FQ chapter 53

Fan Qing didn’t make a sound, his head resting against Luan Ye without moving.

By then, dusk had fallen. They were sitting under the shade of the trees, and as long as someone wasn’t standing too close, it was impossible to see them clearly. So, Luan Ye didn’t say anything, just let Fan Qing lean against him.

He didn’t know how long Fan Qing had been leaning on him—anyway, no one could be seen passing by anymore. A night breeze rose, rustling the leaves overhead and puffing up their clothes. Luan Ye couldn’t resist reaching out to pinch Fan Qing’s earlobe.

“You’re not crying, are you?”

Fan Qing’s muffled voice immediately followed:

“No. I just want to hold you for a while.”

“Can you hold me when we get back?” Luan Ye reached out and rubbed the back of Fan Qing’s head. “The night wind’s pretty strong.”

Fan Qing let out an “oh,” got up, and loosened his arms. “Back to your place?”

Luan Ye looked at him. “If you’d rather we each go home, that’s fine too.”

“No, that’s not it…” Fan Qing laughed. “Isn’t Qiao Feibai’s family still there? What if we run into them again, like last time?”

“They’re staying downstairs. They won’t come up.” Luan Ye replied. “They’ll be gone tomorrow morning—Qiao Feibai’s taking them to the airport.”

“If you’re really that worried about running into them…” Luan Ye chuckled. “I checked—the second-floor window facing outside isn’t very high. There are even stones piled up by the wall.”

“Climb in through the window?” Fan Qing blinked.

“Mm. At night you can sneak in, stay over, then sneak back out in the morning.”

After saying this, Luan Ye cracked himself up, laughing as he asked Fan Qing, “You’ve never climbed over a wall when you were a kid?”

“…No.” Fan Qing looked at Luan Ye, who was laughing uncontrollably, and sighed.

Luan Ye grinned and patted him. “Come on, good boy.”

….

The lights downstairs were all off—probably because everyone had to leave early for the airport the next day. Grandma Mu had also gone to bed. Quietly, Fan Qing and Luan Ye went upstairs.

For Fan Qing, staying over at Luan Ye’s place had gone from awkward to familiar. Luan Ye showered first, while he lounged on the sofa, bored, glancing around.

He had been here many times. The room was furnished like most homestays, but Luan Ye’s traces of daily life were everywhere.

A neatly arranged computer, camera, printer, hiking gear… some brought from before, more bought later.

Proof that Luan Ye had really lived here.

But Fan Qing couldn’t help wondering—when Luan Ye left, what would happen to all this stuff? Other than his mother’s place, Luan Ye didn’t seem to have anywhere to stay in China. And this time, he hadn’t yet decided to return for good. If he shipped it all back to the U.S.… it’d be pretty far.

Fan Qing’s thoughts drifted aimlessly toward Luan Ye’s eventual departure. But unlike before, this time he didn’t feel that panicked, hollow fear, as if his next step would drop into nothingness. Instead, he was calm.

Because Luan Ye said he would come back. And if he said it, then he would.

The sound of running water came from the bathroom. In the silence of the room, it was loud and clear. Fan Qing couldn’t help glancing that way, then quickly turned his head back.

He shifted in his seat.

After a while, the water stopped, replaced by the sound of a hairdryer.

The bathroom door opened, and the noise became sharper. Luan Ye’s voice, mixed with the dryer’s hum, floated out:

“There are new boxers in the wardrobe, never worn.” He poked his head out, glancing at Fan Qing. “There are pajamas too, but I’ve worn them—they’re not new.”

“…It’s fine.”

Fan Qing opened the wardrobe, grabbed some clothes, and waited until Luan Ye finished blow-drying his hair before darting into the bathroom.

The steam from earlier hadn’t yet cleared, making the small space hot and foggy. The toiletries he had used last time were still in their place. He showered quickly, and when he came out, Luan Ye was already in bed, typing quickly on his phone—looked like he was writing something.

Fan Qing accidentally caught a glimpse—everything was in English, probably an email.

Noticing him, Luan Ye put his phone down. “All done?”

“Mm.” Fan Qing lifted the quilt and slipped in, curling up with Luan Ye.

Luan Ye reached out and turned off the light.

The window screen was open a third of the way, letting in fresh, cool air—no need for the AC. The blanket was just a thin summer quilt from the supermarket; squeezed together under it, they didn’t feel hot at all.

Fan Qing held Luan Ye close, pressing against him, and tilted his head down for a kiss.

