Chapter 44 – Little Passion and Little Loneliness
by Salted Fish246
In the blink of an eye, it was late autumn, and winter was fast approaching.
The symbolic membership fees collected by the club—half given to the Student Association Union and half spent on various small activities—were quickly depleted. The passionate club leaders had been determined to solve the issue of desks and chairs for Yucai Elementary School before winter arrived. However, despite trying every possible channel—appealing to the school’s Youth League Committee, seeking donations from local elementary and middle schools, and soliciting sponsorships—none of their efforts bore fruit.
By mid-November, there was still no progress on the matter.
Half of the club members applied to withdraw from the volunteer teaching program, and a few even requested to leave the club altogether. In fact, some of those who later quit had already begun wavering during their first visit to the schools. When the grubby children clung to their clothes, laughing and playing around them, these members would even shriek and dodge away.
Perhaps this wasn’t the kind of “love and care” activity they had imagined.
During a routine meeting of the Student Association Union, the club president dragged Xiang Lei along. When the Photography Association was called during roll call, Xiang Lei suddenly had an idea. He quickly gathered the club’s student leaders to discuss collaborating with the Photography Association on an art photography project. They would visit migrant worker schools to capture moments, then organize a traveling exhibition of these photos across all the elementary, middle, and sister universities they could reach. If done well, the event might even garner significant support.
Everyone was excited about the idea.
No time was wasted. The next day, Xiang Lei contacted the Photography Association, which happened to be struggling to find meaningful content for their activities. The two sides hit it off immediately.
Club members from Beijing reached out to their alma maters, while those from other provinces used connections with classmates and hometown friends to contact sister universities. Soon, over twenty schools—from elementary to university level—responded to the club’s written proposal. Rough estimates suggested the traveling exhibition would last until just before final exams.
Funding was a major issue. Just as Xiang Lei was at a loss, the club leaders unanimously declared they were willing to dig into their own pockets to support the event. The External Relations Department spent a week seeking sponsors but came up empty-handed. With no better solution in sight, Xiang Lei reluctantly accepted the leaders’ proposal to pool their own money.
The kids loved having their pictures taken, eagerly squeezing into the frame.
Once the photos were developed, the club members brought them along when printing flyers and posters or making display boards. Merchants were more than willing to offer generous discounts.
Designing the layout for the exhibition boards was a complex task. The members wanted the visuals to be as perfect as possible, tweaking captions and background colors repeatedly. This kind of work couldn’t be done in study halls. Sometimes they worked in open spaces by the lake, but when the wind picked up, they’d move to stairwell landings in the teaching buildings.
Passing students would ask what they were working on, then express surprise that they’d never heard of the club before—promptly offering to pay the membership fee and join on the spot. Within days, the club’s numbers rebounded to their original level, and even some Photography Association members signed up. A few passionate members managed to inspire their entire dorm rooms to join collectively.
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The school held several campus recruitment fairs, but Xiang Lei hadn’t even prepared a resume.
One day, he ran into the class rep on campus, who asked why he had given up on the graduate school recommendation exam. Xiang Lei had no idea he was even eligible. When he asked when the exam is, the class rep said, “The day after tomorrow.” There was no way he could prepare in time.
He Fei asked Xiang Lei, “What the hell are you planning? Grad school or work? Surely you’re not planning to keep doing volunteer teaching forever? The club already has people managing it—do you really need to keep micromanaging?”
Xiang Lei sighed. “After this period is over. Right now, this is too important for the club!”
Xiang Lei had never officially served as club president, but even the actual president and the younger members—freshmen, sophomores, and juniors—all called him “Boss.” Every time a problem arose, all eyes would turn to him for the final decision. Though Xiang Lei wasn’t used to this, he had no choice but to shoulder the responsibility for a long time.
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He Fei was against Xiang Lei’s involvement in the photography exhibition, but how could He Fei not understand Xiang Lei’s nature? The club was like his own child now—he simply couldn’t bring himself to let go cleanly.
Shi Zhuo once said that Xiang Lei wasn’t particularly decisive, but that didn’t seem entirely true. He Fei often imagined scenarios where Xiang Lei hesitated, but those only happened when choosing dishes at a small restaurant or planning holiday trips. When it came to major or minor decisions, Xiang Lei rarely considered He Fei’s opinion, and He Fei’s advice was nothing more than a passing breeze to him.
