Chapter 23

—• VOLUME 2: Fireworks Under the Starry Sky •—

I recorded Lin Ze’s story about Xie Chenfeng and made some adjustments, adding ambiguous censorship. Of course, it also included my own whimsical embellishments—laziness in research, distorting facts, deliberately messing up the timeline to obscure the truth, wildly speculating about Lin Ze’s feelings, and slapping on a bunch of unnecessary psychological descriptions to enhance immersion—all despicable acts that would make reportage writers cringe. After organizing part of it, I started hesitating again. Strictly speaking, Lin Ze’s experience was about “changing the gong” (switching partners), and “changing the gong” is something that should be harshly criticized because it doesn’t provide readers with a pleasant experience, which is essentially shooting myself in the foot. Moreover, not revealing who Lin Ze ended up with from the start is also a rare case in my writing process. But then I thought, I often do things that sabotage my own reputation—to be honest, I don’t really have much of a reputation to ruin. It’s like when I say, “I swear on my character,” people always laugh and say, “You don’t even have that.” So, it doesn’t matter.

Following the wisdom of Forrest Gump’s mother—”Life is like a box of chocolates; you never know what you’re gonna get”—I deliberated and ultimately decided not to reveal Lin Ze’s boyfriend ahead of time. Knowing the ending in advance would strip away too much of the fun and emotional impact. Looking back at the process with the answer in hand would reduce everything to the numbness of a soap opera. That’s why I always feel that the first time reading a story from start to finish, without peeking at the ending, is the closest to understanding the author’s and protagonist’s feelings. After all, none of us know what tomorrow holds—there’s sorrow, joy, despair, and resurgence. That’s life.

Once, I mentioned this to Lin Ze, who looked puzzled. “Do people not like complicated stories these days?”

“Yeah,” I told him. “They’d feel sad for you.”

Lin Ze replied, “I’m actually fine. Some things are in the past once they’re over. What do you think of me as a person?”

“Pretty good,” I answered.

At that moment, I genuinely meant it. In the gay community, youth and good looks are capital, and promiscuity is common. Many people walk through bustling cities by day and chase desire, sex, and one-night stands when the neon lights come on.

Corruption, bribery, one-night stands, theft… Another friend of mine once remarked that when he was young, he couldn’t understand these things. How could a decent person do such things? He thought he’d never become that kind of person. But when he actually faced the choice, he took his first step into depravity, like a floodgate being opened—once it’s done, there’s no turning back. And after endlessly indulging in desire, what follows is an even longer loneliness. The more one falls, the deeper they sink. The best way to avoid depravity is never to take that crucial first step.

Besides, since I’d heard this story, I figured I might as well drag a few more people into it—otherwise, I’d feel bad about that sleepless night after listening to it. That night, I revisited Wen Dao’s (@HIVvolunteer) Weibo. I’d followed him for two years and had some minor interactions with him before, but seeing the work he’d done over time paled in comparison to the impact of Lin Ze’s firsthand account.

Wen Dao’s Weibo bio read, “I wish to love with the love of Christ, loving others as myself.” Since graduating from university, he’d been doing AIDS advocacy. Hailing from Zhumadian, he carried the scars of that horrific blood scandal and embarked on this journey. He had no job, no income—at first, I thought it was naive. But he traveled across the country for two full years, counseling AIDS patients to prevent suicide, gathering those afflicted with the disease, communicating with them, and offering whatever help and advocacy he could. Day by day, he persisted.

Whether infected through homosexual activity or blood transfusions, he treated everyone equally. In his circle, there was no discrimination, no preferential treatment. Earlier, he’d spent two years traveling through impoverished counties in Guizhou and Yunnan, visiting areas heavily affected by AIDS. After returning to Zhengzhou, like Chen Kai, he rented a place to serve as temporary housing for rural patients seeking medical treatment, covering their food and lodging to help them save money. But he clearly wasn’t as savvy as Chen Kai, who was in his thirties and had more life experience in handling trouble. Wen Dao was kicked out by his landlord, vented his frustration, and had to find another place.

