FQ chapter 29

As they left Go See the Mountains, the smell of barbecue and alcohol was left behind in the bar. It was summer, but close to midnight now. The moment they stepped out, they felt clear-headed, but as the night breeze blew, the effects of the alcohol started to kick in, and Luan Ye began to feel a little dizzy.

“Should I walk you back?” Fan Qing asked beside him.

Luan Ye paused and looked at him. “Why are you stealing my line?”

“…I’m not drunk,” Fan Qing looked at him seriously. “Really.”

“Then let’s not go back yet,” Luan Ye smiled, not bothering to argue.

“Let’s just walk a bit. Get some air.”

Fan Qing said nothing more. They slowly followed the road ahead.

There was no one on the streets anymore. The village streetlights were sparse and dim, barely enough to light the road and cast blurry shadows of nearby buildings.

After walking for about five or six minutes, Luan Ye pointed to the side.

“That’s a stage, right?”

Fan Qing followed the direction of his finger.

“Yeah, the village’s old opera stage.”

“Do people perform there?”

“Maybe during festivals,” Fan Qing said. “Usually it’s empty.”

Maybe it was the alcohol, but he paused a few seconds before speaking. His tone was slower than usual—not as crisp and brisk—but he sounded serious and thoughtful.

Luan Ye found this side of him a little cute and smiled before asking, “Can we sit up there?”

“…We can.” The tipsy Fan Qing was quite obedient, leading him around the corner toward the stage.

“There’s a small door underneath—it’s a staircase.”

The stage was a common style for the area. Not large, with two small doors below—push them open and you’d find stairs that actors once used, now used by tourists. The stage was on the second level, about two or three meters above the ground. The doors on each side bore inscriptions: General enters and Prime Minister exits. The walls and beams were painted with colorful murals.

Though no one performed there anymore, the locals still treated it like a minor scenic spot. A tiny bulb—barely 10 watts—hung from a pillar to provide lighting.

Luan Ye used the meager light to look around, but it was too dim to see clearly. In the end, he sat on the edge of the stage.

Fan Qing sat beside him.

Below them was emptiness, their legs dangling in the air. They looked up into the distance.

In the mountains far away, the moon had risen. Lonely and distant, it hung in the sky. Its light was dim, unable to illuminate the forested slopes—only the dark outlines of the mountains could be seen.

Luan Ye stared at the mountains while Fan Qing turned slightly to look at him.

He wasn’t drunk, but he was a little dizzy. It was the first time in his life he’d drunk this much—even though it was red wine. With the night breeze, his head felt heavy.

But his thoughts were all over the place.

Under the night sky, Luan Ye’s side profile looked striking. These past few days, Fan Qing had seen this profile the most while watching him take photos—usually slightly lowered, in front of the camera, looking focused and serious.

“Where’s the camera?” Luan Ye suddenly asked.

Fan Qing was slow to react, then came back to his senses.

He had put the camera bag behind him when he sat down. He reached back, pulled it forward, and handed the camera to him.

Luan Ye turned it on—only one bar of battery left. He adjusted the focus and pointed it at the distance. Across the way, against a gray-tiled wall, a white flowering branch had bloomed under the streetlamp.

He pressed the shutter, checked the photo, and frowned, a little dissatisfied.

“Not working?” Fan Qing asked, watching his movements.

“Not good for landscapes,” Luan Ye took another shot. “Very different from my old camera.”

“This one’s for portraits,” Fan Qing said.

“Yeah.” Luan Ye looked down at the camera, deleting the two photos he’d just taken.

“Haven’t used it in a long time.”

Haven’t used it in a long time… so he had used it before.

Alcohol always stirs up curiosity. Fan Qing wanted to ask why Luan Ye didn’t like shooting portraits, or why he agreed to shoot them this time. But a small sliver of reason told him both questions might be too intrusive.

So instead, after pausing, he asked, “Did you… used to shoot portraits?”

“When I first started learning photography, I shot everything. Portraits were the very first.”

Luan Ye seemed to see through his thoughts and smiled.

“I really liked it for a while. Took tons of portraits.”

Fan Qing looked at him. “I thought you started out doing landscapes.”

Luan Ye gave him a look. “What do you think this is, applying for college majors?”

Fan Qing realized that did sound a little dumb.

“In the beginning, I took more portraits than landscapes—old people, kids, men, women.”

