Although the new watch didn’t quite match his style, Li Mu liked it and therefore took off his old, many-year-worn Paul Newman Daytona, but staying in a hotel out of town, he momentarily didn’t know where to put it.
While thinking, it struck him—why not gift it to Zhuang Qin?
After all, Zhuang Qin had given him such a thoughtfully designed watch, he ought to reciprocate with something meaningful… But it was an antique watch that he had worn; perhaps Zhuang Qin wouldn’t like it. Maybe buy a new one?
He felt Zhuang Qin’s intent was clear, like a confession, yet incredibly subtle, without explicit declaration. This left Li Mu pondering day and night, troubled for several days. During this period, he only inquired about Zhuang Qin’s health and then, just before the birthday party, suddenly sent him a similarly subtle message: “I really like the gift you sent.”
Rehearsing “The Dream of Nanke” in the theater, Zhuang Qin saw the message backstage and replied: “Haha, glad you liked it,” attaching a cute cat emoji.
Li Mu waited a while, but there was no follow-up.
Puzzled, thinking Zhuang Qin might be busy, he asked what he was doing. The reply came: “I’m at the theater rehearsing, but it’s intermission now.”
Li Mu rolled up his sleeve, took a photo with his phone.
“I switched out my old one.” He felt his hint was quite obvious.
Zhuang Qin: “Nice!”
The watch brand Zhuang Qin endorsed had provided these watches as part of a sponsorship agreed upon six months earlier, intended to be promoted at the birthday event.
The brand usually retails around a thousand yuan, and after the birthday party, they planned to launch this design as a limited co-branded edition, priced somewhat favorably, anticipating a buying frenzy.
Li Mu waited and waited, to no avail, and sent another message: “The star projector is very beautiful.”
“Right? I super like it too, used it last night.” Zhuang Qin replied amid rehearsing his Kunqu lines, Li Mu’s response was slow, but it didn’t matter.
“I received your sentiment,” he ambiguously stated, “Thank you.”
“No worries, but I haven’t opened your gift yet, will do so tomorrow at the birthday~”
Another emoji with hearts for eyes and begging for a hug was attached.
Li Mu, staring at the emoji, could even imagine Zhuang Qin stretching lazily like a cat on a sofa corner, his heart scratching like a cat’s claws.
If Zhuang Qin wasn’t so shy, this matter would be easier for Li Mu to consider, not leaving him wondering how to respond.
On the day of the birthday party.
In the morning, Zhuang Qin started rehearsing in casual clothes, and by four in the afternoon, throngs of star-chasing girls with support signs had gathered outside the brand-new Pauley Theater, fervently discussing how they had struggled to get the free tickets. Even those who didn’t get tickets shared their enthusiasm for star-chasing.
Outside the theater, an enormous new poster of Zhuang Qin half-made up in oil paint dominated; his eyes were dramatically upturned with heavy black liner, one cheek powdered, the other half of his face bare, showing a stark contrast with its clean, impurity-free look.
Fans not only snapped photos fervently but also forced poses with his standee. Outside, stalls offered free yogurt, drinks, and snack packages with tickets, and several fast-food joints were packed with supporters wearing uniform fan gear and city-specific glowing signs, like “Chengdu Support Group,” “Guangzhou Support Group”… It was a dizzying scene.
Li Mu drove himself to the venue.
While looking for a parking spot, he saw mostly young girls around, very few boys, and didn’t even know how to get out of his car.
He held the work pass Zhuang Qin had sent to his hotel two days earlier, which would allow him to enter from backstage and had a seat arranged for him; all he needed to do was enter from the back and then sit down in the audience area.
Li Mu looked at his new watch to check the time.
5:30 PM.
The official schedule stated entry would start at 6:30 PM and end at 8:30 PM.
He had never attended such a large-scale star-chasing event before, having even left his graduation prom early because he disliked crowded, noisy settings.
Now, he had voluntarily come here.
Li Mu messaged Zhuang Qin, who replied slowly: “My junior brother is doing my makeup, I have to keep my eyes closed.”
“Your junior brother is also performing?”
“Yes, he’s sharing the stage with me.”
Li Mu had done his homework, researching “The Dream of Nanke,” a tragic story adapted by Tang Xianzu from the Tang dynasty legend “The Tale of Nanke Taishou,” depicting the illusory love between Chun Yu Fen and the princess in a dream.
Li Mu: “Are you playing the male lead or the princess?”
Considering Zhuang Qin’s junior brother seemed taller and more robust.
Zhuang Qin replied: “Junior brother is playing in drag.”
He himself had performed in drag before, but considering the potential for live streaming to be taken out of context, despite the stunning appearance of a boudoir girl, he chose to play the male role. Chun Yu Fen’s circumstances were also better grasped this way.
