FQ chapter 70

“Thinking about it is fine, no rush.” Xu Song didn’t press him. “Anyway, no hurry—just stay with me for now. Meng Zhao and I can show you around.”

“No need. If I decide, I’ll just come straight over.” Luan Ye put down his cup. “I’ve got a flight back to Yunnan tonight. Dinner’s on me before I leave.”

“Back to Yunnan?” Xu Song sounded surprised. “With Fan Qing?”

“Just me. I’m preparing a birthday present for him.” Luan Ye said. “I told him I’d be staying here a few days.”

“That’s romantic.” Xu Song gave him a thumbs up. “Heading to Xuehu Village?”

“Not just there.” Luan Ye smiled. “Probably a few more places.”

“You’ve got me curious now. What kind of gift do you have to go all the way to Yunnan for?”

Strictly speaking, it didn’t have to be Yunnan.

But Luan Ye wanted to find it there, ideally somewhere he and Fan Qing had visited together—the snow mountains, pastures, meadows, valleys, Erhai Lake…

There were too many places, and his time was tight. Tens of thousands of steps each day, topping his WeChat step ranking. Before leaving, he even considered turning off the step counter, but realized that would look suspicious. So he told Fan Qing in advance that he’d be out shooting some projects for Xu Song, and would be busy the next couple of days.

It was a reasonable excuse, so Fan Qing didn’t doubt him. But after seeing his 30,000 steps at the end of the day, Fan Qing couldn’t resist calling.

“What are you shooting?” Fan Qing asked, shocked. “Walking that much every day?”

Luan Ye laughed. “Didn’t you always worry I never go out? Said I should take more walks?”

“…You’ve been walking too much these days.” Fan Qing laughed too. “If you weren’t away from Yunnan, I’d suspect you’d gone up a mountain again.”

That made Luan Ye laugh for a long while, before he said, “It’s almost done. Don’t worry.”

Fan Qing hummed softly. “Just don’t wear yourself out.”

He hesitated, then muttered under his breath: “What kind of photos need this much walking?”

Back in Xuehu Village, when Luan Ye stayed indoors every day, Fan Qing had always wanted to drag him out into the mountains. Now, seeing him walk endlessly from morning to night, he felt a little distressed.

“Got it.” Luan Ye smiled. “Your break starts this weekend, right?”

“Mm. Four days for Mid-Autumn.”

“I’ll be back then.” Luan Ye said. “Let’s go to Hangzhou together.”

“Okay.” Fan Qing smiled.

Then, as if remembering something, he asked, “What does Auntie Luan usually… like?”

“Hm?” Luan Ye made a sound.

“Well, I should bring something. First time visiting your home.” Fan Qing sighed. “Gotta make a good impression.”

Though it wasn’t really the first time.

Luan Ye chuckled for a long time before saying, “When I was little, she liked eating shortbread. I used to buy one on my way home from school. Bring her two boxes.”

“Alright.” Fan Qing smiled.

“And bring a couple extra changes of clothes.” Luan Ye added. “I’m taking you out for your birthday.”

“Where?” Fan Qing was stunned.

“You’ll see.” Luan Ye smiled.

With the excuse of taking photos, he spent two more days in Yunnan. Once the gift was ready, he rushed back to Shanghai.

The day he picked Fan Qing up, he even got a haircut. Shorter, neater—still long enough to tie, but not too long when down.

Fan Qing noticed right away. “You cut your hair?”

“Looks good?” Luan Ye asked.

“Looks good.” Fan Qing smiled. “Kind of like when you first arrived in Xuehu Village.”

The corners of Luan Ye’s lips lifted. He brushed his hand across Fan Qing’s face.

As told, Fan Qing had packed two sets of clothes. Worried Luan Ye might need extra space, he even brought a larger bag. To his surprise, Luan Ye came carrying a small suitcase.

Fan Qing blinked, surprised. “…You own a suitcase?”

He never thought something like that would exist in Luan Ye’s life.

“…Borrowed it from Meng Zhao.” Luan Ye narrowed his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You didn’t bring one either time you came back from the U.S.” Fan Qing chuckled. “And now you borrow one just to go home?”

“Bought clothes last time, borrowed a camera from Xu Song… Don’t we need luggage for traveling?”

Luan Ye smiled. “Besides, I packed your birthday gift.”

