FIG CHAPTER 77

The next day, the sky was a spotless blue, not a single cloud in sight.

Zhu Lianzhen took his car keys while Tan Qing wasn’t paying attention and drove out of the residential area to find a suitable parking spot. He didn’t get ticketed by the traffic police, and he even checked all the parts of the car; everything was intact and working properly.

When he got home, he asked Tan Qing, “Wasn’t the windshield wiper working just fine?”

Without changing his expression, Tan Qing lied, “Maybe the rain was too heavy last night, so it overloaded.”

Zhu Lianzhen felt that Tan Qing sometimes had a kind of deadpan absurdity, able to explain illogical things as if they made perfect sense. He couldn’t be bothered to expose him. He picked up a slice of crispy toasted whole wheat bread from the plate and ate while watching Tan Qing take apart the coffee machine. He wasn’t sure if he was fixing it or just cleaning it.

That coffee machine had been a gift from Tan Qing in the past, but Zhu Lianzhen had never been good with semi-automatic models. After their breakup, it had been left to gather dust in some random corner. It seemed Tan Qing had rummaged through his cabinets.

“When are you changing your car?” Zhu Lianzhen asked.

“Haven’t planned on it yet,” Tan Qing replied.

“Oh.” Zhu Lianzhen still didn’t like that car as it carried bad memories.

After breakfast, the two of them lay on the couch in the media room watching a movie. Tan Qing had once again picked a terrible one. The first ten minutes made Zhu Lianzhen watch with furrowed brows, but then it stirred his urge to roast it. He realized that watching something from a director who completely ignored the logic of audiovisual storytelling actually had its own kind of fun.

Zhu Lianzhen didn’t plan on eating lunch. He wanted to go straight to the dance studio to move his body. Tan Qing drove him there. Just as Zhu Lianzhen was about to get out of the car, Tan Qing called out to him, “Would an SUV be okay?”

“Hm?” Zhu Lianzhen paused with his hand on the car door, thought for a moment, and realized Tan Qing was referring to the earlier question about getting a new car.

“Whatever you like,” Zhu Lianzhen said. “Actually, forget it. Don’t change it yet. Wait until your birthd… Wait until New Year’s. I’ll buy it for you.”

The dance studio was empty except for Zhu Lianzhen. He leaned his back against a folding chair and stretched his body as far as it would go. There was an unnatural soreness at the base of his thighs, and he had to massage the area for quite a while before it felt normal again.

He picked a few songs from his playlist and began improvising choreography. It was his usual way to train, which not only kept his body sharp but also sparked inspiration for future routines.

By the time he left the studio, the sky had gone dark. Through the hallway window, he saw a group of trainees walking out of the building across from him. All of them were new faces recruited this year. He couldn’t make out their expressions, but from the noise, he could detect excitement and joy.

Zhu Lianzhen suddenly remembered that when he was younger, he’d been just like that after every class, often roughhousing with Koty and the others as they left the dance room. The dorms didn’t allow them to go out at night, but even when he had nothing to do, he would sneak out just to walk around and enjoy the thrill of breaking the rules. Sometimes, Tan Qing would go with him. That way, even if they were caught by a security guard, he’d have someone who could calmly make up a believable excuse on the spot.

Memories were stirred up with ease, and Zhu Lianzhen couldn’t help but marvel at how he had reached a point in life where he felt nostalgic for the past. He remembered that Tan Qing had once said his favorite time was during the trainee days. Zhu Lianzhen hadn’t asked him why back then, but now he more or less understood—to a boy who still knew nothing about the world, the future was the most beautiful thing to long for.

But once he stepped into the adult world, all those unpleasant rules followed, forcing him to adapt.

He wondered what kind of future Tan Qing had imagined back then.

Zhu Lianzhen watched as the group of trainees disappeared at the entrance to the cafeteria before slowly making his way down the steps and leaving.

The sample of the title track of their new album had already been released, and the notified members arrived at the company early in the morning to listen to it.

It had to be said that Sui An, as a veteran music producer, had an incredibly sharp eye. Even after such a short period of working with them, he had precisely identified the style that suited them best. The song was titled “Phoenix,” and the arrangement had a strong post-hardcore feel. The melody leaned more toward pop, making it accessible to a wider audience while still preserving the texture of metalcore.

As for the lyrics, Sui An had only provided a reference version, hoping the five of them would rewrite it themselves. Figuring there’s no time like the present, the five of them decided to stay in the company’s recording studio today to tweak and try things out. If inspiration hit, maybe they’d even come up with a new song for the album.

Whenever it came time for them to work together, conflict was bound to arise. Each person had their own section to write, but the connections between those parts were always hard to unify. No matter whose version they followed, someone else would inevitably disagree.