He Fei could see that Xiang Lei was exhausted—a level of fatigue he had never witnessed in their three-plus years together. Yet He Fei also knew that within that weary body was a spirit overflowing with energy.
He Fei had probably fallen for this side of Xiang Lei from the start—his pure kindness, his endearing earnestness. But now, He Fei found himself starting to resent it. When Xiang Lei became so selfless, where was the space left in his heart for someone special? There wasn’t any!
Shi Zhuo had also said that Xiang Lei couldn’t find spiritual resonance with He Fei—and that no kind of resonance could be forced. Now, it seemed Xiang Lei needed He Fei’s resonance less and less, but this didn’t bring He Fei any relief. Whenever He Fei accidentally glimpsed Xiang Lei’s volunteer teaching notes or the prizes he prepared for the kids, he felt uneasy, quickly averting his gaze. It was as if something was always close yet frustratingly out of reach—half within grasp, half a world away.
He Fei was certain this wasn’t just a petty reaction to being neglected by Xiang Lei.
In fact, He Fei knew Xiang Lei hadn’t neglected him. Whenever He Fei complained about running out of clean underwear or food, Xiang Lei would look guilty and hurry off to do laundry or cook, only ever saying he was tired, never blaming He Fei.
At times like these, He Fei genuinely wanted to say: Serves you right!
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To maximize the event’s impact, the club hoped Peking University and Tsinghua University would participate. However, they couldn’t find suitable organizations to receive their proposal. As a last resort, Xiang Lei reached out to Tao Zhuwen. Coincidentally, Tao Zhuwen’s closest senior happened to be a former leader of Peking University’s Love & Care Society. Through her connections, Tao Zhuwen quickly facilitated inter-school cooperation.
Tao Zhuwen called while Xiang Lei was showering.
He Fei saw the caller ID on Xiang Lei’s phone but didn’t pay it much mind and didn’t plan to answer. However, when the same person called a second time, He Fei suddenly remembered the name “Tao Zhuwen” and picked up without thinking.
“Who are you looking for?” He Fei asked bluntly.
“Isn’t this Leizi’s number? I’m looking for Leizi,” Tao Zhuwen replied timidly.
He Fei instantly flared up. The overly affectionate nickname “Leizi” was something even He Fei rarely used unless he was in the mood. This Peking University elite really had a way of making things cringeworthy!
“What do you want?” He Fei demanded.
“Who is this? Can you let Leizi answer?” Tao Zhuwen, realizing he hadn’t dialed wrong, grew more composed.
“He’s busy! Just tell me what you want!” He Fei raised his voice.
“You’re his friend, right? Don’t misunderstand—I’m just calling about the exhibition. Our school has agreed to it; we just need to confirm the date in advance. Should I call back later?” Tao Zhuwen said.
“Don’t bother! I’ll pass on the message!” He Fei hung up without waiting for a reply.
When Xiang Lei finished showering, He Fei relayed Tao Zhuwen’s message with a blank expression. Xiang Lei immediately reached for his phone to call back, but He Fei snapped, “I already fucking told you everything word for word! What’s the point of calling back?”
Xiang Lei froze, startled, and didn’t dial.
“I thought after your phone got thrown in the river last time, you lost contact with a lot of people. Turns out you two are still in touch!” He Fei glared at Xiang Lei, raising his voice.
“We only talk when there’s something to discuss,” Xiang Lei muttered in defense.
“Bullshit! Calling you ‘Leizi’ so sweetly—you two must be real close!”
Xiang Lei stopped arguing and climbed into bed.
After a long silence, Xiang Lei suddenly chuckled. He Fei, sitting at the computer desk, turned to give him a puzzled look before immediately twisting back in disgust.
“Are you seriously still sulking?” Xiang Lei said. “But it’s rare to see you jealous—kind of funny, actually.”
He Fei ignored him and focused on his online game. Finding no reaction, Xiang Lei turned over and went to sleep first.
He Fei himself felt that his anger was baseless, even unreasonable, but he couldn’t shake the frustration. What made it worse was that Xiang Lei didn’t argue or fight back—instead, he laughed appeasingly, which He Fei found absolutely repulsive. He Fei wished they could have exchanged a few heated words, yelled at each other, or even come to blows—anything would have been better than this!
He Fei realized half his anger was directed at Tao Zhuwen’s call, and the other half at himself.
It seemed He Fei only knew how to cherish Xiang Lei when he was hurt, only knew how to step forward and claim him entirely when he was lonely and helpless. But once Xiang Lei received enough kindness and respect, once he became fulfilled—standing tall like a passionate, righteous man—He Fei suddenly didn’t know how to remain needed by him.