Luan Ye set the camera aside, leaned back on his hands, and gazed into the distance, watching the flower under the streetlamp.

Maybe it was the alcohol, but he spoke more than usual. Things he normally wouldn’t mention, or didn’t want to mention, came out easily.

Or maybe… It was because Fan Qing was the one sitting next to him.

“Different people, different faces, different lives—the photos all turn out different. Even if they’re all taken by you. A 10-year-old boy—one might be celebrating his birthday on his yacht…”

There was a bit of nostalgia in Luan Ye’s tone. After a pause, he continued, “Another might be barefoot, picking up trash on the street.”

Fan Qing listened quietly, saying nothing.

What Luan Ye described was a world he’d never experienced—a broader world. He didn’t envy it, but he could tell that back then, Luan Ye hadn’t been the weary person he was now. Back then, he was bold, carefree, and free.

It was that sense of freedom that Fan Qing found himself drawn to.

“Why did you stop shooting portraits?” Fan Qing asked softly.

This time, Luan Ye took a long pause before answering. His voice was calm in the quiet night.

“In landscape photography, your lens can be used to explore the world, to connect with it, even to challenge it. It’s a way of interacting with nature—or just a way to prove something.”

“A way to prove,” he said, “that you’re really alive—through the places you’ve been, the traces you’ve captured.”

“But in portrait photography,” he continued, “the only thing in your viewfinder is a living, breathing person—standing right in front of you.”

Luan Ye looked at Fan Qing, his voice mingling with the wind.

“The lens… is meant to be the eyes of someone in love.”

Fan Qing sat on the left side, and the light from the old-fashioned bulb enveloped him from the side. It looked like a filter had been applied—hazy and warm in the night.

Luan Ye smiled slightly, raised his camera, aimed it at Fan Qing, and pressed the shutter.

The autofocus sound was faint, but in the silence of the night, it rang clearly in Fan Qing’s ears.

Fan Qing froze.

“This light works well for photos,” Luan Ye explained as he lowered the camera.

A few seconds later, Fan Qing’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and he gave a soft “Oh.”

His response was purely instinctive—at that moment, all he could hear was the sudden pounding of his own heartbeat.

Luan Ye felt like his explanation was unnecessary and awkward, so he simply handed the camera to Fan Qing to let him see for himself.

Fan Qing looked at the photo—himself, bathed in light, the ends of his hair and side of his face tinted with warm yellow, looking soft.

The camera felt slightly heavy in his hands.

This was what Luan Ye had called “the eyes of someone in love.”

“I…” Fan Qing paused. “Can I try?”

Luan Ye was taken aback for a second. “Sure. The camera’s in your hands.”

Why even ask? This drunk kid is so polite.

But unlike Fan Qing’s earlier position in soft sidelight, Luan Ye was now facing the dim light directly—probably going to look awful in the photo…

Luan Ye sighed inwardly but decided not to discourage the kid’s enthusiasm. He turned his face slightly to the side, trying to salvage the lighting.

Fan Qing fell silent again, stared at the camera for a while, then raised it and aimed it at Luan Ye.

Through the viewfinder, Luan Ye looked back at him with a faint smile. Behind him was only darkness. His face, lit from the front, made his eyes look like translucent amber.

Fan Qing stared at Luan Ye through the viewfinder for over ten seconds before lowering the camera.

“…You messing with me?” Luan Ye laughed in disbelief.

“You taking the photo or not?”

Fan Qing didn’t respond. He just slightly raised his eyes and focused intently on Luan Ye, who was just inches away.

That smile on Luan Ye’s face slowly faded under his gaze.

He stayed where he was, watching as Fan Qing lowered his gaze and slowly leaned in toward him in the quiet night, tilting his head slightly.

Fan Qing moved cautiously, carefully, and only when he felt the warmth at his lips did Luan Ye realize—it was really a kiss.

Their lips touched, a gentle, exploratory press, slightly moist, delicate and soft. Luan Ye could hear their breaths mingling—slow and quiet like the night breeze.

It was a kiss from Fan Qing: clean, tender, and without a hint of lust.

Fan Qing’s eyes were downcast, and Luan Ye could see his eyelashes trembling faintly, like nervous butterflies.