Not long ago, he even went to Peking University’s gates to deliver a plaque that read “Beijing People’s University,” standing on stilts with a banner that said, “Beijing-born test-takers get into PKU, a cut above the rest”—a silent protest at the elite institution. Young, passionate, impulsive, irrational—but entirely fitting for his age. Later, Lin Ze and I got into a heated argument about whether college admissions should have regional quotas, veins bulging on our foreheads as we hurled tax receipts at each other, escalating into classic Sichuanese insults, nearly coming to blows before ending in a chaotic exchange of “brain-dead journalist” and “brain-dead writer.”

That night, haunted by Xie Chenfeng’s death, I couldn’t sleep. I violently roused Pig-Bear from his sleep and spent a long time sighing over Xie Lei’s story. Pig-Bear was baffled at first, bleary-eyed, making me repeat it three times before he understood. Thinking I was insinuating something, he took great offense, vehemently protested that he had to get up at 6:30 a.m. for work, told me not to push it, and stomped off to pee with a “men have it rough” expression.

What’s a Pig-Bear? It’s a made-up creature that gained popularity in certain circles, resembling both a pig and a bear. The next day, when he got off work, he found 100 yuan in the mailbox downstairs and asked what it was. I explained that Lin Ze had returned it to me.

Lin Ze was busy with work and later went on a business trip for about a week, so we didn’t see each other. As my own state of anarchy ended, I had to get back to work. Fortunately, the new job wasn’t too exhausting—helping a friend at their shop in the mornings, then coming home at noon to do another part-time gig, mostly mental work. A week later, Lin Ze finally returned, and his dog was liberated. His partner never walked the dog when Lin Ze wasn’t home, avoiding any unnecessary hassle—very much like Pig-Bear.

He asked if we’d seen his Alaskan Malamute outside while he was away and if his partner had walked it regularly. We immediately answered in unison: “Yes.”

During that time, I took on a messy, thorny project a friend couldn’t handle, working until 2 or 3 a.m. every night, skipping mornings, and sleeping until noon. The dead of night was better for brainstorming random ideas. While working late with QQ open, I noticed Lin Ze was online every night.

[You’re not sleeping yet?] I asked him.

Lin Ze replied: [I’m studying. My journalist license is expiring, so I have to retake the exam. I’m not going into the office these mornings—sleeping at home and studying at night. Why aren’t you sleeping? I see you online every night. Don’t stay up too late.]

I offered: [I have work to do. Want to come over for coffee?]

Lin Ze readily agreed: [Sure. I have coffee a friend brought from Thailand. I’ll bring it over.]

I countered: [I’ve got some from Cambodia. Let’s mix them and see how it tastes.]

Lin Ze’s avatar went gray. Five minutes later, he knocked on my door. Pig-Bear was dead to the world, so we made coffee in the living room. Lin Ze even left a mug at my place for future late-night coffee sessions. After brewing, I went back to staring at my computer, deep in thought, while Lin Ze sat at the dining table studying, chatting occasionally until around 3 a.m. before heading home—our midnight ritual.

This went on for days. Our late-night stimulants cycled through coffee, yuanyang (coffee-tea mix), milk tea, mung bean soup, hawthorn plum soup, Red Bull, Sichuan fritillary bulb with snow pear stew, and more. I kept wanting to ask about Xie Chenfeng but was afraid of reopening wounds Lin Ze didn’t want touched.

Once, Lin Ze asked, “Did you finish the story?”

I answered truthfully: “Only about… a third. Do you have more to tell me? This much isn’t enough to publish. I stopped when you went on your business trip.”

Lin Ze asked, “Then what are you writing now?”

I showed him two documents: one was the project I was rushing to finish, and the other was about a protagonist caught between the factions of Qin Hui and Zhao Gou, serving as a double agent. By chance, he’s given an elixir of immortality and guards the Southern Song Dynasty for ages until the Mongol invasion, culminating in the mass suicide at Yashan, where 100,000 soldiers and civilians threw themselves into the sea—including Lu Xiufu, who carried the eight-year-old emperor and the imperial seal as he jumped.

At 2 a.m. in the living room, I animatedly explained the story to him: how the protagonist navigates between Qin Hui and Yue Fei, deceives Qin Hui, and witnesses the fall of the Southern Song. The protagonist rows a small boat through waters littered with tens of thousands of floating corpses before fading out, only to reappear with text like: “In the 27th year of the Zhizheng era, Zhu Yuanzhang sent Xu Da and Chang Yuchun north to conquer…” “In the 28th year of Zhizheng, Zhu Yuanzhang declared himself emperor, founding the Ming Dynasty…” “In the 8th year of Yongle, the Ming Chengzu annihilated the Tatars…”

Lin Ze listened as if to a tall tale, then asked, “Has your partner read it? What did he think?”