Fortunately, after years of constant arguments, they had become completely familiar with each other’s principles and preferences. As a result, their most heated debates often coincided with bursts of creativity. Many of the finalized sections were born from such clashes.

Once they got into the zone, they lost all sense of time. By the afternoon, it took the assistant’s reminder for them to realize they hadn’t eaten yet. The staff had placed their takeout in the lounge to give them a break and a chance to reset their minds.

They only spent about ten minutes eating. When they returned to the recording studio and looked over the lyrics they’d just written, they listened to the track again and quickly started nitpicking each other’s work. Ji Yunting, in particular, seemed overtaken by a bout of perfectionism. He completely scrapped a version he’d been somewhat satisfied with and started rearranging it from scratch.

Zhu Lianzhen, who knew him best, could tell right away that Ji Yunting had hit another setback in his love life. Otherwise, he would never have been this absorbed in work. Ji Yunting glanced at him and argued, “Can’t it just be that I believe in this new album?”

“You better be thinking that.” Zhu Lianzhen rested his chin in his left hand and spun a pen with his right. “Sigh, the lyrics are done—what about the choreography?”

Koty: “Isn’t that your problem to figure out?”

“All the choreography has to come from me while you guys just sit back and enjoy the results?” Zhu Lianzhen flicked the pen in his hand, hitting Koty right on the knuckle.

“You say that like you’ve ever used any of the ideas we suggested.”

Zhu Lianzhen had no clue where to even begin with the choreography framework, so he simply laid his head on the table and zoned out. After a while, Ji Yunting brought up whether the vocal style for the song should be changed, sparking a new round of debate. This time, Zhu Lianzhen barely spoke. He had never studied vocal techniques in depth. He just followed whatever the teacher taught, just like the other members never took the initiative to learn choreography skills.

He listened in silence and gradually realized why their progress had been so slow today, why everything kept getting stuck—the things they were stuck on were exactly the areas their former lead vocalist had excelled in.

All the unresolved issues had piled up by evening, and they had no choice but to leave them to more experienced musicians to sort out. After leaving the company, Zhu Lianzhen didn’t feel like going home just yet. After checking with Tan Qing, the two decided to walk to the nearby night market.

“If Fan Gerong were still in the group, these kinds of problems probably would’ve been solved long ago.” Zhu Lianzhen spoke casually. It was rare for him to bring that person up, but he trusted that Tan Qing would understand how he felt.

“But the process might not have gone as smoothly as it does now,” Tan Qing replied. “Who knows what the outcome would’ve been? It’s already been two years.”

“Mm.” Zhu Lianzhen suddenly realized that he had never really tried to understand Fan Gerong’s decision to leave. He had simply assumed it was the other party’s fault and placed him in the category of people he disliked. But as time went on, he slowly began to recall the things he had once admired about him. If their sharp edges hadn’t been amplified by working together in a group, maybe their talents could have brought them together as friends.

But the connection had already been severed, with no chance of repair. Zhu Lianzhen knew there was no point in feeling regret. It was just that he suddenly became aware of something: the chance to truly understand the people around him wasn’t always guaranteed.

If Acemon hadn’t planned to make a comeback this year, it was entirely possible that even his connection with Tan Qing would have been lost.

The evening breeze grew stronger with each gust, and several vendors were already packing up. Zhu Lianzhen had no appetite for street food and just wanted to stroll around. Tan Qing noticed his distraction and asked, “Why don’t we head back and figure out what to eat later?”

Zhu Lianzhen was just about to ask, “Back to where—your place or mine?” But when he looked up, Tan Qing had already hailed a taxi. Without another word, Zhu Lianzhen quietly followed him into the car.

Their destination was Tan Qing’s place. It was raining again tonight, so Zhu Lianzhen naturally stayed over. Tan Qing’s home was still the same. Every time Zhu Lianzhen came by, he noticed nothing new had been added. The living room was excessively tidy, to the point that it didn’t feel like a place where someone could truly relax.

Once in the bedroom, Zhu Lianzhen’s gaze shifted to the wall. He remembered there had once been a large wardrobe there. It had been renovated at some point, replaced by a built-in closet, which made the room look much more spacious. He slid open the door, intending to grab a fresh set of bedding, but found it completely empty. Not even a pair of pajamas in sight.

“Don’t you keep your blankets in here?” Zhu Lianzhen called out toward the other room.

“In the walk-in closet. I’ll get them.”

The blanket Tan Qing brought back was in the dull black-and-white color scheme. Lying on that bed made Zhu Lianzhen feel like even his mood had dimmed. He handed Tan Qing one earbud, and the two of them lay side by side listening to music.