The initial surprise faded, and a cold, clear voice in his mind reminded him—on a drunken night, on a theater stage in a village in Yunnan, kissing an equally drunk eighteen-year-old boy… the whole situation was ridiculous.

Wrong time, wrong place, even the reason they met was poorly timed.

All these warning thoughts raced through his head like a mantra—then Luan Ye stuck out his tongue and lightly licked the corner of Fan Qing’s mouth.

Fan Qing instantly tensed, grabbing Luan Ye’s hand like he was trying to stop him from moving.

The kiss was going just fine… Why the tongue?!

It was like all the alcohol hit at once—Fan Qing suddenly didn’t know what he wanted to do. A mix of panic and uncontrollable nerves, yet a dizzying, floating comfort.

A moment later, unable to resist the impulse, he pressed his lips back onto Luan Ye’s again.

Soft. Warm.

Luan Ye didn’t move.

Everything was quiet. No passersby, no barking dogs, no birdsong—not even the wind made a sound.

Under the dim, nearly dying tungsten bulb, Luan Ye could only hear Fan Qing’s slightly panicked, rapid breathing.

“BEEP—”

A sudden honk from an electric scooter pierced the night, loud as thunder in the stillness.

In the next second, Fan Qing jumped back from Luan Ye, sprang to his feet, and retreated two steps.

He moved so fast that Luan Ye almost didn’t react.

The camera, still in Fan Qing’s hands, was forgotten in his panic. His sudden movement flung it out of his grip, and it almost rolled off the edge of the stage.

Luan Ye reacted quickly and snatched it up just in time, preventing it from falling off.

“Jesus—”

His hand holding the camera strap froze midair. The camera dangled and swayed, and he turned to glare at Fan Qing.

A kiss that barely counted as a minute-long lip-brush, so innocent it wouldn’t even violate any rules in a romance novel—and he almost broke a camera over it?

In the distance, an electric scooter rounded a corner. Its headlight swept across the stage briefly before veering in another direction.

“…Sorry.”

Fan Qing, for the first time, looked completely flustered. He instinctively reached out to help with the camera but stopped midway.

He glanced at the camera in Luan Ye’s hand, then quickly shifted his gaze to Luan Ye’s face—paused for two seconds, then darted back to the camera again.

After this whole frantic, aimless sequence, he finally spoke again.

“I… might be drunk.”

Fan Qing glanced up. The scooter had already disappeared into the night. Hopefully, the person didn’t see anything… Who honks at midnight in a village anyway? No manners at all!

“Yeah.” Luan Ye put the camera away and nodded. “I can tell.”

“Mhm.” Fan Qing didn’t know what to say, so he just made a sound.

What was he even doing just now?

Apparently… kissing Luan Ye.

Or maybe not kissing. Technically, there was no tongue.

Wait—Luan Ye did use his tongue.

Why didn’t I use mine?

No—why did he use his tongue?!

The silence stretched again. The night wind passed. Fan Qing finally pulled a thread of rationality from the chaos in his head and looked up at Luan Ye.

“I… I’ll go now.”

“Oh.” Luan Ye looked at him and nodded. “Okay.”

Fan Qing reacted like he’d been given a command. He turned and walked a couple of steps, then stopped and looked back at Luan Ye.

“Do you… want me to walk you back—”

“No need,” Luan Ye said with a sigh. “Go ahead. I know the way.”

Fan Qing looked at him for a moment, then finally nodded.

“Then I…”

“Good night,” Luan Ye cut him off.

Fan Qing pursed his lips. “Good night.”

Finally, Fan Qing turned and walked away. Probably knowing Luan Ye was watching him from behind, he didn’t look back this time. He walked all the way to the intersection, turned into an alley, and bolted like he was being chased by ghosts.

Luan Ye sat on the stage for another three minutes. The boy didn’t return.

He really kissed him and ran.

Luan Ye felt a little helpless, then remembered that kiss and the way Fan Qing’s lashes had trembled.

The whole thing was ridiculous.

He’d just said he was fine when they stepped out, and now he’s suddenly drunk? Does this wine take half an hour to kick in?

Whatever. Drunk or not, he was probably sobered up from the scare.

Luan Ye packed the camera, got off the stage, and strolled home.

“Good night,” huh?

Like anyone’s sleeping after that.

Luan Ye laughed to himself for a while, then let out a soft sigh.

He thought maybe he was a little drunk too.