“Oh.” Fan Qing froze, then laughed.

The house was the same small villa Luan Ye’s family had bought when he first started primary school. Not in the city center, but quiet and peaceful. Luan Ping was waiting for them at the door. At home, she wasn’t dressed as formally as when they’d met before—just a plain dress, no makeup, looking much softer.

Fan Qing’s nerves eased a little. He handed over the box of shortbread he’d carried all the way, and greeted politely: “Hello, Auntie.”

“Hello.” Luan Ping smiled, glanced down at the box. “Luan Ye told you?”

“He said you liked this when you were younger,” Fan Qing replied.

“I still do.” Luan Ping smiled, opening the door. “Come in, dinner’s ready.”

The villa was a detached three-story home with a fairly large garden, though apart from the lawn nothing else had been planted.

“When I was little, I remember there were lots of flowers here.” Luan Ye pushed open the gate. “Every day on my way to kindergarten I’d pick one and bring it to my teacher.”

Fan Qing glanced at him, wanting to laugh, but held it in.

“So that’s why all your teachers liked you back then, always teasing you,” Luan Ping smiled. “These past years I just haven’t had the energy or time to tend to it, so I didn’t plant anything.”

“If you still like flowers, you can plant them slowly,” Luan Ye smiled. “Fan Qing and I will help you.”

Luan Ping chuckled and gave him a light pat on the back.

Inside the living room, the aunt was still cooking, so there was a little time before dinner.

“Your room is still the one on the third floor. Auntie cleaned it for you,” Luan Ping said. “Do you want to rest a bit?”

“No need to rest.” Luan Ye said, “I’ll show him around.”

“Go ahead,” Luan Ping smiled. “I’ll call you when the meal’s ready.”

Luan Ye led Fan Qing upstairs. The interior was done in a vintage style—dark peach-wood stairs and doors against cream-colored walls. Simple, but the colors felt warm and pleasant.

“My mom supervised the renovation. She likes this style,” Luan Ye said as they walked. “At the time my dad wanted a gaudy European look—crystal chandeliers and all that—but my mom vetoed it with one vote.”

“This looks much nicer,” Fan Qing laughed, then couldn’t help asking, “And your dad, now…”

“He’s been remarried for a long time. His kid’s probably graduated college by now.” Luan Ye smiled faintly. “We haven’t been in touch for ages.”

Fan Qing nodded.

The second floor was Luan Ping’s room. Luan Ye led Fan Qing up to the third, and pushed open the door to his own.

Even for Luan Ye, stepping into this room after so many years felt strangely unfamiliar.

The room was spotless, everything carefully wiped down without a trace of dust. The sheets and quilt were freshly changed, two pillows neatly placed on the bed.

In the bathroom the towels, toothbrushes, cups—everything was new. And all prepared in twos.

The desk was still the same one, facing the window, with a small bookshelf beside it neatly filled with his elementary school textbooks. On the wall hung one of his childhood watercolors, specially framed.

A lotus pond, a broken bridge, a dragonfly. Beside it the words: Luan Ye, painted at age nine.

Nineteen-year-old Fan Qing stood looking at nine-year-old Luan Ye’s painting for a long while, before finally breaking into a smile.

Luan Ye reached out and flicked him lightly on the forehead. “What are you laughing at? I even gave you one of my paintings.”

“I just think you… were pretty amazing,” Fan Qing withdrew his gaze from the painting and turned to look at him.

“If you like it, I’ll paint you another,” Luan Ye smiled.

“When?” Fan Qing asked.

“New Year’s?” Luan Ye thought for a moment. “Every New Year I’ll give you one, with the note: Gifted to Fan Qing in such-and-such year… all the way until you’re seventy.”

“And when I’m seventy-one?”

“Don’t bully an old man, all right?” Luan Ye couldn’t help but laugh. “By then my hands will be shaking too much.”

Fan Qing laughed too, then said softly, “When that time comes, let’s hold an exhibition.”

Luan Ye looked at him, the corners of his lips curling in a faint smile. “Okay.”

He reached up and gently pinched Fan Qing’s earlobe, his tone as casual and tender as his smile.

“The exhibition will be called—Gifted to Fan Qing.”

From the first New Year’s Day, until the day he could no longer paint. Every painting in between, and all those decades of time—

Gifted to Fan Qing.