Chapter 9 – Huggy Bear

The convoy stayed in Dunhuang for four days before two cars turned back toward Xi’an, leaving Fang Xiao, Boss Zheng, and a family of three—three cars in total—to continue along the Liuge Expressway toward Xining.

The sunny weather that had accompanied them all the way suddenly turned foul on this stretch of highway. A fierce wind of five or six magnitudes swept up yellow sand, reducing visibility to barely a hundred meters. Fang Xiao turned on the parking lights and hazard lights, driving haltingly for over ten kilometers before finally spotting the exit sign for the expressway.

Originally, Boss Zheng had planned to push through this leg of the journey and take the Chade Expressway straight into Xining. But now, they had no choice but to make an impromptu stop at a small town near the exit. The sandstorm had left the roads in poor condition, and mobile signals flickered in and out. Deprived of his social media feed, Gu Yiming felt an indescribable emptiness.

Fang Xiao asked him, “Bored?”

Gu Yiming had been staring blankly at his phone and looked up, momentarily forgetting the question he’d just heard. Instead, he blurted out, “You’re too thin.”

They were in their hotel room. Fang Xiao had just showered, his hair soft and fluffy from the blow-dryer, wrapped in a white bathrobe with the collar open, revealing sharply defined collarbones. Gu Yiming’s gaze caught there, and the comment slipped out naturally. He rarely voiced such direct observations, surprising even himself as he spoke.

Fang Xiao looked at him in surprise, pausing before replying, “Yeah.”

Gu Yiming felt there was more to say, but Tang Shao suddenly walked in. Since leaving Dunhuang, they had been sharing a triple room. Tang Shao had just returned from a phone call and handed his phone to Fang Xiao. “Someone’s asking about arranging music—they called my number.” Fang Xiao acknowledged it, took the phone, and stepped out of the room.

When Fang Xiao returned, Tang Shao asked, “Why aren’t you answering your phone? They said they tried calling you several times.”

Fang Xiao pulled out his own phone and waved it at Tang Shao. “SIM card’s acting up. Must’ve gotten scratched before we left—no signal the whole way.”

Tang Shao sighed dramatically, his inner drama queen aflame. “Why didn’t you stop somewhere to fix it along the way? Fang Tiantian, oh Fang Tiantian, if you keep drifting around like some carefree hermit, you’ll never get any gigs! Listen to me—selling your art but not your body just isn’t sustainable. Ugh, what would you do without me?”

Fang Xiao played along perfectly. “Thank you, oh great one! Thank you, Madam Tang, for procuring clients for me. Clients bring me money, and money brings you joy.”

Tang Shao scoffed. “Pfft. Hey, if anyone else calls, I’m giving them Gu Yiming’s number. Don’t interrupt my gaming.”

Gu Yiming responded blankly.

Fang Xiao knew Tang Shao wouldn’t be swayed once he started gaming, so he hurriedly spoke up before he could launch into it. “Hold off on gaming for now. I just ran into Boss Zheng—he said there’s a performance downstairs later. Go grab us seats. Xiao Gu, you should go take a shower too.”

Tang Shao loved a lively scene and immediately headed out with a wave. Gu Yiming obediently went to the bathroom.

The hotel they were staying at had a multipurpose hall next to the lobby that regularly hosted so-called bonfire parties for tourists, complete with barbecue, beer, and ethnic song-and-dance performances. Originally, tickets were sold in advance, but the sandstorm had blown away most of the audience, so they decided to sell tickets at the front desk instead.

Gu Yiming and Fang Xiao entered late, just in time for the interactive segment of the show. A group of dark-skinned male performers, bare-armed and singing, stepped off the stage into the audience to encourage drinking.

The alcohol was homemade mare’s milk wine included with the tickets. Though not strong, it burned the throat. Gu Yiming sat next to Tang Shao, coaxed into taking a sip, and immediately frowned—it tasted like gasoline. He stared at the half-full enamel cup, wrestling with indecision, when a hand suddenly reached over and took the cup from him. Gu Yiming turned his head to see Fang Xiao calmly drinking the remaining half.

A man in a crimson cape approached the table in front of them, bent down to exchange a few words with the girls there, then scooped one up into a princess carry. The girl burst into a string of bright laughter, and cheers erupted around them. A couple in the corner mimicked the move, earning another round of applause. The noise and alcohol were intoxicating—the father from Boss Zheng’s family group slammed the table and stood up with bravado, only to hesitate awkwardly before lifting his daughter, who weighed less than sixty pounds, drawing roars of laughter.

Tang Shao, thoroughly drunk, clamored to be carried or to carry someone himself. Unfortunately, as a grown man, no one could lift him. Fang Xiao, annoyed by his antics, offhandedly suggested Gu Yiming could do it. Tang Shao marveled, “Isn’t shooting like chess? It’s not exactly a sport that involves running and jumping—can he really do it?” Fang Xiao replied with mock seriousness, “Air pistols are heavy. The gun alone weighs over a kilogram, held steady with one arm extended. They shoot sixty rounds in qualification matches—you can’t lack endurance or stamina.”

At this, he turned to Gu Yiming for confirmation. “What do you think, Xiao Gu?”

Gu Yiming hadn’t expected the spotlight to turn to him. He paused mid-action, fiddling with a skewer of meat, before hesitantly joining the conversation. “I think I could… Do I really have to carry someone?”

Tang Shao egged him on. “You gotta get close to the people!”

Gu Yiming murmured, “Can I carry Fang Xiao instead?”

He’d originally thought of Fang Xiao’s thin frame, figuring it’d be easier, only realizing the ambiguity after the words left his mouth.

