FQ chapter 35

The three-day trip went as follows: the first day in Shangri-La, the second day up the mountain. From Yubeng to the Ice Lake was a 7- to 9-hour hike. They’d camp that night, then return the day after.

After descending from Songzanlin Monastery, they went back to the hotel to rest and prepare for the next day’s climb.

Everyone seemed a bit tired from the day, and the lively chatter that filled the car in the morning had died down. Even the storyteller in the backseat had gone quiet, only occasionally chiming in with a few comments about traffic in tourist cities.

In this quiet atmosphere, Fan Qing’s thoughts kept drifting elsewhere.

Luan Ye hadn’t said who he lit the prayer lamp for, but Fan Qing could easily guess.

And precisely because he could guess, he didn’t know how to feel about it.

He no longer felt the shock and helplessness he’d experienced when he remembered it back at the opera stage, but he also couldn’t pretend it didn’t matter to him…

It was a hard feeling to describe—even he himself didn’t know what exactly was running through his mind at that moment.

With that distracted and tangled mood, they arrived at the hotel. As everyone got off the bus and began heading in, Fan Qing suddenly remembered something and immediately turned to look at Luan Ye.

“This time, all the rooms are doubles.”

Luan Ye glanced sideways at him.

One of the other guides was already calling everyone inside, and the two of them had fallen behind. Fan Qing slightly quickened his pace.

“There are eight of you—one couple and two girls. That leaves six guys, so it’s two per room tonight.”

“Eight of us?” Luan Ye repeated.

Fan Qing paused. “I’m rooming with Lao He.”

Lao He was the other guide on this trip. Luan Ye looked at him for a moment, then gave a small “Ah” to show he understood.

Fan Qing instinctively added, “When there are multiple guides… we usually don’t room with guests.”

“Got it.” Luan Ye’s tone was calm, as if he didn’t care at all. “No need, I’ll just book a room for myself.”

Fan Qing looked at him for a few seconds and started again, “Or I could talk to Lao He—”

“What for?” Luan Ye cut him off with a smile. “It’s not a big deal.”

Fan Qing pressed his lips together and didn’t say anything else.

By the time the two stragglers reached the front desk, everyone else had already been assigned rooms. Only the storyteller guy from earlier was still holding a room key and turned to look at Luan Ye as he approached.

“Hey man, do you snore at night? I’m a pretty light sleeper…”

“Yeah, really loudly,” Luan Ye handed his ID to the front desk. “So I’ll get my own room. You can have that one to yourself.”

Then he added, “I’ll pay half the room fee.”

The other guy had looked like he was about to complain, but hearing that last sentence, his frown instantly eased. “Oh, it’s not even about the money,” he said, stuffing both room cards into his bag with a couple of dismissive chuckles.

Guide Lao He clapped his hands and raised his voice: “Alright, let’s rest up in our rooms. Tonight, check your gear for tomorrow—make sure to get anything you’re missing. We’ve got sleeping bags and tents ready at the camp, but if you don’t mind the hassle, you can bring your own. You can eat on your own or join up—it’s up to you.”

“Let’s eat together!” someone immediately said. “We’ll be stuck together for two more days—we should get to know each other. Guides too!”

Everyone chimed in enthusiastically. Lao He smiled and said, “Alright, there’s a yak meat hotpot place nearby that’s pretty good. Let’s meet here again at 6.”

Fan Qing immediately glanced at Luan Ye, who had just taken his room card and hadn’t said a word.

The hotel, located near the departure point for the next day, was small but clean. After washing his face in his room, Fan Qing came out to find Lao He organizing the next day’s gear.

“You going in front and me in the back tomorrow?” Lao He asked. “You lead the strong hikers, and I’ll make sure no newbies get left behind.”

Fan Qing nodded. “Sounds good.”

“That guy who switched rooms—he your friend?”

Fan Qing hesitated, then answered, “Yeah.”

“Doesn’t seem like the hiking type,” Lao He zipped up a backpack. “Fair-skinned, long hair—when I saw him from behind I thought he was a tall girl.”

Fan Qing smiled but didn’t respond.

He himself couldn’t really tell if Luan Ye liked hiking. Actually, with many things, Luan Ye seemed to have a strange attitude.

Always trying to get close, but resisting at the same time.

After resting a bit, with ten minutes left before dinner, Fan Qing went to look for Luan Ye.

Luan Ye’s new room was 403, one floor above. Fan Qing went up and knocked. After more than ten seconds with no response, he knocked twice more.

This time, the door finally opened. Luan Ye was wearing only a white T-shirt, with a towel slung over his shoulder. His chest was damp, and his hair was wet and messily pushed back, fully revealing his face.