Xiao Dao rarely performed in drag; this time he was going all out to perform alongside his senior brother, wearing full boudoir girl makeup, a wig, and a set of antique headgear.
Both had rarely performed Kunqu on stage. “The Dream of Nanke” had been arranged by their mentor and his wife years ago and taught to apprentices in their troupe, but they never had the chance to perform it because by then there were no audiences.
Zhuang Qin remembered the last time he saw his mentors perform on stage; it was in a nearly empty theater after “The Lock of Southern Branch,” with only one audience member. When the audience left, the theater was empty except for the two people in the foggy stage, portraying a lifetime of joys and sorrows, a life of dreams.
At that time, he didn’t understand, feeling inexplicably sad as a child, only realizing why as he grew up.
By 6:10 PM, after makeup and changing clothes, Zhuang Qin faced the makeup mirror, adjusting his costly, valuable costume.
His makeup, called “handsome attire,” consisted of a bare face, outlined eyebrows and eyes, red-tinted eyelids, and upturned eyeliner—a rather subdued makeup for modern Kunqu.
Xiao Dao’s makeup was much more vibrant. Naturally not effeminate, his features were distinctly masculine. The Kunqu troupe’s makeup artist joked while applying his makeup, saying they had roles reversed: “Teacher Zhuang Qin’s face is more radiant, suited for drag, and his voice softer.”
With all departments ready and the stage set, fans began entering, verified by facial recognition and security checks. Every seat had a handbag placed on it.
“Is this a giveaway?” someone asked.
“Yes, Zhuang Qin specifically prepared these gifts for his fans,” a staff member responded.
“Wow, such a big box!”
“Can we open it?” a fan asked.
The staff reminded: “Of course you can, but remember to take it with you when you leave.”
Someone else asked: “We bought a gift for ‘little brother,’ how do we give it to him?”
Zhuang Qin’s fanbase was mostly teenagers, but those who could make it to Imperial City for his birthday party were mostly college students or working adults, largely ‘sister fans,’ though there were also some ‘mom fans.’
In Thailand scooping cat litter, Qiu Ming stumbled upon a WeChat moment.
His mother, listed as Mrs. Fang, had posted a photo with Zhuang Qin’s standee, wearing fan gear, holding a birthday party ticket, and smiling radiantly like a young woman.
The caption read: “Celebrating my baby’s 20th birthday!”
Qiu Ming was startled yet amused by this star-chasing fervor, surpassing even shopping or playing cards in enthusiasm.
By 6:30 PM, there were few people outside the theater; some were frantically searching their bags for lost tickets, nearly in tears, while staff comforted them: “Keep looking, no rush, it’s still twenty or thirty minutes until showtime.”
Li Mu, holding his work pass, discreetly entered through the backstage.
Wearing a hat and masking half of his face with a mask, aside from his tall stature, he was unremarkable.
Entering the noisy backstage, where Kunqu actors, accompanists, and dancers were preparing, Li Mu looked around and finally spotted the main character among a group of Kunqu performers.
Dressed in Suzhou opera attire, the finest Suzhou embroidery graced the thin pink costume.
But from Li Mu’s angle, only a calm profile was visible, exquisitely delicate, then he saw Zhuang Qin’s junior brother, supposed to be playing the female role, feeding him a drink through a straw.
Zhuang Qin took a sip and gestured no more.
Not speaking half an hour before going on stage was his habit.
As the lights dimmed, it was time for the actors to take the stage.
Li Mu circled around and entered from a side door, finding his seat in the dimly lit theater hall.
The environment, packed with people, made him somewhat uncomfortable.
After sitting down, Li Mu noticed the handbag on the seat, printed with a familiar pattern. Before he could examine it closely, the lights went out.
In the silent countdown, the curtain slowly opened, accompanied by screams from the audience, all support light signs lit up, and the accompanists, including xiao, dizi, sheng, and pipa zither players, took their places at the side of the stage.
The first to enter the stage was Xiao Dao playing the princess. The screaming paused for a few seconds due to the makeup, and it was unclear if it was Zhuang Qin; some recognized: “Doesn’t seem like little brother Zhuang Qin…”
“But this one is pretty…”
Most fans weren’t clear about what Kunqu was; if not influenced by their idol, they might never watch such a performance in their lives.
“Must be a man, right?”
Xiao Dao’s handsome features, despite the vibrant makeup, still emitted a masculine essence, yet his singing was soft enough to deceive.
Li Mu, familiar with the original “The Dream of Nanke,” recognized it as “Yaotai,” which lasted about two minutes. Then, as the lighting shifted, another actor wearing a crown headdress stepped out from behind the side curtain.