I sighed. “He never reads anything I write. In retaliation, I never pay attention to his work either.”

Lin Ze spat out his coffee, laughing. “That’s too tragic. Let me think… keep going with this story.”

I asked, “Is this Starbucks mug the one Situ Ye gave you?”

Lin Ze admitted, “I accidentally broke that one. This is a replacement.”

I murmured, “Oh… what a shame. I think he really liked you.”

Lin Ze didn’t answer, looking up from his book to study me. “Zheng Jie said the same thing.”

I asked, “Is Situ Ye still your partner at work?”

Lin Ze smiled. “Guess? After Xie Lei’s story ended and I went back to work in Chongqing, Situ Ye was like a different person…”

I quickly pulled out paper and pen from the shelf, locking onto the target under the dual stimulation of coffee and gossip.

[Third person perspective: Lin Ze]

Lin Ze returned to work before the Lunar New Year festivities ended. For the first few days, he spoke little—not out of grief-induced depression, but a kind of exhaustion and numbness. Like the legendary “heart as still as water,” he lacked motivation but wasn’t gloomy or despondent. When others spoke to him, he responded normally, solving problems as usual, but rarely initiated jokes or conversations.

On the day he returned to Chongqing, Situ Ye’s car waited outside the airport, first taking him to Nanshan Cemetery to settle Xie Chenfeng’s ashes, then driving him home. Zheng Jie lay sprawled on the table like a zombie, glancing at Lin Ze as if to say something, but Lin Ze spoke first: “I’m fine.”

Then he showered and slept. Situ Ye cleaned up the apartment for Lin Ze and Zheng Jie. Lin Ze heard Zheng Jie say outside, “I’ll do it.”

“Helping the boss is part of the job,” Situ Ye replied cheerfully.

Lin Ze slept from that afternoon until the next morning, went out for a haircut, and resumed work as if nothing had happened. Since he’d started covering news, the quality of the fifth and sixth page features had noticeably declined, so the editor-in-chief dragged him back to oversee a couple of special issues, requiring him to mentor others.

Lin Ze thought it over and decided to start a special feature on “social anxiety disorder,” focusing on recent graduates who, six months to a year after graduation, are unwilling to go out, reluctant to engage with society, and hesitant to face the outside world. This group shares common psychological traits—fear of socializing, dislike of crowds, and a significant portion who prefer immersing themselves in games, forums, and various virtual worlds, avoiding work and the realities of life.

Material and spiritual worlds are the two poles of life. Excessive leaning toward either can easily lead to psychological issues. Lin Ze’s approach wasn’t to criticize but to analyze and guide effectively, helping overly immersed young people return to reality and discover its positive aspects.

“Typically, homebodies—both male and female—share a few characteristics…” Lin Ze sat in the passenger seat and turned to Situ Ye. “Their homes are messy, they eat instant noodles for all three meals, the first thing they do every morning is turn on the computer and go online. They suffer from procrastination and social anxiety, preferring to stay home and surf the web or watch TV rather than go out. They know it’s wrong but can’t muster the energy to job hunt or even go downstairs to buy instant noodles. They argue with their parents at home, always saying ‘tomorrow, tomorrow’… Zheng Jie used to be like this. After graduation, he struggled with job hunting and spent nearly a year playing games at home. It wasn’t until I dragged him out of his garbage heap and beat him up that he finally had to go to work.”

Situ Ye chuckled in agreement as he drove.

“Many people keep escaping until they have no choice left,” Lin Ze fastened his seatbelt and went on. “Only then do they go out to work. This prolonged avoidance followed by forced reintegration into society causes immense mental and physical pain.”

Situ Ye nodded. “Are you calling for society to drag all these homebodies out and electrocute them with Professor Yang’s methods?”

Lin Ze was both amused and exasperated. “Of course not. Everyone has the right to choose their own way of life. If you have money, it doesn’t matter—do whatever you want.”

