FQ chapter 42

Maybe because the night had been too emotionally and physically overwhelming, Fan Qing didn’t sleep well at all. He tossed and turned, dreaming fragmented, scattered dreams…

Most of the dreams were about Luan Ye, though the scenes were very fragmented and chaotic, with some disjointed, discordant moments—damp, heated kisses and touches—but Fan Qing couldn’t quite remember them clearly.

The only thing he remembered clearly was the ending, where he dreamt of the starry sky they saw that night in Yubeng. Beneath the stars were endless mountains and fields. He and Luan Ye walked forward together, not knowing where they were headed. Feeling uneasy in his subconscious, he asked where they were going.

Luan Ye turned to look at him and pointed ahead. “My boyfriend is waiting for me up there.”

Even in the dream, Fan Qing felt his heart sink. He stopped in his tracks and held onto Luan Ye’s hand, unwilling to let go.

So Luan Ye stopped as well, looked at him for a long moment, then tugged his collar to make him bend down, and gently kissed his eyelid.

Then Luan Ye stood up, patted his face, and said lightly, “Alright, you go hide now.”

…What kind of nonsense was that? Why?!

After such a bizarre dream, Fan Qing felt exhausted from sleeping too long. When he got up the next day and saw the sunlight streaming through the curtains, he stood there dazed.

He picked up his phone—it was already close to ten.

His body clock was out of sync. Groaning, he rubbed his face and went to shower.

When he came out of the bathroom, two new messages had arrived. Lao He said that a few hikers were planning to challenge a newly opened trail and were looking to hire a guide. He asked if Fan Qing could lead them into the mountains.

For such professional groups, guides didn’t take extra people, and the fees were higher. Fan Qing knew the route—it would take three or four days.

In the past, being in the mountains that long wasn’t a big deal. But now…

He hesitated, then replied: “A bit busy these days.”

After politely turning it down, he recommended a few experienced guides and sighed as he sent the message.

You’re getting soft, Fan Qing.

Too many tourists had come over the holidays, so Laifu hadn’t been taken to the café. After his shower, Fan Qing went downstairs and was immediately pounced on by Laifu.

There was still half a box of milk left from when Luan Ye brought it over while he was sick. Fan Qing drank one bottle, munched two biscuits, and poured half a bowl of dog food for Laifu. The dog finally quieted down and focused on eating. On its back was the little scarf Luan Ye bought—the one that said “No Feeding.”

Just seeing the scarf made Fan Qing laugh—and reminded him of Luan Ye.

He wondered if Luan Ye was awake yet.

The sunlight now was strong and bright. Last night’s murky, dreamlike scenes felt unreal in contrast.

Thinking back on what he’d said… it was borderline immoral. Hard to believe it was real.

But Luan Ye actually agreed.

Or at least… he didn’t say no.

Fan Qing glanced at his phone again—it was past ten.

He took a photo of Laifu hunched over its bowl and sent it to Luan Ye. Once it was successfully sent, he tapped into Luan Ye’s profile.

His WeChat name was just a dot, and the profile picture was of the snowy mountain from their first hike together at night. No posts, no other information.

Clean and minimal—like he had appeared out of nowhere, leaving no trace of a past.

Fan Qing returned to the chat. Just then, a message came through.

Luan Ye: [Lost a bit of weight?]

Fan Qing: [Weighed myself a few days ago. Down 7 jin] (~3.5kg).

Luan Ye: [Poor thing. Lost 7 jin and now even your back looks delicate.]

Fan Qing chuckled before replying: [You’re awake?]

Luan Ye: [Woke up a while ago, still lying down.]

Still lying down, huh.

Fan Qing really wanted to go see him—but if he was still lying in bed… that probably meant he didn’t want to get up, didn’t want to go out, probably didn’t want to see anyone.

Fan Qing wasn’t sure if he should go.

Maybe he took too long to respond—after a few minutes, another message came in.