In the dark, he could only make out a vague shadow. His kisses were all by feel—along Luan Ye’s brow, his cheekbones, ear, neck. His breath warmed Luan Ye’s skin, making him chuckle.

“Hey, why are you kissing like a puppy chewing on a bone—here a bite, there a bite?”

Like an overexcited puppy getting its first bone.

Embarrassed by the comparison, Fan Qing hugged him tighter. “…Maybe I just really missed you.”

“I haven’t even left yet,” Luan Ye teased.

“I know.” Fan Qing held him close, voice low. “But ever since you said you were leaving… I’ve felt like I already miss you.”

Corny words—but Fan Qing’s earnest tone, so soft and careful, made it clear he meant them.

And having said that, it was easy to finally speak the three words he couldn’t get out earlier, under the trees.

He leaned in again—puppy chewing on a bone, puppy kissing a bone—and kissed the corner of Luan Ye’s lips, completing the thought he’d left unsaid.

“I love you.”

In the darkness, Luan Ye gazed at him, eyes brimming with laughter, then kissed him on the lips, hand sliding to hook lightly at Fan Qing’s waist.

The next second, Fan Qing pressed his hand against the back of Luan Ye’s neck and kissed him hard.

This kiss was far more intense than before. His tongue pried open Luan Ye’s lips, slipping inside. Luan Ye froze for a beat, then responded eagerly. Their entanglement was urgent, fiery, like a spark catching flame.

Fan Qing rolled over, pressing Luan Ye beneath him, kissing him hungrily as his hands slid under his shirt—down his back, his waist, his abdomen.

Luan Ye grabbed at his hips.

Fan Qing’s touch left him panting, his breath thick with desire. Hearing it, Fan Qing instinctively wanted to press closer—skin to skin, bone to bone, blood and soul all melted together.

“…I’m not prepared,” Luan Ye rasped, his voice hoarse and full of heat.

“…I know.” Fan Qing bit his shoulder. “I just… can’t hold back.”

Even in the seriousness of the moment, Luan Ye almost laughed—but desire turned the laugh into shallow gasps.

He managed between breaths: “Bathroom. There’s face cream.”

“…Will that work?”

Fan Qing froze, lifted himself slightly, their noses brushing together—caught in that boyish mix of confusion and restraint.

“Wouldn’t that… hurt? What if something goes wrong—”

“Hey.” Luan Ye let out a short laugh. “You’re already hard enough to be a problem.”

Fan Qing didn’t answer, his face burning. Luan Ye’s hand slid lower down Fan Qing’s abdomen, and Fan Qing’s breaths grew ragged.

“Either do it,” Luan Ye murmured, voice rough. “Or get off me and cool down.”

His tone was thick with desire, leaving no room for thought. Fan Qing stared at him for a few seconds, then kissed him again.

…

Fan Qing ran a bath, tested the temperature, then stepped out of the bathroom.

Luan Ye lay sprawled in the mess of sheets, eyes closed, looking asleep. Scents filled the air—the faint smell of Luan Ye’s English-labeled face cream among them. An hour ago the jar was full; now only a third remained, left uncapped on the bedside table.

The nightlight had been on since Fan Qing first entered the bathroom to fetch it. As he walked over, Luan Ye cracked his eyes open, giving him a glance.

“Shower?” Fan Qing asked.

It took Luan Ye a few seconds to answer, his voice still hoarse. “Mm.”

The water was just right, easing the exhaustion. He soaked, not wanting to move. Fan Qing quickly changed the sheets, then slipped into the tub with him.

It was a bit small for two grown men. Fan Qing pulled Luan Ye into his arms, pressing close, studying his expression.

“You okay?” he asked softly. “Not hurt, not uncomfortable?”

“No.” Luan Ye opened his eyes, smiling. “Just tired.”

Fan Qing’s technique hadn’t been great—it was his first time, after all. But every touch, though unpolished, had been raw with instinct and desire. The urgent rhythm left no room for thought.

“You… barely made a sound,” Fan Qing said, watching him. “I thought—”

“Come on.” Luan Ye couldn’t help laughing, shaking against Fan Qing’s chest. “There are people downstairs, you know.”

The house had been a homestay before, so the soundproofing was probably decent. Still, in the chaos, Luan Ye had managed to hold onto just enough sense to keep his voice down.

Lazy, he added, “If you want to hear me, next time book a hotel.”

The heat of the bath steamed against Fan Qing’s ears. He lowered his head, kissed Luan Ye’s collarbone, and mumbled: “Okay.”