This uncontrollable sentiment made He Fei despise himself.
Whenever Xiang Lei cooperated too willingly, He Fei couldn’t resist saying things to provoke him. For instance, during sex, He Fei would press close to Xiang Lei’s ear and ask, “What do you think your club juniors, those kids, Teacher Zhang, and their parents would say if they knew you’re living with a man—lying under him every night, even changing positions to accommodate him? Do you think they’d still trust, respect, and like you the way they do now?”
He Fei would pause after whispering this, turning to face Xiang Lei directly, staring into his eyes for an answer. But Xiang Lei never uttered a word.
What He Fei didn’t say aloud was: Do you not remember what happened freshman year? At first, everyone wanted to be your friend. But the moment they found out you were gay, they all kept their distance. Now the class secretary is recruiting the last batch of activists, and the inactive ones make up barely a quarter of the class. Haven’t you noticed Zheng Dongming preparing? He’s always visiting nursing homes, orphanages, juvenile detention centers, or martyrs’ cemeteries. The organization doesn’t see you—and it’s not just because of that disciplinary record.
Xiang Lei avoided He Fei’s piercing gaze, turning his face away. He Fei reached out to turn it back, but Xiang Lei twisted away again. He Fei persisted, grabbing his chin to force eye contact while pleading incessantly: “Come on, tell me! Say it!”
Only when Xiang Lei finally snapped, muttering, “You’re such a fucking idiot!” did He Fei see the shame and anger on his face—and instead of getting mad, he laughed.
Xiang Lei wanted to stop, feeling this had become meaningless, but He Fei found a twisted pleasure in abusing his physical dominance.
This was the dynamic when Xiang Lei initially cooperated with He Fei.
But if Xiang Lei had refused from the start, He Fei would have felt that life had lost all meaning. The person sharing his bed—was he a brother or a lover? Brotherhood could last a lifetime easily, but once their relationship surpassed that, if they ever drifted apart, they might never find their way back.
He Fei still couldn’t bring himself to call this a real relationship. Every romantic involvement he’d had before ended badly, and without exception, he was the one who discarded them when he grew tired.
He Fei preferred to believe that their bond had simply escalated naturally—from brothers to something more.
But the truth was, facing this small man with the same anatomy as himself, the physical allure radiating from his body had grown increasingly potent, stirring desires in He Fei that were becoming harder to ignore. Homosexuality was no longer just a habit for He Fei.
What frustrated him was this: back when his spirit had been in turmoil over it, his body had remained indifferent. Now that his body was captivated, his spirit had lost its way.
It wasn’t that he wanted to leave Xiang Lei—he just didn’t know why he felt so uninspired.
He Fei almost wished he could fall seriously ill now, or that Xiang Lei would get beaten to a pulp.
He Fei longed for them to share some kind of disaster or misfortune, rather than this: Xiang Lei thriving in his own little universe, consumed by his passions, while He Fei drowned in loneliness right under his nose.
Orange Sunshine sent another persistent private message: “Handsome, you’ve disappointed me. You’re not as carefree and charming as you seemed. I even thought you’d be more open-minded. Now I can’t help but ask—what are you afraid of?”
He Fei glanced at the sleeping Xiang Lei, then opened the reply box. He copied his QQ number from the login screen, typed two words—”Add me”—and sent it without a second thought.
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By late November, the club’s grand inter-school photography exhibition finally kicked off.
The response was overwhelmingly positive. Some partner schools even invited media coverage. When Xiang Lei spotted the cameras, he tried to flee, but sharp-eyed club members dragged him back. Flustered and stammering, he stumbled through an interview until the reporter took pity and scripted lines for him to memorize—a process that took over ten minutes.
To cut costs on transporting exhibition boards, the club mapped out the most efficient route. When the distance between two schools was under two kilometers, male members took shifts carrying the boards—hoisting them, shouldering them, cradling them, even piggybacking them—turning the journey into a bizarre performance art piece. Naturally, Xiang Lei was there every time.
The December wind cut like knives. Along the way, female members led singing games while the boys, quickly bored, huddled in small groups to exchange dirty jokes collected from late-night dorm talks.
The exhibition raised a wealth of donations—stationery, books, clothes—and finally secured desks and chairs for Yucai Elementary. By the time it concluded at their own university, even more students had joined the club.