Luan Ye: [I want flower pastries. From that shop in the village center. Freshly baked.]

Fan Qing instantly stood up and quickly replied: [I’ll go get them.]

It was the morning after the festival, and the village was a bit quiet. Fan Qing bought the pastries and walked back. There were still ashes on the ground from last night’s torch fires.

He thought Luan Ye would still be upstairs, but when he opened the door, he found him already reclining on a chair under the big tree, basking in the sun, looking lazy—as if still not fully awake.

Hearing the door, Luan Ye glanced over. “Where’s my pastry?”

Fan Qing walked over and put the box on the table, then looked at him again.

The chair was like a lounger, and Luan Ye was slouched back, a bit far from the table. Fan Qing picked up a pastry and held it to his mouth.

Luan Ye took a bite—still warm, with a crispy crust.

Fan Qing asked, “Where is everyone else?”

“Granny Mu went out. Qiao Feibai is still sleeping,” Luan Ye replied, taking the pastry from his hand. “Just me guarding the house.”

“Oh.”

They were alone in the courtyard. After a couple of seconds, Fan Qing leaned down, held Luan Ye’s shoulder, kissed the corner of his mouth, and quickly licked it.

Tasted like flower pastry.

“Hey.” Luan Ye was momentarily stunned by the smooth move, then laughed. “Was that for me or the pastry?”

“What do you think?” Fan Qing replied. “You.”

“I thought you were starving.” Luan Ye said. “Snatching food from my mouth.”

Fan Qing asked, “Are you the tiger, then?”

“You’re more tiger than I am,” Luan Ye said, taking another bite.

Fan Qing laughed and let go, then went into the tea room to pour a glass of water for Luan Ye and set it on the small tea table in the courtyard.

“So thoughtful,” Luan Ye joked. “Feels like I’m disabled. Sit and eat with me, kid.”

The morning sun wasn’t too harsh, and the big tree cast plenty of shade, with a few beams of light filtering through. The two of them sat under the tree, the flower pastry was flaky, and the cup of water gave off a faint steam.

“Holiday’s over—you going back into the mountains?” Luan Ye asked. “Should be a lot of people lately.”

Quite a few, but—

“Do you want to go?” Fan Qing asked.

“What do you mean?” Luan Ye turned his head, intrigued. “If I don’t go, you won’t?”

“Not quite,” Fan Qing said, lips pursed. “Just… if you could come too, that’d be better.”

“You giving up on making money?” Luan Ye teased.

“I don’t need that much. Just enough for this semester’s living expenses. With what I’ve saved and what you gave me, it’s enough,” Fan Qing replied, suddenly feeling a bit embarrassed.

“What do you mean, what I gave you? That’s what you earned.” Luan Ye said. “Your money.”

He smiled breezily. “My sugar baby.”

Fan Qing turned to look at him, half helpless, half amused.

Luan Ye casually brushed his face, then flicked his forehead.

“Go refill your sugar daddy’s drink.”

Fan Qing couldn’t help but laugh. “You have pretty low standards for a sugar daddy.”

Luan Ye chuckled with his eyes closed. “The outrageous stuff hasn’t even been said yet. Just be ready.”

Their banter was weird, and their tone was weird, which led Fan Qing’s thoughts in a weird direction.

He coughed to cover it up, picked up the cup, and was about to turn around when a knock came from the door.

They both looked up as it opened. A man poked his head in, saw the two of them, and stopped.

“Hello, is… Mr. Lan here?” he asked.

Luan Ye was silent.

Fan Qing tried not to laugh as he glanced over.

What now? The poor sugar daddy with the constantly mispronounced name.

Seeing no response, the visitor tried again.

“Mr. Lan—the one who helped take photos of the elderly in the village a while back—”

“Luan. Luan with ‘wood’ radical,” Fan Qing finally cut in. “Mr. Luan.”

Luan Ye looked at him and smiled.

