Chapter 7 – Privilege

Whether shooting counts as a sport, Gu Yiming wasn’t actually sure.

As a non-confrontational form of competition, unlike the higher, faster, stronger ethos of track and field or swimming, shooting has its own paradigms and limitations. Even compared to other sports with established paradigms like gymnastics or diving, shooting is confined within rigid boundaries where all struggles are directed inward—a battle against oneself. What others see is merely an arm lifting and lowering, followed by the final numerical result. Events like skeet shooting and rapid-fire pistol offer some visual appeal due to their rules, but precision shooting events—Gu Yiming thought—could hardly be called entertaining. Even he didn’t enjoy watching them, except perhaps to study unconventional techniques under his coach’s guidance.

He turned to Fang Xiao, “Why do you like watching shooting competitions? Do you like shooting?”

Fang Xiao replied, “I don’t like shooting. Aside from military training in college, I’ve never touched a gun.”

Tang Shao had already left. Considering they had to get up early the next day, they went to bed early too. Fang Xiao rolled over in his own bed, peering through the dark curtain toward Gu Yiming in the neighboring bed, “I just like watching you shoot. I’ve attended almost all of your domestic competitions.”

“Xiao Gu,” Fang Xiao asked him, “What about you? Do you still like shooting?”

Did he like it?

Did he still like it?

Gu Yiming couldn’t answer, and Fang Xiao didn’t press further. The thick, stiff quilt pressed down on him, gradually warmed by body heat. Two steady breaths intertwined in the silent darkness. Gu Yiming thought about something—or perhaps nothing at all.

It had been a long, full day. Slowly, he drifted off to sleep.

The service area hotel offered complimentary breakfast vouchers, and Gu Yiming and Fang Xiao ran into Tang Shao holding a tray at the buffet the next morning. Today was Tang Shao’s turn to drive. The moment he saw Fang Xiao, he sidled over and insisted Fang Xiao ride shotgun to prevent him from breaking his neck while driving: “Xiao Gu doesn’t say a damn word the whole way.”

Fang Xiao, cradling a bowl of porridge, defended Gu Yiming: “Then you should talk about something Xiao Gu can actually chime in on.”

Gu Yiming, chewing on a fried dumpling, fell into deep contemplation over this remark.

What could he chime in on? He barely spoke during sports interviews. He wasn’t good at conversation, more suited to a command-and-acceptance dynamic. From early on, he knew that awkward communication only bred more misunderstandings—better to silently accept the labels others slapped on him, since they weren’t far off anyway.

Zhu Haibing said Gu Yiming was clearly a well-behaved kid, and upon reflection, Gu Yiming admitted he wasn’t the rebellious type—being seen as a good kid wasn’t so bad. Li Yeqing called him low-key, and he truly disliked showing off, so low-key he remained. Genius, eccentric, arrogant, dependable, brooding, immature… These labels made life easier: sparing him the trouble of communication while shielding his true self from judgment. Even a glass shield had value as armor.

Gu Yiming believed communication was unnecessary. The “Gu Yiming” of the past was an athlete, a teammate, a student, a companion, a tenant, a guest. He had so many roles and had always successfully played the parts expected of him—understanding wasn’t required. The current Gu Yiming, however, felt like a failed actor. He eagerly anticipated change and a new identity but couldn’t bring himself to discard his old roles. He still thought communication was unnecessary—not for himself, but for others. He was empty. He had nothing left to give. Gu Yiming longed to be understood but refused to confess.

Gu Yiming was a bit of an idealist, his judgment of people naive and exacting—a privilege of youth. Several assistant coaches and the team’s psychological counselor had tried talking to him, but Gu Yiming rarely cooperated. Those conversations were based on expectations, with ulterior motives. He couldn’t yet accept utilitarian relationships, still yearning for the dream of stability and equality. Gu Yiming excelled at silent acceptance—and just as much at refusal. Sometimes, it felt like he was observing himself from elsewhere, curious whether this shell would collapse or surrender first.