Around New Year’s, every member who volunteered at Yucai received a drawing from Tongtong. Each depicted a tall boy or girl holding hands with a small girl, captioned: Happy New Year, dear teacher!
The recipients remarked that if Tongtong had attended a local school, her artwork might have been displayed on the publicity screen for half the semester.
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Orange Sunshine messaged again: “Handsome, it’s been a week since I added your QQ, and I’ve never seen you online!”
He Fei logged into his long-dormant QQ account and was immediately bombarded with a dozen “Are you there?” messages.
He typed back: “Here.”
Without hesitation, the other party initiated a video call. He Fei, lacking a webcam, had nothing to hide—and curiosity about the stranger’s appearance made him accept instantly.
The face on the screen made He Fei inwardly sigh: This guy is gorgeous! The admiration was tinged with envy—why couldn’t he look like that?
When the other realized He Fei had no camera, he ended the video.
“You’re really good-looking!” He Fei said.
“Thanks. I’d like to see you too.”
Then came the standard interrogation—age, height, weight—a script He Fei had known since freshman year.
“Are you a top or bottom?”
He Fei hesitated. “Probably a top.”
“That sounded reluctant.”
Annoyed, He Fei fired back: “Fuck off! Laozi is a pure top! Happy now?”
The reply was laughter.
Back when Xiang Lei had first explained these labels, He Fei had sworn that even if he were gay, he’d never be the passive one. Yet over time, he discovered an unexpected perk of homosexuality—one outsiders might scorn: the freedom to drop the macho act.
With women, could you afford to be tired or vulnerable? No. You had to endure, to perform, to embody unshakable strength. But with another man, you could rest your head on his shoulder, collapse against his chest, and neither of you would think less of the other.
The first time Xiang Lei shifted He Fei’s head from his cheek to his chest, patting his back while murmuring “Good boy,” He Fei had jerked away in mock outrage: “Have you lost your mind?” Xiang Lei had only giggled.
But by the second time, He Fei couldn’t be bothered to resist. And then came the third, the fourth, and beyond.
He’d even let Xiang Lei take the lead once, just to see how it felt.
That’s why he’d hesitated earlier, saying probably. What did these labels really signify? Mental dominance? Physical roles?
“And you?” He Fei asked.
“I’m a bottom,” came the breezy reply.
He introduced himself as Dongzi—a freshman, likely slight in build. He Fei stood, gauging the height difference—this kid would barely reach his chest.
Whenever Xiang Lei’s footsteps sounded on the stairs, He Fei would hastily close QQ and pull up a random webpage before the door opened. Seeing Xiang Lei, He Fei felt both guilty and perversely justified.
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At the exhibition’s close, Teacher Zhang told Xiang Lei that education officials had visited, urging her to advise those university students to keep a lower profile.
Teacher Zhang had bristled: “If they hadn’t spoken up, my students would still be sitting on freezing concrete floors all winter.” The official, speechless, forced a laugh and sped off in his car.
Without warning, Teacher Zhang and two parents delivered an honorary banner to the university’s Youth League Committee. When summoned to receive it, Xiang Lei flatly refused.
Later, the club president reported that the banner now hung in the League office. His request to display it at the club was denied with a dismissive “Where would you even put it?”
At the semester-end meeting, the club won a Most Valuable Award—but their petition to waive administrative fees was rejected again.
The president fumed: “What do they even do for us? Just collect reports and throw banquets!”
Xiang Lei smiled wryly. “Remember, we’re not here to please them. It’s all on you now—I’ll only visit Yucai occasionally.”
The president panicked. “Boss, I’ll still need you sometimes!”
“Don’t bug me too much,” Xiang Lei laughed, clapping his shoulder. “But occasional advice? Sure.”
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On his next visit to Yucai, Xiang Lei saw Teacher Zhang speaking earnestly to a fourth-grader who’d transferred to a local school. The boy kept wiping his eyes with his sleeves, nodding miserably before trudging away.
“What happened?” Xiang Lei asked.
“He wants to transfer back,” Teacher Zhang sighed. “Can’t explain why. Maybe he misses the excitement here.”
Watching the boy’s lonely retreat, Xiang Lei was overcome with sorrow. He should’ve been glad the child had escaped to a proper school—yet all he felt was this inexplicable ache.
No matter how much the club achieved, no matter how many people cared, their efforts seemed futile in the end. The thought left Xiang Lei utterly deflated.