The man froze, then laughed. “Ah, that explains it. Sorry, sorry—my grandpa’s accent is a bit thick. Is he home?”

Still lounging in his chair, Luan Ye said nothing. Fan Qing asked, “What’s the matter?”

The man seemed unsure where to start, so he introduced himself first.

“I’m Li Hongkuo. Mr. Luan helped take a photo of my grandfather during that shoot.”

Fan Qing saw Luan Ye sip his water and listen.

“When I came back and saw the photo, I asked my grandpa, and he told me about it. I could tell from the photo he’s a pro. I’d like to ask if he could take a few promotional photos for my studio.”

He paused. “I can pay, of course.”

Fan Qing frowned. “He doesn’t take commissions. The last shoot wasn’t about money.”

“I understand, no offense meant—I just don’t want to take advantage.” Li Hongkuo explained quickly. “And even if it were for money, I couldn’t afford anything high-end.”

He scratched his head. “My studio’s on the verge of going under.”

Luan Ye finally spoke. “What kind of studio?”

“Paper-making.”

Li Hongkuo perked up. “Traditional, ethnic handmade paper. Passed down for over a thousand years—dating back to the Tang dynasty. It’s part of our local intangible cultural heritage. One of a kind.”

He seemed excited as he introduced it, then sobered. “You probably haven’t heard of it. Not many people have.”

“I have,” Fan Qing said. “I’m a local.”

Luan Ye glanced at him, then finally stood up. “Come in and talk.”

He pointed toward the tea room and added, “I’m Luan Ye.”

The tea set from last night had been cleaned. New pu’er was brewing. Fan Qing poured three cups, placed one in front of Luan Ye, and handed one to Li Hongkuo.

Li Hongkuo expressed his thanks and energetically introduced himself to Luan Ye: “Hello, Mr. Luan. My name is Li Hongkuo. I came here this time because—”

“I heard just now,” Luan Ye smiled. “I’m Luan Ye, and this…”

He glanced at Fan Qing beside him: “…is my assistant, Fan Qing.”

Before Fan Qing could react, Li Hongkuo had already eagerly stood up and shaken his hand. “Hello, Mr. Fan. You’re so young and accomplished.”

Fan Qing had no choice but to shake his hand briefly, then looked at Luan Ye.

Luan Ye winked at him and then turned back to Li Hongkuo with a serious tone.
“Tell me about your… paper-making studio.”

Li Hongkuo looked no older than thirty-five or thirty-six. He wore glasses, a blue shirt, and sneakers, looking more like a programmer than someone reviving a centuries-old paper-making craft.

But when he talked about his studio, he was clearly passionate.

“Paper-making was passed down from my grandfather, and it’s been in our family for hundreds of years. Locals used to use it for writing, copying scriptures, drawing gods and spirits, and recording ethnic scripts.”

It sounded mysterious and rich in cultural heritage.

“I loved this stuff as a kid. When I was five or six, I was already pulping and sun-drying paper with my grandfather. Later, I worked outside for a few years… didn’t really get anywhere and didn’t want to stay there, so I came back and started this studio.”

“Where did you work?”

“Ningbo, in a sock factory,” Li Hongkuo answered honestly. “Assembly line. Three days off a month. Didn’t know anyone.”

“How long has the studio been running?”

“Three years now,” Li Hongkuo replied. “If we don’t shut down this year, it’ll be the fourth.”

Fan Qing glanced at him, and Luan Ye couldn’t help but chuckle.

“What exactly does your studio do?”

“Paper-making experiences, and we also sell handmade paper products.”

Li Hongkuo continued, “But the locals don’t use this kind of paper anymore. It’s expensive to make and expensive to buy. A pack of 500 sheets of A4 paper costs 30 yuan—smooth and white. Tourists don’t understand the craft. They see this rough paper priced so high and think it’s a scam.”

“What about the experience part?” Fan Qing asked.