“But when this kind of decadent lifestyle causes pain to others… like parents or loved ones, then we should call on their families to help them change… Some people themselves feel they shouldn’t continue like this but can’t break free from their predicament. These cases require adjustment. At the same time, we should urge companies and employers to patiently accept newcomers who have been long-term shut-ins or have gaps in their resumes. With patience, they can quickly become motivated… First, consult the community youth center and ask where to start. We also need their advice.”

After finishing the morning’s tasks, Lin Ze organized his materials in a small restaurant while Situ Ye sat across from him. “If you want to cry, just cry. It’ll make you feel better.”

Lin Ze: “…”

“I don’t want to cry. Thank you for your concern, Situ.” Lin Ze put away the menu and asked the waiter for water.

Situ Ye frowned slightly. “A’Ze, I’m feeling lost. Seeing you like this, and yet I can’t help at all.”

Lin Ze tried to squeeze out a few tears but eventually gave up on the futile attempt. “I really don’t want to cry. Don’t force me.”

“Is that so?” Situ Ye, unusually serious, leaned in. “You never tell me about your sorrows. Aren’t we partners?”

Lin Ze replied, “I’m not sad at all. What do you want me to say…?”

“Fine, then listen to me…” Situ Ye started.

“No, no, you listen to me first.” Lin Ze interrupted.

Situ Ye fell silent.

“My heart is very calm right now. There’s nothing particularly painful.” Lin Ze’s voice was steady.

“This is what they call ‘the greatest sorrow is a heart that has died.’ Accumulating too much emotion is very unhealthy…” Situ Ye countered.

Lin Ze was truly at a loss with him.

“No matter what happened before, you still have to live your life well…” Situ Ye said angrily.

“That’s exactly what I think. Isn’t that what I’m doing now?” Lin Ze replied expressionlessly.

Situ Ye was silent for a long time before finally nodding. “Alright.”

It wasn’t that Lin Ze didn’t want to confide in Situ Ye—it was just that there was really nothing to say. He didn’t have the kind of pent-up emotions that made him want to pour his heart out to everyone like Xianglin Sao. Situ Ye already knew everything that had happened before. It was all logical and natural, like water flowing downhill.

“Maybe I didn’t like him as much as I thought,” Lin Ze said.

Situ Ye’s eyebrows twitched as he looked at Lin Ze. Just then, the food arrived. Lin Ze handed him chopsticks and served him some boiled fish. “Stop thinking about this.” He forced a smile. “What are you up to? Fishing for guys?”

Situ Ye’s expression brightened slightly, no longer looking so worried. He took out his phone and showed Lin Ze his chat history with a young bottom on Jack’d. Lin Ze took the phone and read their conversation—it was clear they had been flirting for a while, complete with sweet nothings.

Dream-Chasing Wind: “Did you eat properly, baby? Do you miss your hubby?”

White-Eyed Wolf: “Of course! When will hubby be off work?”

Dream-Chasing Wind: “I’ve been too busy these days. Let’s find some time after my friend gets back to have dinner together.”

White-Eyed Wolf: “Sure! But I’m still home for the New Year.”

Dream-Chasing Wind: “When does school start? Should hubby drive over to pick you up? I miss you so much. Why didn’t you answer my call yesterday?”

Lin Ze: “…”

Situ Ye smiled at him. Lin Ze felt like he was seeing a completely unfamiliar side of Situ Ye and studied him as if he didn’t know him.

“Have you met yet?”

“Once,” Ye replied. “At the Starbucks on Bei Cheng Tian Street.”

Lin Ze nodded. “Alright, this time, take it seriously. Don’t give up halfway again.”

Situ Ye’s eyebrows twitched as he looked at Lin Ze. “Definitely. Can you give me some test strips?”

That evening, after returning home, Lin Ze gave Situ Ye some test strips and agreed to have dinner with the young bottom once school started in a few days. He planned to invite Zheng Jie along too. There was so much going on lately—accompanying Zheng Jie to look at apartments, working on special features, helping Situ Ye strategize his love life—but Lin Ze couldn’t muster any enthusiasm for any of it. He’d have to wait until he felt better.

On the fifteenth day of the lunar new year, the Lantern Festival, the newspaper office gave everyone a day off. Situ Ye went to have dinner with his young bottom, Zheng Jie was full of energy as he attended his first matchmaking event of the year—a large-scale blind date gathering—and Lin Ze found himself alone amidst the bustling crowds of Bei Cheng Tian Street, feeling momentarily lost.

