FQ chapter 22

Although they said that, Luan Ye wasn’t very hungry and didn’t want to squeeze in with so many people. Fan Qing stayed with him off to the side until the crowd thinned out. Then they found a table that wasn’t full and sat down.

On the table was a glass bottle of sour plum juice. Fan Qing sat to his left. On his right was a six- or seven-year-old boy who had barely touched his food but had already downed his drink and was sneaking glances at Luan Ye’s unopened bottle.

Luan Ye popped the cap and waved the bottle in front of the boy: “Want it?”

“Yes!” the boy quickly took it. “Thanks, gege!”

Fan Qing said nothing, just opened his own drink, stuck a straw in it, and handed it to Luan Ye.

Luan Ye turned to stare at him for a moment, then chuckled.

“No thanks,” he mimicked the boy’s voice. “Thanks, gege~”

Fan Qing: “…”

He silently put the bottle aside.

There were twelve dishes on the table—not as many or fancy as those at hotels, and not overly plated. Six cold, six hot dishes. A few were local specialties, plus a drawer of neatly sliced rice cakes, dotted with red flower petals.

Most dishes were meat-heavy and a bit greasy. The few vegetarian ones were mostly cold dishes. Luan Ye didn’t really like the taste, only picked at a few things that looked interesting before grabbing a rice cake.

It was sweet, with a layer of rose jam in the middle, still soft and warm from steaming. He only ate two pieces and put down his chopsticks.

Fan Qing had been watching. He thought even Laifu, who was on a strict diet, ate more than this.

After a moment’s hesitation, he asked quietly, “Not used to the food?”

“No, it’s good,” Luan Ye replied. “I just don’t eat much.”

Fan Qing looked at him for a moment, then said nothing more.

By the time they finished eating, most people had left. Many went home to rest and would return for the evening banquet. A few stayed behind—tables were cleared and repurposed into mahjong games. The sound of shuffling tiles filled the courtyard.

Granny Mu and the other elderly women who had been chanting also just finished eating and were chatting in the shade. Luan Ye checked the time—it was just one o’clock.

“Want to stick around for a bit?” Fan Qing asked.

Though he asked, he was pretty sure Luan Ye wouldn’t want to stay—too many strangers, too noisy.

Sure enough, Luan Ye shook his head, visibly unenthusiastic. “I think I’ll head back.”

“Okay,” Fan Qing nodded. “Let’s go.”

“You don’t want to stay? Play a little mahjong or something?”

“I don’t know how to play,” Fan Qing replied.

Luan Ye studied him for a moment, not sure whether to believe him, then just smiled.

“Alright then. Let’s go.”

The ground was still littered with firecracker remains and half-burned incense. The snow on the distant mountain peaks had mostly melted, only a glimmer left on the tips.

Luan Ye had planned to go back and sleep, but since Fan Qing had come with him, he changed his mind.

“Is there anywhere close by that’s fun?”

He added, “No hiking or trekking. Somewhere you can sit—or better, lie down and chill.”

…Somewhere you can chill?

“There’s an ancient town, 15 minutes by car. Not many tourists,” Fan Qing said after thinking for a moment.

“There’s a mural museum, and some weird little shops in the town. You might…”

Luan Ye glanced at him. Fan Qing continued, “I think you’ll like it.”

When Luan Ye first hired Fan Qing to drive him, he had said to find places he might like.

“That one then. You drive,” Luan Ye smiled. “We’ll save the museum for another day—find a weird shop I’ll probably like, somewhere I can lie down.”

So many qualifiers like a tongue twister, and yet Luan Ye said it fluently without stuttering… Fan Qing nodded. “Alright.”

The weather was great. Luan Ye sat in the front seat, enjoying the breeze. Before long, more houses came into view. This place was more regulated than Xuehu Village. Entry to the alleyways was blocked with posts—foot traffic only.

Fan Qing found a parking lot, parked the car, and the two walked for about two minutes. A huge archway stood under the snow-capped mountains—red walls, black tiles, and a plaque inscribed with the town’s name.

The town was clearly very old—mostly red-walled traditional houses. The walls were painted with strange murals, and colorful dyed fabrics hung outside. There were many shops, but thanks to the old architecture and strong ethnic vibes, it didn’t feel overly commercial.

Fan Qing led Luan Ye through the streets and into a shop at the end of an alley.

It had two floors, with walls lined in glass frames displaying various mural patterns—two whole walls of them. In the middle stood a long wooden table piled with strange sculptures and journals. A staff member was explaining the meaning behind the sculptures to a customer.

Fan Qing took Luan Ye upstairs. There were fewer things than downstairs. Along one wall was a bookshelf with dozens of jars of paint and color palettes.

One side had a wall of windows, making the whole second floor very bright. The opposite wall was red, painted with rows of strange pictographs. Below them were translations.

“Pictograms,” Fan Qing explained. “This is a heritage mural workshop.”

Besides that, there were just a few soft-looking couches spaced far apart, with little tables holding brushes and paper mats in front. A few people were already sitting, heads down, focused on painting.

Luan Ye sank into the couch and looked up, smiling. “You brought me here to paint?”

“If you’re too lazy to paint…” Fan Qing suddenly sounded unsure, “…you can just rest.”

Luan Ye looked at him for a few seconds, then sat up from where he had been slumped on the sofa.

“Let’s paint. Since we’re already here.”

Under the table was a shelf with blank sheets of paper. Luan Ye reached out to grab one and realized it was heavy and a bit thick—not what he expected for drawing paper. It felt rough in his hand.

He paused, surprised. “Is this wall plaster?”

“Clay board. Murals are painted on walls,” Fan Qing said. “Later, they’ll help you frame it.”

Luan Ye finally looked interested and lowered his head to examine the clay board in his hands.