Fang Xiao froze, then—uncharacteristically shy—lowered his head and laughed. Tang Shao pounded the table, wailing about being rejected. Gu Yiming observed for a while and concluded that carrying someone might not actually be mandatory, so he peacefully returned to his skewers. Fang Xiao wasn’t eating much, nibbling on a grilled bun like a rabbit. Gu Yiming caught the sight out of the corner of his eye and felt an inexplicable pang of regret.

He actually really wanted to carry Fang Xiao.

The next day, the weather cleared, and the convoy continued toward Xining, reaching Chaka Salt Lake without incident and staying in Chaka Town.

Gu Yiming was particularly interested in this attraction. Hu Xueyue had vacationed at Chaka Salt Lake last summer, flooding her social media with nearly a hundred photos captioned with poetic descriptions of the “Mirror of the Sky.” Such beautiful scenery, such perfect framing opportunities—Gu Yiming, an amateur photography enthusiast, couldn’t resist. He got up early to buy Fang Xiao a bright red scarf for photos.

Fang Xiao’s everyday wardrobe was strictly black, white, and gray, so the red scarf looked glaringly out of place. He turned from the mirror and asked helplessly, “Does this really suit me?”

Gu Yiming thought it suited him perfectly.

He scrutinized Fang Xiao again, then had him take off his light-colored down jacket and pulled out a thin, dark gray trench coat from his suitcase—the one Fang Xiao had worn when they first left Beijing—draping it over his shoulders before freeing the hair tucked under the scarf. The hotel had no heating, and Fang Xiao hugged the coat tighter, sighing, “I’m cold.”

Gu Yiming quickly draped the down jacket back over his shoulders, emphasizing, “Take it off for photos.”

Fang Xiao couldn’t argue, laughing as he nodded.

Mindful of Fang Xiao’s complaint about the cold, Gu Yiming scouted locations and framed shots in advance before calling him over. He didn’t make Fang Xiao freeze for long, though his own fingers grew stiff from handling the camera in the damp sub-zero weather. Fang Xiao noticed him blowing on his hands and slipped away mid-shoot to buy a hand warmer from a vendor outside the salt flats, handing it to Gu Yiming with a teasing, “At least show some respect for these national treasure hands.”

Gu Yiming clutched the warmer, looking innocent. “Coach said to drink less, not that I can’t freeze.”

Only then did he realize he hadn’t refuted the “national treasure” remark. Gu Yiming thought that now, he could take teasing as teasing—not as an attack.

Fang Xiao asked, “Just alcohol? I saw news recently saying athletes can’t even have hot pot or barbecue.”

“It’s stricter before and during competitions. Normally, it’s fine—only athletes on the testing list need to be ready for checks anytime. I’m not on it right now,” Gu Yiming explained. “Alcohol isn’t that strict either. Shooters are prohibited from drinking before competitions for doping tests, but it’s not a blanket ban—it’s just to avoid forming habits that might affect stability.”

“True, Xiao Gu’s hands don’t shake at all.”

As Fang Xiao spoke, he leaned over to flip through the photos Gu Yiming had taken, while the photographer himself stood beside him, watching. In the frames, the splash of red stood out vividly against the icy blues and grays—the composition and colors were excellent—but Gu Yiming’s attention was entirely diverted by the strands of Fang Xiao’s hair brushing against his nose in the wind.

He’d seen this unusual hair color so many times, yet only recently had he begun to feel curious about it—like a seed slowly breaking through the soil, revealing a tender green sprout.

“Your hair—the ends are gray.”

“Hm? Oh, it’s dyed,” Fang Xiao looked up with a smile. “I played a minor role in an MV once and had to dye it this super chuunibyou silver. After a few trims and fading, it looks gray now. Pretty old-fashioned, right?”

Gu Yiming shook his head. He pulled his right hand from the warmer and, at an angle Fang Xiao couldn’t see, brushed his fingertips against the gray strands—soft and cool to the touch. “It’s nice,” he commented.

Fang Xiao didn’t dwell on it. He reached up to touch his own hair, musing, “Hmm… it’s about time for a haircut. Once I trim it, the ends won’t be gray anymore. Not sure where to find a barber in this town, though.”

Gu Yiming offered, “Let me do it.”

Having lived alone since childhood, Gu Yiming was adept at cutting his own hair, though he’d never done it for anyone else. Back at the hotel, he borrowed a pair of coarse-toothed scissors from the front desk and returned to their room, seating Fang Xiao in front of the mirror with his back turned before fashioning a makeshift cape out of a towel.

Gu Yiming held the scissors, hovering over Fang Xiao’s hair, and for some reason, felt reluctant.

“Do you really have to cut it?” he asked.

Fang Xiao smiled at Gu Yiming’s reflection. “What? Scared to make the first cut?”

Gu Yiming didn’t answer.

Fang Xiao patted Gu Yiming’s hand resting on his head. “It’s fine. If it doesn’t work out, I’ll just wait till Beijing.”

“It’ll work out. Don’t move.”

He slid his right hand to the nape of Fang Xiao’s neck, his pinky resting against the exposed skin—warm, almost feverish. The scissors’ blades neared the gray strands peeking through his fingers. Gu Yiming lifted a lock with the tip of the scissors, watching the pale gray shimmer under the fluorescent light. He really didn’t want to cut them. But if Fang Xiao truly wanted it, Gu Yiming thought, it was better that he do it.

Snip.

The first gray strand didn’t flutter to the ground—it was tucked into the pocket of a young man’s athletic jacket.