His phone kept buzzing, flooded with messages. As he scrolled through them, he saw one from Ke Maoguo and suddenly remembered him.

Ke Maoguo: [Lin Ze, Happy New Year. How have you been lately?]

Lin Ze: [Not bad. A long-standing issue has finally been resolved—I’m single again.]

Ke Maoguo sent another message without asking for details: [I’m planning to visit Chongqing with Xiao Zhao in a few days. If you have time, could you show us around? Let me treat you to dinner.]

Lin Ze knew he had to play host in this situation and replied with a smile: [I should be the one treating you. If Brother Ke doesn’t mind, just bring your appetite. I’ll book a hotel. When are you coming?]

Ke Maoguo: [No rush. I’ll let you know once it’s decided. No plans today? Where’s Xiao Ye?]

Lin Ze: [No plans. Just me. My childhood friend is on a blind date, and Situ Ye is on a date.]

Ke Maoguo: [I’m alone too. Planning to go to Sanlitun tonight for a drink.]

Lin Ze vaguely remembered Li Yanru mentioning that Sanlitun had Beijing’s largest gay bar. He didn’t usually go to such places, but if Ke Maoguo was going, it was probably just to drink and watch others flirt while reminiscing about the past. Zhao Yuhang might accompany him, and Lin Ze doubted Ke Maoguo would get involved in the messy affairs of the scene.

Thinking of Li Yanru, Lin Ze sent her a message wishing her a happy Lantern Festival. She replied asking what he was up to and why he wasn’t joining Zheng Jie on his blind date. Lin Ze mentioned how, in the past, he had gone along once, only for the blind date to take a liking to him instead. Li Yanru found this hilarious and didn’t press further.

After returning, Lin Ze bought a new iPad, determined to start fresh. The old one had been a gift from Li Chiran, and he felt genuinely guilty about it.

Li Chiran hadn’t been in touch either. Lin Ze had reached out a few times but received no reply. He planned to buy something for him and visit his younger brother in a few days.

Outside, a couple walked past—a young man in his twenties storming ahead, clearly angry, while his partner, a top, followed behind with a designer waist bag and several shopping bags, looking impatient. “What more do you want?” the top snapped.

Lin Ze nearly knocked over his coffee—it was Situ Ye!

Situ Ye stopped and looked at Lin Ze, who smirked and gestured for him to chase after the other guy. Situ Ye hesitated, but the bottom pushed his hand away and left. Situ Ye threw the shopping bags to the ground, startling Lin Ze.

“Hey, that’s too violent,” Lin Ze commented.

Situ Ye didn’t respond and sat down beside Lin Ze. Lin Ze picked up the bags and tossed them back into his lap. Situ Ye kicked the chair angrily, clearly furious. What was the point of such a big outburst? Lin Ze didn’t know what had set Situ Ye off but vaguely suspected he might have fallen for the guy.

“Talk it out,” Lin Ze offered, getting up to buy Situ Ye a coffee. “Why fight on a holiday?”

After finishing their drinks, Lin Ze continued browsing on his iPad. An hour later, Situ Ye glanced at him and pulled out his phone to make a call.

“I’ve calmed down and thought it through,” Situ Ye began into the phone. “You’re right. I really don’t love you. Let’s not see each other again.”

Lin Ze: “…”

There was no sound from the other end—the call had likely been hung up. Situ Ye tossed his phone onto the table and let out a long sigh. Lin Ze asked, “What kind of person do you actually like?”

Situ Ye shot back, “I don’t know. What’s it to you? You’re not dating me anyway.”

Lin Ze didn’t respond, knowing Situ Ye was just venting and not to be taken seriously. He hadn’t been particularly fond of Situ Ye’s latest fling either. A few days ago, when Situ Ye drove to pick the guy up, Lin Ze saw him sitting in the car without even greeting him—a rather impolite gesture.

Still, Lin Ze had given Situ Ye plenty of face, especially regarding his love life—he hadn’t mentioned being Situ Ye’s boss to the young bottom, treating him purely as a partner. The bottom didn’t seem to like Lin Ze much either, either out of jealousy or because he saw Lin Ze as Situ Ye’s subordinate since Situ Ye was the one driving.

