Chapter 34: Street Performing

Those who busked on the streets for a living were usually pretty straightforward types. The Mohawk guy saw people scanning the QR code and donating—however much they gave, they were all paying customers—so he cheerfully handed over the guitar and even thoughtfully tossed in a fresh new pick.

Yan Tuo hadn’t touched a guitar in years, but the moment his fingers hit the strings, his body remembered instinctively. He strummed a few notes to test the sound and then dove right in.

It was Flight of the Bumblebee, the ultimate show-off piece for any guitar god—a tune he could play blindfolded at age nine.

The electric notes exploded like laser cannon fire in everyone’s ears. Hooks, slides, strums—his long fingers vibrated at inhuman speeds, blurring into a frenzy. The crowd went wild instantly.

Bai Yiyi exploded too.

Really exploded.

His feathers puffed out all over, and his bowl-cut crest visibly stood on end until it turned into a full-blown afro.

Oblivious to it all, he perched on the microphone stand with his beak wide open, staring dumbstruck at the man in front of him.

God, save this child, he prayed silently over and over.

Was there anything his owner couldn’t do? That sky-shattering cool pose, those nimble dancing fingers—this… this was killing him. Killing him over and over, leaving him bloody and broken, utterly helpless not to fall in love.

The piece ended with a ferocious sweep across the strings. Yan Tuo caught his breath, feeling exhilarated yet a little unsatisfied.

His eyes landed on the afro-topped Bai dumpling, gaping in stunned awe, and oddly enough, his mood lifted even more.

Leaning in closer, his low voice came out especially warm and mellow. “Did you like it?”

Mom, he’s flirting with me, Bai Yiyi whimpered inwardly, lost in a daydream.

Before he could snap out of it and reply, the mic broadcast the question to the growing circle of listeners around them. They erupted in unison: “We loved it! One more! One more!”

The Mohawk saw the eager crowd scanning the code and felt a spark of temptation. Stepping forward, he praised, “Bro, that was insane! You a pro at this?”

Yan Tuo told the truth. “Nah, just messed around with it as a kid. Haven’t touched one in years.”

Years without practice, and he still shredded like that? The Mohawk figured this guy was just casually flexing—total Versailles—but it didn’t derail his next pitch.

“Wanna collab on a song? You play, I sing? We met for a reason, right?”

Bai Yiyi shot his owner a pleading look, his eyes practically overflowing with desperate hope.

Yan Tuo caught the signal loud and clear. The little guy’s gaze was way too obvious, especially paired with that spoiled fluffball exterior he’d created. How could he say no?

In this unfamiliar city, on these strange streets where no one knew him, Yan Tuo felt a rare urge to cut loose. He nodded. “Sure. How about a classic? Hotel California by the Eagles?”

Anyone who’d ever picked up an instrument knew that song cold—even Bai Yiyi, musically challenged as he was, could hum it from start to finish, more or less.

After a quick prep, Yan Tuo kicked off the intro, and the Mohawk let loose.

Young as he was, the guy had a smoky voice. His decent English poured out, backed by the electric guitar riff, and the vibe turned pro-level in seconds.

…

On a dark desert highway

Cool wind in my hair

Warm smell of colitas

Rising up through the air

…

Bai Yiyi didn’t dare sing along full-out, but he hummed a word or two at the end of each line. His claws tapped uncontrollably on the mic stand, adding spot-on “ding-ding” percussion like backup vocals.

The energy skyrocketed.

You’d seen great players and singers before, but who’d ever seen a bird laying down the beat?

In no time, the circle swelled into a packed crowd—listeners, cheerers, phone-toters filming it all.

In a lull between lyrics, Yan Tuo clamped the pick between his teeth and launched into a solo, fingers flying across the strings. The melody was familiar yet fresh—an on-the-spot improv packed with personal flair, raw power, and infectious energy.

Cheers, whistles, even screams exploded. The little square felt like a superstar concert, jamming up the walkways solid.

Yan Tuo had rocked crowds ten times crazier without blinking. He nailed the solo with steady, effortless charisma, flashed a grin at his little fluffball, plucked the pick from his teeth, and slid back into rhythm guitar.

In Bai Yiyi’s eyes, that pick-in-teeth smirk was a whole new side of his owner—something his everyday self couldn’t touch. A touch rogueish, utterly free and magnetic. Trendy term? One-shot soul-strike.

He was zapped again—God knew how many times that night. His heart pounded duang-duang, ready to burst through his chest. All he wanted was to kneel at this man’s feet, begging for a glance.

The song wrapped. The Mohawk was hyped, and the nonstop QR scans had already matched a week’s take. Eyes gleaming, he wanted to keep this duo-plus-bird act rolling.

Bai Yiyi snapped out of the immersion and jolted at the sea of people. Old panic rising, he fake-chirped “cheep-cheep,” flapped to Yan Tuo’s shoulder, and clung for comfort.