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Xiang Lei accidentally stumbled upon traces of He Fei’s online activity. When he logged back into that long-unvisited forum, it didn’t take much scrolling to guess which posts were He Fei’s.
One day, a webcam appeared on the computer desk. When Xiang Lei asked where it came from, He Fei said he’d gone to Zhongguancun that afternoon to borrow it from his cousin. Xiang Lei didn’t press further—almost as if he didn’t dare. Questions like Why did you get a webcam? or Since when do you hang out on gay forums? felt like landmines. They might’ve been harmless, but once spoken, they could explode into something irreparable.
He Fei had once accused Xiang Lei of not trusting him, but the truth was, Xiang Lei had staked all his trust on He Fei alone. Sometimes, Xiang Lei thought, If even He Fei isn’t trustworthy, then if he leaves me one day, I’ll never have enough confidence to find someone else I can believe in so completely.
Xiang Lei secretly read every post and reply He Fei had made on that forum. In the end, he convinced himself that He Fei’s presence there was no different from his all-night gaming marathons—just a way to kill loneliness.
It had never occurred to Xiang Lei before that he might be the reason He Fei felt so lonely.
Luckily, the club’s affairs were finally settled. He’d given it his all, and now it was time to focus on himself. Missing the grad school recommendation exam didn’t bother him—he’d never planned to go to grad school anyway. Studying had always bored him. If not for the expectations weighing on him, he might not have even gone to college.
With only half a year left, job hunting and thesis work would keep him busy enough.
Thinking about jobs made Xiang Lei consider his and He Fei’s future. Could it really be like He Fei once described—just like this, forever? With anyone else, Xiang Lei would’ve been willing to try such a vow. Even if it ended quietly one day, the pain wouldn’t be life-shattering.
Life-shattering pain. Even the thought of it made Xiang Lei taste something bitter on his tongue, as if the mere idea were tangible.
If there had never been any vow, he could’ve stuck to his original plan—give himself ten years of youth to love recklessly, passionately, madly! Then, for the rest of his life, he’d live for his parents and family, willingly trapping himself in marriage with some tolerable woman, fathering children, pretending his heart was numb to love, and rotting in mediocrity.
But ever since the day He Fei shed diamond-like tears for him, Xiang Lei had prepared himself for the inevitable: watching He Fei leave as impulsively as he’d arrived, eventually belonging to some girl who’d captivate him for life.
Without those desire-fueled dreams, there’d be nothing to shatter.
Yet He Fei had always been simpler, more naive than him. He didn’t overthink things. When he painted that distant future, he meant it with all his heart. But the He Fei of some other day, some other year, wouldn’t be bound by it. He wouldn’t hold himself accountable, and Xiang Lei wouldn’t demand it of him. No one else had the right to judge, either.
For Xiang Lei, though, dreams were dangerous. Having none was fine—but once they existed, their breaking could be fatal.
Yet what could he do? Useless speculation only bred more worry.
Job hunting loomed ahead, and Xiang Lei had already made up his mind: No matter how rare the opportunity, if it means leaving He Fei, I’ll turn it down.
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Dongzi kept pestering He Fei to get a webcam too—otherwise, it wasn’t fair. So He Fei borrowed one from his cousin. He’d felt a little guilty, expecting to fumble through excuses when Xiang Lei asked about it. But to his surprise, after a few blunt answers, no further explanation was needed.
Relief washed over He Fei—followed immediately by a hollow ache.
What’s wrong with me? He Fei thought irritably. Since when do I let some ghost possess me like this—twisting my mind, my spirit, my emotions until I don’t even know what the hell I want anymore?
After seeing He Fei on video, Dongzi bluntly said he was disappointed. He Fei had the punk attitude he’d imagined, but not the dreamy looks he’d fantasized about.
Stung, He Fei grumbled, “Forget it, then! It’s not like I was planning anything anyway. Besides, Laozi doesn’t rely on his face to get by!”
Dongzi burst out laughing, calling He Fei hilarious, and badgered him for his phone number. He Fei refused at first, but the kid’s relentless wheedling wore him down. Without even saying goodbye, He Fei logged off.
For days, He Fei avoided QQ. Dongzi sent forum messages apologizing, lacing every sentence with gege (big brother) until He Fei’s resolve melted. When he finally logged back in, the kid’s sugar-coated assault continued until He Fei, against his better judgment, caved and gave out his number.
So what? What’s the worst that could happen? He Fei turned the question over and over in his mind.
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