Most of the boards already had outlines sketched onto them—similar to the wall paintings: Bodhisattvas, fairies, mythical beasts. All that was left was to color them in. Next to it was a booklet with coloring instructions—what areas should be painted in which colors.

Luan Ye looked for a while, then set the traced board down.

“Go downstairs and ask if they have any without sketches—ones where I can draw my own.”

Fan Qing blinked. “You want to draw it yourself?”

“I’m already painting, can’t just sit here playing a coloring game.” Luan Ye glanced at the pigments—they were mineral-based, which meant they’d last a long time on the wall.

“Go.”

Fan Qing looked at him steadily for a moment, then stood up and went downstairs.

By the time he returned upstairs with a brand-new clay board, Luan Ye had already picked out his colors. The brushes had been taken from the rack and sat gently in his hands.

Fan Qing handed the board over.

“You’re not painting?” Luan Ye asked.

“No,” Fan Qing sat down across from him, looking genuinely uninterested. “I’ve seen this stuff since I was a kid.”

Luan Ye smiled, studied the board for a moment, then looked up. “What should I draw?”

“…Uh.” Fan Qing was caught off guard and didn’t respond right away. “People usually draw Bodhisattvas.”

“Could you give me something a little more creative?” Luan Ye looked at him. “Mr. Almost-a-College-Student?”

“I… can’t think of anything right now.” Fan Qing couldn’t help but laugh, and after a moment said, “Draw whatever you want.”

“As long as it’s something you like or feel like drawing, anything goes.”

Luan Ye looked at him for a moment, then suddenly smiled, lowered his head, and began sketching.

A server came up with a pot of tea. Fan Qing took a sip—barley tea, warm and mellow with a unique grainy aroma.

Luan Ye kept his head down, his brush never pausing. The ink used for sketching was very light. From where he sat, Fan Qing couldn’t see what Luan Ye was drawing, and it felt awkward to lean closer, so he looked at Luan Ye instead.

From this angle, the first thing he saw was his smooth forehead under messy bangs. Then came his nose bridge, lips, and the clearly jointed hand holding the brush.

Fan Qing suddenly remembered something their homeroom teacher once said—“A person is most attractive when they’re focused”—though the teacher had added, “especially when you’re focused on studying.”

But the first part still held true.

When Luan Ye was focused on photography, or painting, or even during those two minutes of making tea at the teahouse—when he looked at someone intently.

That kind of focus could be… captivating.

Or maybe it was because during those moments, Luan Ye wasn’t searching for “meaning” in everything he did—he wasn’t overthinking, not even about his illness.

“What are you staring at?” Luan Ye suddenly asked.

Fan Qing snapped back to reality, almost jumping from the sofa in surprise.

What the hell was he even thinking?

“I—” Fan Qing swallowed. “I just didn’t expect you to be good at painting.”

“I learned for about eight or nine years when I was a kid. My mom taught me.”

He paused for quite a while before continuing, “I haven’t picked up a brush in years. And I’ve never painted on wall plaster before, so don’t expect much.”

“Oh.” Fan Qing nodded.

Silence settled between them again.

The second floor was very quiet. Occasionally, someone would walk up or down the stairs, and the wooden steps would creak. A few clouds drifted outside, soft and fluffy. The sky was so blue it made your eyes ache.

By the time the server brought up a second pot of tea, Luan Ye had already switched brushes and begun adding color.

The afternoon sunlight streamed in at an angle, casting a gentle glow across the space. Fan Qing gradually sank into the sofa, his eyelids growing heavier until they finally shut.

He didn’t know how long he slept. When he jolted awake, the sunlight on the second floor had almost faded. The light was dim. Only their table was left upstairs. Across from him, Luan Ye was reclined on the sofa with his eyes closed, appearing to be asleep.

The paintbrushes and palettes had been placed in a corner. The clay board was drying in the middle of the table. Fan Qing glanced at Luan Ye’s closed eyes, then carefully picked up the board and turned it toward himself.

The image was filled with shades of green and blue. At the top were the blue sky and snow mountains, their layered shadows rolling like waves. Below were overlapping tree silhouettes. The only splash of color came from a faded set of wind prayer flags, as if shrouded in mist. At the very bottom was a grassy meadow, lines crisscrossed to evoke endless summer.

The scenery was familiar.

On the hillside in the bottom left corner was a figure viewed from the back. Because of space constraints, it was only finger-length, but it was clearly a man, dressed in black.

Fan Qing leaned in closer and realized he was wearing a trekking jacket and carrying a backpack.

Was that Luan Ye?

Didn’t look like him—the person in the drawing had short hair.

In the bottom left margin were several pictographic characters. Although Fan Qing was local, he was Han Chinese and didn’t recognize them right away.

“It’s hard to color. The clay board isn’t even. Let’s just leave it like this.”

Luan Ye’s voice sounded suddenly. Fan Qing looked up with a start, and saw he was still lying there with his eyes closed.

“It didn’t turn out well.”

If anyone else had said that, Fan Qing would’ve thought they were being modest or showing off. But Luan Ye’s tone was flat, with no particular emotion.

He had probably gotten moody halfway through and started criticizing himself again.

“…It’s really good,” Fan Qing said, staring at him for a few seconds before lowering his head to look at the painting again.

Luan Ye opened his eyes and looked at Fan Qing.

“Is this from your first hike?” Fan Qing asked.

“You could tell?” Luan Ye finally smiled.

“Yeah, looks familiar,” Fan Qing smiled too. “Snow mountains, meadows, prayer flags, and—”

He glanced at the small figure and suddenly realized something.

The rest of the words caught in his throat. He stared at the tiny person in the bottom left, his heart racing, heat rising throughout his body.

“And—”

“You,” Luan Ye said.