“It’s open, but not many people come,” Li Hongkuo said more dejectedly. “It takes too long to make one sheet of paper—at least two or three days. Most tourists don’t want to wait.”

The wind in Yunnan is slow, the clouds are slow, and sunlight and time flow like a gentle stream. But most people today live in a world rushing like a torrent.

Luan Ye tapped his fingers on the table. “So you came to me today because…”

“To be honest, it’s a little embarrassing. I’ve tried different things over the years—online stores, livestreaming to sell paper—none of it worked. I’ve always had a studio account, and I post photos and videos of paper-making…”

Li Hongkuo smiled with a sigh, “But the photos are terrible. No one watches them.”

“My grandfather used to help out at the studio. But he’s gotten old and can’t work anymore. There are only two of us at the studio, and no one knows how to take good pictures. I’ve always wanted to find a photographer to shoot something for promotion, but couldn’t find the right person—until I saw that photo two days ago.”

At that, Luan Ye understood.

“You’re nearly bankrupt, but still want to hire someone for photos,” Luan Ye took a sip of tea. “That’s quite sentimental.”

“No, no, no. Saying I’m only doing this for sentiment and not money—that’s not true,” Li Hongkuo laughed.

“When I started the studio, I hoped to make some money—not to get rich, just enough to keep going. This craft has been passed down to me, and I like it. I hoped I could pass it on, so it wouldn’t die out with me. Even if just a few more people know that paper-making exists here, it’s worth it.”

His tone turned a bit bitter. “Maybe I’m just not cut out for business. I used to be a programmer in Shenzhen.”

We could tell, both Luan Ye and Fan Qing thought at the same time.

“When I told my grandfather I was coming back to open this studio, he was really happy. Thought the craft would live on. He helped out a lot and even got sick several times because of it.”

“But when business didn’t go well… he started feeling guilty.”

Li Hongkuo looked down at the tea in front of him.

“He thought teaching me this craft had ruined my future. He keeps telling me to shut the studio and go back to a regular job… But I know he can’t let it go. And neither can I.”

He looked up again, his tone purposefully lightened. “Might as well give it another shot.”

Luan Ye was silent for a while. Fan Qing knew he was thinking and quietly refilled his tea.

“Leave your number with my assistant,” Luan Ye said after almost a full minute.

“I’ll think about it.”

Fan Qing was momentarily stunned but quickly took out his phone.

Li Hongkuo wasn’t discouraged at all and thanked them repeatedly, all the way until Fan Qing walked him out.

Luan Ye stayed in the tea room, sipping slowly. He didn’t speak, deep in thought, until Fan Qing returned.

“Did you see him out?”

“Yes, Mr. Luan,” Fan Qing replied as he sat back down.

Luan Ye laughed for a while, then asked, “What do you think?”

“…A bit foolish,” Fan Qing said.

Coming all this way because of a photo—that was foolish. The way he spoke and ran his business was foolish. Insisting on holding onto this failing venture—that was foolish too.

But not in a dumb way. In a world that moves at double speed, he was clinging to something slow and fading.

“Yeah, a little,” Luan Ye nodded.

The wind blew through the courtyard, rustling the flowers and plants. The shadows of trees flickered on the tea room’s glass walls. Luan Ye went quiet again, and Fan Qing waited patiently.

After a long while, Luan Ye turned to Fan Qing.

“Well, Assistant Fan. Should we go take a look?”

Fan Qing didn’t answer right away. He turned to look at Luan Ye and asked, “Assistant?”

Just… assistant?

“You don’t like that?” Luan Ye smoothly cycled through a list of nicknames: “Honey, baby, partner, husband, boyfriend—pick one.”

Fan Qing’s eyes widened. He stared at Luan Ye, speechless, then turned his head and muttered, “Damn it.”

Luan Ye chuckled and asked again, “So, should we go take a look?”

Fan Qing sighed deeply. “If you want to go, then let’s go.”