I’ve been ignoring them for weeks. I thought if I just let it go, they’d stop. But they didn’t. Today they crossed a line. If I had shut them up in the beginning, maybe they wouldn’t have dared to open their mouths like that now.”
Zhan didn’t respond immediately.
He looked down at the mantou, untouched, then said quietly.
“I shouldn’t have come. This happened because of me.”
“Shut up, Ge.”
Yibo said instantly, the words not harsh but urgent.
“Don’t be silly. None of this is your fault.”
Zhan leaned back with a sigh, shaking his head.
“What if they come back? What if they try to hurt you or damage your garage? What are you going to tell your mom? You know she’ll find out.”
Yibo was silent for a moment, watching the steam curl from his tea.
Then he said.
“If they were going to come back, they would’ve done it already. I don’t think they have the guts anymore. And Ma… I’ll manage her. As long as Ba doesn’t find out, I’m fine.”
Zhan frowned, clearly not reassured.
Yibo caught it and offered a faint smile, lifting his cup.
“Come on, Zhan-ge. Don’t let it ruin the day. Let’s talk about something else, yeah?”
Zhan looked at him for a long second.
Then, with a reluctant smile, he nodded.
“Alright. But we are not skipping over the fact that your silence-to-punch ratio needs serious adjustment.”
Yibo let out a short laugh.
“Noted. I’ll work on it.”
And like that, the tension began to fade.
They talked over tea, Zhan listening to Yibo complain about a stubborn carburetor he’d fought with all morning, and Yibo laughing when Zhan described the horror of cleaning the ceiling fan at home with Yue nearly dropping the ladder.
The sun dipped lower, their laughter mixing with the quiet background hum of the bakery.
By 7 p.m., the sky had shifted into soft indigo and the streetlights flickered to life.
They walked back to the garage together.
As they reached the gate, Zhan pulled out his phone.
A message from Liu Fang had just popped up.
“On your way back, get milk, eggs, and some veggies for dinner.”
He showed it to Yibo.
“See this?”
Zhan said, tapping the screen.
“This is my mom’s version of: ‘Come home soon.’”
Yibo laughed.
“She’s efficient. I like her.”
Zhan put his phone away and picked up his helmet.
He glanced at Yibo again, eyes still touched with concern.
“Please, Yibo… don’t be so hot-blooded next time. It’s not always worth it.”
Yibo didn’t reply right away.
He just gave Zhan a small nod.
Zhan straddled the scooter, buckled his helmet, and started the engine.
As he pulled away, he threw one last look over his shoulder.
Yibo stood at the entrance of the garage, watching him go, hands in his pockets and jaw tight with thought.
Zhan’s scooter vanished around the corner, leaving behind a quiet street, a bruised boy, and a storm that had just barely passed.
—————————————————-
The gate creaked as Yibo pushed it open, the sound sharp against the silence of the late night.
His boots scraped against the concrete floor of the small courtyard, every step heavy from exhaustion.
The faint yellow light from the living room spilled into the hall.
He didn’t need to look twice to know she was waiting.
Zhang Meilan stood there—arms crossed, face tight, jaw clenched.
Her eyes, sharp and furious, landed on the bruises on his lip and the drying blood on his knuckles.
The second he stepped in, she didn’t wait.
The slap cracked through the air before he could say a word.
“What are you now?”
She shouted, voice shaking with a mix of anger and fear.
“The local street thug? The neighborhood gangster?”
Yibo didn’t flinch.
He just dropped his bag by the wall and reached for the towel.
“Answer me!”
She yelled again, stepping in front of him.
“Is this why your father and I work day and night? Is this why you’re juggling two jobs? To end up like this?”
He didn’t speak.
His jaw was set, the muscle ticking as he forced himself to stay calm.
Her eyes traced the cuts and swelling again, and her voice faltered.
“Look at you… bruised and bleeding. For what?”
Yibo finally met her gaze, eyes burning with quiet rage.
“They said something filthy about Zhan-ge.”
He said, his voice low and firm.
“I warned them before. Today they crossed the line.”
She stared at him like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“So now, for your friend, you’ll become a street brawler?”
She snapped.
“And where was your precious friend while you were punching people in public? Just standing there, watching?”
That was it.
Yibo’s expression cracked.
“Ma, don’t!”
He snapped, voice rising.
“Don’t go there.”
The silence in the room grew taut.
“The only reason I even stopped punching that piece of trash was because Zhan-ge asked me to.”
He added, his voice rough.
“So don’t say crap like that and make things worse.”
Zhang Meilan froze, lips pressed together.
For a long beat, no one spoke.
From the back of the house, his grandmother called out gently.
“Enough, Meilan. He just came home. Let the boy eat first.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Yibo muttered and headed straight to the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.
——————————————————-
It was close to midnight when Yibo lay down, face turned to the wall.
His body ached.
His hand throbbed.
His mind wouldn’t shut off.
The room was dark except for the faint streetlight leaking through the window.
He was half-asleep when he felt something warm on his hand.
He stirred, blinking his eyes open.
His mother sat on the edge of the bed, gently dabbing ointment onto his bruised knuckles.
Her fingers moved with practiced care, but her shoulders shook.
Tears slid down her face, catching the dim light.
Yibo sat up slowly, switching on the lamp.
“Ma… why are you crying?”
He whispered.
She sniffed, trying to wipe her cheeks with the edge of her sleeve.
“Shut up.”
She muttered.
“You just keep adding to my stress every damn day.”
Yibo didn’t reply.
He let her clean the wounds in silence.
“If your Ba hears of this…”
Her voice trailed off, thick with worry.
“Good thing he’s still away. God knows what he’d do if he saw you like this.”
Once she was done with the ointment, she reached for a small steel bowl sitting on the table nearby.
“Eat something.”
She said, holding it out.
“Hot rice, egg curry. Just made it.”
“I’m not a kid, Ma. You don’t need to feed me.”
He muttered, half-smiling despite himself.
“Shut up and eat.”
She snapped softly, but the way she spooned the rice into his mouth was gentle, almost soothing.
Yibo didn’t argue again.
He ate in silence, his throat tightening at the taste—warm, spicy, comforting.
As she fed him, she added quietly.
“Next time you try this again, I’ll tell your baba myself. Remember that.”
He gave a small nod.
———————————————————-
Back in Hangzhou, Zhan lay awake in his room, staring at the ceiling.
The fan spun slowly overhead, the only sound in the stillness.
He hadn’t said a word to his family about the fight.
He couldn’t.
They wouldn’t understand, and worse—they might misunderstand Yibo.
But his mind wouldn’t rest.
All these days, Yibo had ignored those goons.
Brushed them off.
But the second someone insulted him… Zhan, Yibo snapped.
Reacted without hesitation.
Without thought.
As if nothing else mattered.
Zhan didn’t know what that meant.
Or why it mattered so much to him.
He rolled over and grabbed his phone from under the pillow.
Zhan:
Yibo, how’s your hand now? Feeling better? Did your mom say anything?
A moment later:
Yibo:
One slap, a long scolding, then ointment and feeding rice with egg curry. All sorted, ge. 😅
Zhan stared at the screen, smiled a little.
Zhan:
You deserved that slap. It wasn’t anger—it was concern. Now go to sleep. See you tomorrow. 😊
Yibo:
Good night, ge. 😊
Zhan placed the phone on his chest, eyes drifting shut.
And somewhere in Linping, Yibo turned off his bedside lamp, the sting in his hands eased, and a little warmth bloomed quietly in his chest.
Maybe getting scolded had been worth it… if it meant standing up for someone who mattered.
[To be continued…]
The Red Ribbon 