He frowned at Fan Qing for two seconds, then smiled.

“Great timing.”

Fan Qing stared at him for a few seconds before reacting. “You were showering?”

“Hadn’t gotten that far—just splashed some water when I heard the doorbell,” Luan Ye replied.

“Rang a few times in a row—barely had time to throw on a shirt.”

Fan Qing looked a little embarrassed. “I just came to remind you… it’s almost dinner time.”

Luan Ye casually dried his hair with the towel. “I’m not going.”

Even though he’d expected that answer, Fan Qing still looked at him and guessed the reason: “Too many people?”

“Mm.” Luan Ye smiled. “And I’m not hungry. Just want to lie down for a bit.”

Seeing Fan Qing still watching him, Luan Ye sighed.

“That guy in the backseat talking non-stop gave me a headache. Let me recover a bit.”

“…Alright.” Fan Qing took a step back. “Call if you need anything.”

There probably wouldn’t be any issues, but Fan Qing still couldn’t help saying it.

Everyone else showed up at the hotpot place on time. As they were sitting down, one of the girls asked, “Aren’t we missing someone? That long-haired handsome guy?”

“He’s got a headache. Resting,” Fan Qing answered.

“Not used to physical activity,” the storyteller guy immediately jumped in. “One day of walking and he’s got a headache. When I used to hike, I’d go for ten-plus hours straight—this was in Spain, I remember…”

It wasn’t exhaustion. It was you giving him a headache.

Fan Qing held back the urge to say it, lowered his head, and started eating.

The yak hotpot didn’t taste like anything to him. By the time the guy finished his Spain story and started talking literature with the two girls next to him, Fan Qing already felt full.

Maybe he was just as irritated as Luan Ye.

Still, the beef fried rice at the place was pretty good. Fan Qing went to the counter and ordered a separate portion to go.

By the time it was packed up, dinner was basically over—but everyone was still deep in conversation, with no intention of leaving. Fan Qing checked the time and turned to Lao He. “I’m going back to check on my friend.”

Lao He waved him off immediately. “Go ahead, I’ve got things covered here.”

Fan Qing stood up. Someone at the table looked up, and he briefly explained that he was checking on the person who missed the dinner.

Everyone understood—after all, the guide had to take care of everyone. The guy across the table didn’t even look up, busy asking the girl beside him if she needed help organizing her gear.

Fan Qing pulled out his chair and stood, then suddenly turned back and spoke.

“We have to get up early tomorrow. Try to get some rest tonight, and make sure your doors and windows are locked.”

He wasn’t looking at the storyteller—he was looking at the girl beside him. His tone was slightly serious.

“Just organize your gear according to the checklist we sent out. If you have any issues, contact one of the guides.”

After leaving the hotpot place, Fan Qing felt refreshed, like some bottled-up emotion that had been building since Songzanlin had finally been released.

Even though he wasn’t sure what, exactly, he had been bottling up.

He clicked his tongue at himself, a bit annoyed with his own behavior.

Back at the hotel, he hesitated outside Luan Ye’s door, unsure if he was asleep. After a pause, he knocked softly.

Luan Ye opened the door pretty quickly and asked right away, “What did you bring?”

“…Fried rice,” Fan Qing lifted the food container. “How’d you know?”

“Guessed.” Luan Ye smiled. “Come in.”

Fan Qing felt a little seen. He sighed inwardly but stepped inside.

The fried rice was still warm. Luan Ye sat at the desk, opened the box, and dug in. Fan Qing sat on the sofa.

The room had a faint fragrance—probably from Luan Ye’s body wash. The curtains were drawn tightly shut, and the room lights were bright, almost harsh.

The backpack on the sofa had been opened, probably to take out clothes. The bed was still neatly made, untouched.

Fan Qing paused for a second but said nothing.

Once Luan Ye was nearly done eating and had started cleaning up, Fan Qing finally said, “You didn’t sleep?”

Luan Ye pulled out two tissues and wiped his hands. “No.”

“Then what’ve you been doing?”

“Walking laps around the sofa. Got tired, so I sat down.”

He tossed the tissues and container in the trash and looked at Fan Qing.

“After lying in bed for over a week, I feel like my limbs are starting to atrophy. I’m worried I’ll fall behind on the hike tomorrow.”

Over a week.

Fan Qing was silent for a moment before speaking. “When you rest… do you just sleep all day and do nothing else?”

“What else is there to do?” Luan Ye sat on the sofa and looked at him.

Fan Qing stared at him, brows slightly furrowed.