Zhuang Qin showed his full face, appearing on stage, his gaze falling on the audience before turning to the stage, opening his mouth to sing his lines in a tender, light tone typical of the young male role.
“Bang!” An accompanist struck a gong.
His appearance was too handsome; the light makeup accentuated his striking features, his usually gentle aura still partly preserved in this character, truly handsome as a jade statue.
A few screams came from the audience but quickly quieted; no one wanted to disrupt the performance.
Li Mu looked up, the stage high, Zhuang Qin seemed close as if he could reach out and touch him.
In reality, Chun Yu Fen was down-and-out, his disheartened lyrics revealing his life of drinking due to offending the commanding officer, filled with complaints about reality and excessive drinking. Such a decadent lifestyle only brought greater emptiness… yet in the ambiguous dream, he developed feelings for the person in the dream!
One scene followed another, and ten minutes later, it jumped directly to the final monologue.
Emerging from the dream of Da Huai An Country, Chun Yu couldn’t sever ties with everything in the dream; the dream’s illusions extended into reality. His gaze mournful and fearful, perhaps disheartened by everything in reality to the point of dread, or maybe because the dream was too vivid, Zhuang Qin struggled to let go: “[Rising stage][Seeing the couch, startled] Do not come near, I am also afraid.”
At this moment, he had merged entirely with the character’s emotions, the fear palpable to everyone.
He lingered on the glory and joy of family in the dream, and returning to reality, still held a strong attachment to everything in the dream, wishing to return to that time.
Most fans in the audience, not having done their homework beforehand, might not understand the play’s background and meaning, but could feel the intense emotions Zhuang Qin tried to convey.
Moved emotionally, some unknowingly began to wipe tears.
The entire play lasted only about fifteen minutes, yet portrayed the mirror image of a tragedy, many desires in life merely illusions in the natural order.
Zhuang Qin stopped on stage, the play supposed to end, he stood dazed, unable to escape from within.
Although Li Mu was familiar with operas and stage plays, he had almost never watched Kunqu.
Zhuang Qin’s performance greatly exceeded his expectations, capturing his gaze and heart, unable to look away.
Naturally, Li Mu noticed Zhuang Qin’s abnormality, unable to step out of his role in front of so many people, until his junior brother came on stage to remind him, snapping him back to reality.
Senior and junior brothers bowed to the audience, Zhuang Qin said: “This is my first time performing Kunqu in front of so many people, I’m very nervous, thank you all for your support, and thanks to the actors from the Su Province Kunqu Troupe, and my junior brother for specially playing in drag with me in ‘The Dream of Nanke’—”
Suddenly someone shouted: “Qin Bao! Happy Birthday!”
Simultaneous birthday wishes erupted, shouts of all sorts, Zhuang Qin’s emotions surged uncontrollably, bowing in thanks again. In his previous life, he never had the chance to see such a scene.
“I’ll go down and remove my makeup, then come up to meet everyone.”
“I love you!” someone shouted.
Zhuang Qin and his junior brother exited the stage, the audience lights came on, and staff began to clean up the set debris, Li Mu’s gaze still lingering on the makeup room door.
This great tragedy of life held profound, transcendent meaning. Unsure if it was an illusion, perhaps Zhuang Qin was too absorbed in the role, Li Mu felt the young man naturally carried a pitiable tragic tint, as if weathered by hardships, but Zhuang Qin was only twenty, what hardships could he have faced?
Sometimes during filming, he could feel it; his eyes were bright, but his emotions always quietly subdued. Li Mu’s heart suddenly twitched, rising with a desire to love him.
Thinking about this issue, he also noticed people around him taking out boxes from the handbags.
Very familiar boxes, the size, the printed pattern, and the English phrase “You are the light in my eyes,” all identical to what Zhuang Qin had specially given him.
“Wow, this watch is so cute!”
Li Mu heard a girl’s voice.
Looking up, he saw her taking a white cartoon watch out of the box and putting it on her wrist.
Li Mu’s expression slowly solidified.
Looking around, young girls nearby were pulling out small gifts from the boxes: “Did little brother design this watch? It’s so unique!”
“Isn’t this brand endorsed by little brother? I remember it’s quite expensive… Oh my!”
“This star projector! Isn’t that the Japanese brand I saw a blogger post about? It’s so beautiful!”
“So touched, he’s so thoughtful, I love little brother!!”
“You are the light in my eyes,” someone read the English sentence printed on the box.
Li Mu, who had specifically worn the watch, now displayed a profoundly varied expression.
Author’s Note:
Li Mu: Turns out I’m just one in a thousand.
Extra release for the Monthly Event on my Discord~