Accustomed to communal meals in the shooting team, Gu Yiming ate efficiently and quickly finished his fried dumplings. Fang Xiao, who had been sipping half a bowl of porridge symbolically, put his bowl down when he saw Gu Yiming was done. Tang Shao was still eating, so Fang Xiao took Gu Yiming to the car alone and sat in the front passenger seat.

The late-autumn morning sun was cold. The car’s interior smelled of oil, rubber, and dust—like a fabricated kind of freedom. The meeting time arrived, but a few people hadn’t checked out yet. Fang Xiao leaned on the steering wheel, watching the hotel’s glass doors for a while before bending down to pull an apple from the glove compartment and handing it to Gu Yiming. Seeing Fang Xiao didn’t take another for himself, Gu Yiming split the apple in half with his hands and gave one piece back.

Clutching his half, Gu Yiming treated it as a prepaid reward for conversation. He stared at the apple for a moment before asking, “Do I have to talk?”

“Huh?”

Gu Yiming looked up at Fang Xiao. “If I’m in the passenger seat, do I have to talk more?”

Fang Xiao blinked, then laughed. “Not necessarily. It’s just that on long drives, silence can make you zone out. Plus, Tang Shao’s just like that.” He studied Gu Yiming. “Xiao Gu doesn’t like chatting?”

Gu Yiming shook his head first, then realized it was a rhetorical question and nodded. He didn’t speak, biting into the apple with a crisp crunch.

“Then don’t,” Fang Xiao said. “It’s fine. If you don’t want to talk, let me understand you instead. Xiao Gu, as my ‘little idol,’ you get a tiny bit of privilege with me.” He held the apple between his teeth, freeing his right hand to gesture in front of Gu Yiming. His thumb and forefinger were spaced about five millimeters apart, and the cold sunlight streaming through the gap dyed his fingers a warm gold.

Gu Yiming squinted slightly, staring at the sliver of light. Generally, he disliked privilege—just as he disliked delaying the entire convoy for his sake. He felt undeserving. Yet the “privilege” Fang Xiao offered was a ray of sunlight. Something everyone ought to have.

Gu Yiming took another bite of the apple, facing the light.

It was pretty sweet.

Gu Yiming was Fang Xiao’s “little idol,” and his privilege was only valid in Fang Xiao’s presence. Being understood without communication might also be Fang Xiao’s unique skill. The rest of the time, Gu Yiming still tried his best to meet others’ expectations.

Tang Shao was the first to notice the change in Gu Yiming. Tang Shao was a chatterbox, while Gu Yiming was a sealed gourd. The chatterbox’s words originally had nowhere to spill—until Gu Yiming suddenly learned to respond from the passenger seat.

When Tang Shao said, “Let me tell you, last week’s client was such an asshole. He only offered three grand for the arrangement but insisted on live strings, blah blah blah…”

Gu Yiming replied, “Mhm. And then?”

And that’s how it went.

“Then? Oh, then—I went to the music college next door and got some students to record for him. He said fine, but no tuning—no touching up vocals or instruments, wanted it ‘authentic.’ Who the hell gave him the confidence to skip tuning? Fine, we didn’t tune it, just mixed it ‘authentically,’ and then the client listened to it and cursed us out for being unprofessional scammers, blah blah blah…”

“Mhm. What happened?”

“…What happened? I just… got really pissed? Thought the client was a total dumbass?”

“Mhm. So?”

“…” Tang Shao yelled at the rearview mirror, “Fang Tiantian, I miss you.”

Fang Xiao laughed and responded with an “Eh.” He found Gu Yiming’s awkward, almost confrontational way of speaking rather endearing, but Tang Shao clearly lacked his idol-filtered perspective. Not wanting to discourage Gu Yiming’s initiative, Fang Xiao didn’t comment further—just leaned forward from the backseat to turn on the car stereo. The Tang Dynasty band’s rendition of *The Internationale* instantly exploded through the speakers.

“Hey! My ears! I make a living with these!” Tang Shao shouted. Fang Xiao ignored him, still laughing. Tang Shao grumbled but didn’t turn the music off. Tuning out the fervent noise, Gu Yiming gazed at the desolate scenery ahead, bathed in twilight.

Dunhuang had arrived.