“It’s not really sleeping,” Luan Ye said. “Just… not wanting to move. Don’t want to go out, don’t want to talk to anyone—it’s exhausting.”

What Luan Ye called “resting” meant staying in the room all day except for going downstairs to eat. More specifically, staying in bed.

Not that he actually slept—most of the time, he couldn’t. He just lay there. Sometimes thinking too much, sometimes thinking about nothing. When lying got tiring, he’d go stand by the window for a bit, then lie back down.

It was a familiar feeling to him—the kind of fatigue, dullness, and meaninglessness that followed after completing something he’d been determined to do, unsure what to do next.

Every time Luan Ye came back from a photography trip, he’d be like this—exhausted to the bone, and suddenly all the photos he took seemed meaningless. He wouldn’t touch them for a long time, even felt annoyed by them. He’d stay in his room doing absolutely nothing for three or four days, waking up at random times. Sometimes it took a day or two before he realized he was starving, went downstairs to eat something, and then went back to lying down.

This state usually faded after about ten days. This time was relatively quick. Maybe it was because there were always people downstairs coming to pick up photos, lively and noisy, and he could vaguely hear some of it upstairs.

Even though he still lay in his room alone upstairs, the lively, market-like atmosphere downstairs helped dilute some of that inner emptiness.

When he lived alone in California, no one cared when he had his episodes. Occasionally, Bo Mingchuan would call to check on him, but only to confirm that he was home, then arrange for someone to deliver food or clean. He never cared whether Luan Ye was awake or asleep, how long he slept, and would even tell the people he sent not to disturb him.

As long as Luan Ye stayed home, Bo Mingchuan gave him complete freedom over his condition.

Only Fan Qing would frown at him like this.

“What kind of face is that?” Luan Ye looked at Fan Qing and couldn’t help but laugh.

“Are you…” Fan Qing started, then trailed off.

Luan Ye finished for him: “Sick?”

Fan Qing remained silent.

“No, just tired. I haven’t taken any medication in a long time.” Luan Ye seemed calm. “Besides, this doesn’t count as being sick. When I’m sick…”

He smiled. “I’m not like this.”

Fan Qing’s eyes briefly flicked to Luan Ye’s left hand, then quickly looked away.

Fan Qing had lost his parents early and was raised by relatives. After years of being a guide and dealing with all kinds of people, he was someone with a strong sense of boundaries.

For example, when he was little, he missed his parents, but knowing his grandmother would be even sadder, he never brought them up unless she did, and even then he just listened quietly.

For example, even though his aunt promised to pay his tuition, he knew she also had a son who had just started working and was renting a place, and a daughter still in high school. So he worked to make money himself, trying not to trouble them.

Even though his long-time friend Zhang repeatedly said he didn’t need to pay rent, Fan Qing still transferred money to his account at the start of every month.

And for every traveler he’d guided to various places, with different personalities and experiences—people who reacted to the same snow-capped mountains with different kinds of joy or sorrow—he never asked questions.

He was like a quietly growing tree in the wild, or a calm, rippleless lake beneath a meadow.

But when it came to Luan Ye, those boundaries would subtly shift.

Like a bird brushing against a branch, a stone dropping into a lake—and Fan Qing’s own gaze at this moment, heavy and perhaps unnoticed even by himself, landed on Luan Ye.

Does this kind of “rest” really help you feel better?

No, this isn’t rest. This is shutting yourself away.

Why are you sick?

Does your boyfriend know you’re sick? Is he the cause?

What’s your relationship with that creditor who triggered your breakdown with just one message?

Why did you come here, and when are you leaving?

A flood of questions surged through Fan Qing’s mind like a tide, but he knew that for Luan Ye, they were likely complex and painful—things he didn’t want to answer.

In the end, when Fan Qing did speak, he chose what seemed like the least intrusive, least difficult question.

“The person you lit the lamp for today—” Fan Qing paused, “is he your boyfriend?”

Luan Ye looked at him for a moment and nodded. “Yes.”

Fan Qing wasn’t surprised. He just nodded. “Is he—”

“What kind of person is he?”

After a short pause, Luan Ye asked, “Mind if I smoke?”

Seeing Fan Qing nod, Luan Ye pulled a cigarette from his bag, placed it in his mouth, and lit it.

He leaned back on the sofa, not looking at Fan Qing, staring at the ceiling instead. The smoke drifted up, faint and reminiscent of the incense at the monastery earlier.

Luan Ye slowly began, “He’s… a good person, I guess.”

Fan Qing looked up sharply.

Seeing Fan Qing’s confused expression, Luan Ye smiled slightly and repeated it.

“A very, very good person.”