After listening to his own playlist a few times, Zhu Lianzhen got bored. He picked up Tan Qing’s phone without asking for permission, connected it to Bluetooth, and began flipping through his music app. Tan Qing had organized his playlists neatly. Aside from the default “Favorites,” the rest were all labeled by year and season.

Tan Qing often listened to old songs from the last century, both domestic and international. Zhu Lianzhen didn’t care for nostalgic melodies, but he still made a point to remember the names of those songs. When he opened the spring playlist from two years ago, he saw only one track inside—one that looked very familiar. As soon as it started playing, the instantly recognizable intro brought a memory flooding back.

“This one—” Zhu Lianzhen had barely started when Tan Qing removed his earbud.

“It’s time to sleep. Don’t stay up too late.” Tan Qing turned off the music player and tucked the earbuds back into their case.

“I choreographed to this. It was for my birthday two years ago. I released it as a fan gift,” Zhu Lianzhen said. “Did you see it?”

Tan Qing set an alarm on his phone and replied casually, “No. I’ll check it out tomorrow.”

“This song’s really obscure. Where did you even find it?”

“Can’t remember. Probably on a daily recommendation chart.” Tan Qing thought for a moment. “Maybe you dancing to it made it popular around that time, and I just happened to hear it.”

“Oh.” Zhu Lianzhen didn’t even know what kind of answer he’d been hoping for, but a sense of unfulfilled curiosity still stuck in his chest. He couldn’t help but ask, “Back then, did you ever check in on my updates when you had time?”

“With news push notifications, it was hard not to see them,” Tan Qing replied. “But I figured, at the time, you probably didn’t want me involved in your life anymore.”

Unfollowing on Weibo, hiding his WeChat posts, avoiding the same flights… When Zhu Lianzhen thought back to all those petty actions, it would’ve seemed like childish resistance to anyone. No wonder Tan Qing had never taken the initiative to contact him again.

Zhu Lianzhen murmured softly, “It wasn’t my intention. I just didn’t think it through… like, I didn’t consider how you might feel.” After a short silence, his tone lifted again. “I’ve been catching up on your stuff from the past two years lately. You had way more gigs than I expected, and you attended all the brand events too.”

“It’s a waste of time,” Tan Qing said with a smile. “You really don’t need to watch.”

“Are you trying to say your matters aren’t important again? Too bad. I’m watching anyway—you don’t get a say.” Zhu Lianzhen rested his head on his arm, turning his face toward Tan Qing. “The more I think about it, the more I feel like ever since we first met, you’ve been constantly keeping me from really knowing you.”

“You’re imagining it.”

“No, my instincts are pretty accurate.”

“Okay.”

“Mm. Huh? No comeback? Say something.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I haven’t finished what I was saying! I was waiting for you to keep it going!”

“…”

“Playing dead?”

“…”

“Fine, I’m not saying anything then.” Zhu Lianzhen huffed and turned his back to Tan Qing. But after a while, he opened his eyes in the dark, sat up suddenly, and smacked the spot where Tan Qing was lying. “Don’t sleep!”

Tan Qing caught his hand, let out a quiet sigh, and said, “Even understanding myself is hard enough for me. So no, I don’t need to argue with you about that.”

Zhu Lianzhen was momentarily stunned, then suddenly felt an inexplicable sense of competitiveness. “Then I’m even more determined to figure you out, just to prove I’m better than you.”

“There’s no need to prove that.” Tan Qing touched his knuckles.

“I watched a bunch of your interviews too. You’re good at giving diplomatic answers. Felt like every answer was crafted to suit what fans wanted to hear,” Zhu Lianzhen said in a low voice. “I honestly admire how easily you can come up with things to say. I usually can’t lie about things I really care about.”

“And what if it’s someone you really like?”

They couldn’t see each other’s faces in the dark room, but Zhu Lianzhen couldn’t resist sneaking a glance at him. Tan Qing’s skill at deflecting a topic was even more impressive than his smooth talking.

Tan Qing was still gently holding his hand. Suddenly, Zhu Lianzhen tightened his grip and intertwined their fingers. He leaned in with a slightly taunting tone, “If that person can’t even tell the difference between my truth and my lies, how could he possibly count as someone I ‘really like’?”

“Maybe it’s enough to just ‘sort of like’ him.”

“Tch. Might as well ‘really hate’ him instead.”

“That’d only make him take your lies even more seriously.”

Zhu Lianzhen was left speechless and gave his hand a small squeeze. Tan Qing smiled, pulled him into his arms, and gently kissed his cheek and the corner of his lips. The ticklish feeling made Zhu Lianzhen close his eyes and kiss him back with force.

Compared to all their vague words, it was the warmth of each other’s bodies that told the truth.