Yan Tuo, fluent in bird, got it right away. “Done playing?” he murmured.

A soft “mm” from his shoulder, and Yan Tuo handed back the guitar with thanks, ignoring the pleas to stay, and eased through the throng.

A few steps out, someone chased up with a business card—a scout from some culture-media company. With Yan Tuo’s looks and skills, sign for a variety show and boom: next big thing.

Yan Tuo had collected piles of these in school. Work life eight years later, and here was another. Back in his edgy teen phase, he’d have iced them out. Older now, mellowed—and tonight in a great mood—he joked it off politely: “Sorry, I busk, but I don’t sell myself.”

With that, he melted into the crowd with his dumpling, calling it a night.

Back at Palm Garden, Yan Tuo had pulled an all-nighter the other evening, driven all day today, and crashed before 10:30. Bai Yiyi paced the apartment, wide awake.

The more time with this man, the harder to let go. Dawn meant goodbye, and his chest sank into hopeless gloom, no light in sight.

But what could he do?

A 23-year-old grown man, no blood ties—how could he beg to tag along?

Identity out in the open—could he keep up the fluffy act, coquettish and dumb?

Bribe him? Leverage system senses for casework, play cop-bird a few more days?

Or straight-up confess: Damn it, I think I’m in love with you! Let’s cohab for months? Hell, a lifetime would be better?

Bai Yiyi perched on the guest room doorknob, wings twitching, mulling the options.

Cute act? No nerve.

Bribe? Dead end—not sustainable, and his owner wasn’t the cheat-code type.

Confess? Ha, he’d sooner die. Put him next to Conan—survive 800 episodes, maybe then.

Brain fried from overthinking, still no answer.

Finally, a deep sigh.

Fine. Keep him in my heart, pine from afar.

He hopped to Yan Tuo’s pillow, watched his sleeping face, counted breaths until sleep finally claimed him.

Sky just lightening, Yan Tuo’s internal clock woke him. A familiar fluffball poked his nose—on its back, snoring sweetly.

Resisting the itch to tickle that belly, Yan Tuo slipped out of bed quietly.

Maybe the fancy linens, or the little guy’s sleep-aid scent—whichever, this nap melted away all fatigue. He felt sharp and refreshed.

Glancing out the window, early risers dotted the complex: joggers, commuters, breakfast vendors firing up.

He’d planned to grab breakfast downstairs as thanks, but before he could move, the dumpling zipped out.

“Y-you’re awake? Sorry, overslept! Wait a sec, just a sec!”

Hovering midair, he cheeped urgently, then bolted back to the bedroom.

Two minutes later, bowl-cut boy—hair over eyes—strode to the entryway. “I’ll get breakfast,” he tossed out, fumbling out the door.

The breakfast spot was right at the gate, yet the trip took him half an hour round-trip.

He returned home with youtiao and tofu pudding steaming in one hand, and two bulging bags of snacks and local specialties in the other.

As Yan Tuo began savoring the tofu pudding, the handsome young man—nearly six feet tall—started chattering away at the side. “The lantern-shadow beef and bobo chicken are for Sun Lei. The peach crisps go to Little Liu—she doesn’t eat spicy. And these boxes of handmade local cigarettes are for Old Cao and Zhao Ge. I don’t smoke, so I have no idea how they taste, but this brand is pretty famous. Just let them try something new.”

He rummaged around in the fridge for a moment, then hauled out a pile of cured bacon and sausages. He wrapped them meticulously in layer after layer of plastic wrap, instructing all the while, “These are from native village pigs I bought during the New Year. I cured them myself—guaranteed tasty and hygienic. Take them home and stick them in the freezer. When you feel like eating, just boil them in plain water for twenty minutes. It’s so easy… No more surviving on instant noodles all the time.”

Yan Tuo stared at the mountain of goods piled on the table. Whirlwind even had a gift—a bone-shaped chew toy that could clean its teeth too.

This kid, half a head shorter than him and nearly nine years younger, kept explaining nonstop. He was terrified Yan Tuo would find it all annoying. To everyone else, this trip to drop him off had looked like a vacation. Souvenirs like these would help smooth things over with his colleagues and build some rapport.

Yan Tuo couldn’t pinpoint the tangle of emotions in his chest. Was this kid, almost nine years his junior, treating him like the child here? Preparing all these bags and packages, even worrying about his coworker relationships. Even Comrade Yu Lian, who always fancied herself the big sister figure, probably wasn’t this thoughtful or attentive.

His gaze drifted unbidden to those lips—a little fuller than the average guy’s, flushed bright red against his pale, porcelain skin, constantly opening and closing in endless chatter. It made Yan Tuo want to shove something in there to plug them up.

Anything to stop this sudden, inexplicable flutter of panic in his heart.