“Then how about we date?” Lin Ze teased.

“Forget it,” Situ Ye waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t want to drag you into gossip.”

Lin Ze’s lips twitched. After a moment, Situ Ye asked, “Found anyone suitable yet?”

“Huh?” Lin Ze looked up from his iPad. Situ Ye clarified, “Weren’t you looking for someone to keep you company?”

Lin Ze showed him the screen—it was Sina’s website. “No. I’m not really in the mood right now.”

“Let’s spend the holiday together, then,” Situ Ye suggested.

Lin Ze hummed in agreement. “What were you really fighting about?”

Situ Ye explained, “He used his New Year’s money to buy me a 400-yuan bag and wanted me to go shopping with him. After shopping, he wanted to watch a movie, but tickets tonight are too expensive—130 yuan each. I only have 500 yuan left this month, so I didn’t buy them. I thought it wasn’t necessary to watch today and suggested driving around Nanping instead. He got mad. Then I looked at a camera, and he asked why I was buying so many cameras if I couldn’t even afford movie tickets…”

Lin Ze opened his wallet and counted out some money for Situ Ye, who refused. “No need… I told him I was just browsing. I might need it for trips later…”

Lin Ze asked, “So he couldn’t win your heart either?”

Situ Ye fell silent, idly playing with his phone. Lin Ze pressed, “Did you tell him you’re leaving?”

Situ Ye nodded. “I told him I’d have to go next year—my next stop is Xi’an. He thinks I don’t love him, and I agree. If you love someone, how could you bear to leave them?”

Lin Ze didn’t comment and instead inspected the three shopping bags.

“Shirt: 389 yuan. Pants: 168 yuan. Shoes: 398 yuan.” Lin Ze checked the prices one by one. “It’s almost the end of the season—why buy winter clothes now? Couldn’t you get these from Taobao’s flagship store?”

Situ Ye sighed, “He liked them, so I bought them. What’s the point of shopping otherwise?”

Lin Ze glanced at Situ Ye’s waist bag on the table and suddenly felt a pang of sadness. Noticing that the clothes, pants, and shoes were all in this younger brother’s size, he instructed, “Return the bag. You can still get a refund. Give me the stuff—I’ll take it to Ranran.”

Situ Ye protested, “I won’t have a bag to carry.”

Lin Ze insisted, “Go return it. I’ll buy you a new one.”

Situ Ye grinned. “A’Ze, marry me.”

Lin Ze snapped, “Go now!”

Situ Ye got up to find the guy while Lin Ze’s phone rang again—it was Zhao Yuhang, his voice as loud as ever.

“A’Ze!” Zhao Yuhang’s voice boomed through the phone. “I’ll be in Chongqing soon. Do you have space at your place?”

Lin Ze was startled—why so sudden? Ke Maoguo and Zhao Yuhang couldn’t possibly stay at his place. Didn’t someone like Ke Maoguo have military connections to arrange accommodations? He quickly replied, “Lower your voice. Let Brother Ke talk.”

“Brother Ke didn’t come. His kid got sick. Originally, the kid was spending the holiday with his mom, but now Brother Ke has to go to the hospital to take care of him. Damn it, I was bored, so I came alone…”

Zhao Yuhang rambled on, giving his flight number before asking, “How do I get there? Take the light rail?”

Lin Ze told him, “Just wait for me at the airport after you land.”

Situ Ye returned, looking unburdened. Lin Ze told him about Zhao Yuhang’s arrival, and they drove to the airport to pick him up. When they arrived, Situ Ye held up the iPad with a message: “Picking up Little Zhao Zhao.”

The 1.83-meter-tall “Little Zhao Zhao” emerged, dressed simply in a sweater and trousers, carrying a travel bag. His face bore obvious bruises—clearly, he’d been beaten up.

Lin Ze and Situ Ye burst out laughing, nearly collapsing in the terminal.

Lin Ze gasped, “What happened…?”

“Officially broke up this morning,” Zhao Yuhang stated calmly.

Situ Ye nodded sympathetically. “I just broke up too.”

“Me… too,” Lin Ze sighed. “Let’s go. Drinks tonight.”

And so, three freshly single men left the airport, got into the car, and headed off to spend a bachelors’ Lantern Festival.