Chapter 57

College life wasn’t as carefree as imagined. As soon as finals season hit, the study rooms at Nanjing University were crammed with students. This particular study room, located near the entrance of the North Campus, was open 24 hours. Its window faced a street lined with lush, shady trees, where one could see bicycles coming and going. Many students stood in the corridors reciting their texts.

Lu Qingyuan packed his books into his bag and walked out of the study room, dialing a number on his phone.

Chen Annan was sitting on the sofa watching TV. Lu Wenyuan brought over half a watermelon that had been chilling in the fridge and used a small spoon to scoop out the heart—the sweetest core—feeding it to Chen Annan.

Fresh from the fridge, it was so cold it made his teeth ache. Chen Annan was hissing from the cold for quite a while when his phone suddenly rang. Seeing who was calling, he didn’t dare answer directly. Instead, he put on his slippers and ran a distance away before pressing the answer button.

“Can you come see me at Nanjing University?” Lu Qingyuan asked.

Chen Annan secretly glanced at Lu Wenyuan on the sofa and asked, “What’s up?”

“I want to see you sooner,” Lu Qingyuan’s voice came from the other end.

Chen Annan quickly covered his mouth, eyes darting towards Lu Wenyuan as he whispered, “Uncle’s home. Don’t say silly things.”

A hint of a laugh came through the phone. “Got it. I’ll wait for you at the school gate.”

“Hey—” Before Chen Annan could finish, the call had already hung up. Lu Qingyuan hadn’t given him any chance to refuse.

He found it strange. It had only been half a day apart; how did Little Lu seem clingier than him? Weird, so weird.

Muttering to himself, Chen Annan returned to the sofa. Before he could even open his mouth, Lu Wenyuan asked, “Are you two coming back for dinner tonight?”

Chen Annan’s eyes went wide. He thought he’d been quiet enough just now that Lu Wenyuan couldn’t possibly have heard.

Lu Wenyuan chuckled and pointed at the TV with the remote. “See, I paused the TV to make it easier for you to take the call. I wasn’t intentionally eavesdropping.”

He truly hadn’t been intentionally eavesdropping. But Chen Annan kept glancing over here while talking. Anyone would be curious what he was saying. The living room was so small, and it was dead quiet—hard not to overhear even if one tried.

Chen Annan gave an awkward “Oh,” and said, “Then I’ll head out now. If we’re not coming back for dinner, I’ll call and tell you.”

Lu Wenyuan waved him off. “Be careful on the road.”

When Chen Annan headed out, it was already approaching evening. Even at dusk in late June, the sun was still scorching, as if roasting people over a fire. He walked along the main avenue. Even the wind blowing from the lake surface came in waves of heat. Luckily, past the main avenue, there was a bus stop.

Most of the buses in the old city district had seen better days. The wheels were noisy, clattering day in and day out through the streets and alleys, rained on, sun-scorched, leaving the advertisements on their bodies faded and grimy.

Chen Annan got on the bus. The air-conditioning’s cool air hit him in the face. With a hiss of air, the bus slowly headed towards Guangzhou Road.

Lu Qingyuan was standing in front of the Rabe Memorial Hall waiting for him. He wore a white short-sleeved T-shirt today. Sunlight filtering through the tree canopy dappled his clothes. The summer evening breeze swept by, outlining his lean frame. He still hadn’t put away the law book in his hand, or perhaps he was still reading it while waiting, and so hadn’t placed it into his backpack.

As soon as Chen Annan got off the bus, he started running. Even though summer was so hot, when you wanted to see the one you liked, you still had to run.

Lu Qingyuan caught the force of his momentum, knocked back a step. His glasses lenses reflected cold, sharp light in the sun, yet a faint smile lingered on his lips.

He said, “Tonight at seven-thirty, there’s a performance at the school auditorium. A classmate gave me two tickets, said you could call your partner to come watch. I thought of you.”

Chen Annan tilted his face up and asked, “But wouldn’t people find it strange to see us there?”

Lu Qingyuan said, “He said ‘partner.’ He didn’t say the partner had to be a girl.”

Chen Annan beamed at him and hugged his arm, swaying. Lu Qingyuan took his hand. “Let’s go get milk tea first. That shop released a new flavor.”

It was truly blazing hot. Heaven had no sense of mood at all. The fiery sunlight spread across them both, as if wanting to sear a layer of skin right off.

They walked to that milk tea shop on Little Pink Bridge. The milky flavor of this shop’s tea was rich and thick, deeply favored by the students. Chen Annan loved the hazelnut and White Rabbit candy flavors most. He always liked to order and then sit on the sofa to drink it. Through that clear pane of glass, you could watch the pedestrians outside.

A “Welcome” sign hung on the glass door. An unknown jazz song was playing inside. The shop owner was a very witty person, easygoing with the students.

Lu Qingyuan bought two cups, both for Chen Annan.

It was only five-thirty now. Two more hours until the performance started. The two simply wandered aimlessly around the university campus. Their clasped hands quickly became slick with a coat of sweat, wet and sticky as they held on, but neither let go. Ahead and behind them were other couples holding hands; they blended right in.

Chen Annan had fantasized about this many times: walking hand-in-hand with his brother across a college campus like any ordinary couple, strolling down a road dappled by plane trees, sharing a shy, reluctant embrace in front of a dormitory building, listening to the other’s genuine heartbeat.

Walking down the main road, Chen Annan felt his utterly unrealistic fantasies were being realized bit by bit. He was a kid without grand pursuits, because his entire world had always revolved around this small family. This was his whole world.

Now, his world had split off one small part, belonging solely to him and Lu Qingyuan. He wanted to sow seeds in the soil of this new world and wait for next spring when warmth brought blossoms. He would use brilliant colors to adorn the path to the future, little by little.

The performance started at seven-thirty. They had to be there twenty minutes early. By this time, the sun had finally set.

The auditorium was near the teaching building. Its gray-brick walls were entirely covered in emerald ivy. Waves of students coming to watch the performance walked up the stone steps, entered, and got their tickets checked.

Lu Qingyuan, holding Chen Annan’s hand, didn’t go in. For some unknown reason, instead of following the crowd into the auditorium, the two of them lingered outside for a while, until the auditorium doors were closed.

The performance would last an hour. After it ended, they’d have to go home. Heading home too late would raise Lu Wenyuan’s suspicions. And once home, doing anything felt sneaky and uncomfortable.

Chen Annan suddenly realized the time left for just the two of them to be alone was so very little.

It seemed only right now, in this moment, were they truly free, not having to worry about so many things.

Whether Lu Qingyuan shared this thought was unclear. He kept the tickets in his pocket, crumpled and wrinkled. In the end, he didn’t bring Chen Annan inside.

The night scenery of Nanjing University wasn’t particularly beautiful. The lighting was poor, the light dim. The ancient camphor tree at the entrance of the teaching building, its old trunk gnarled and branches twisted, was especially lush and strong with a hundred years of history. Its leaves were vividly bright. It stood there silently and alone on the flower bed, as if it had been admiring its own reflection in solitude for centuries.

Lu Qingyuan and Chen Annan sat by the edge of the flower bed, their shadows swallowed by the camphor tree’s shadow. Chen Annan leaned his head on his brother’s shoulder, fiddling with their interlocked hands. He suddenly asked, “Brother, does Peking University have the best humanities programs?”

Lu Qingyuan was silent for a moment. “Why do you ask?”

“When I was little, I didn’t understand… On one hand, I selfishly wanted you to stay. On the other, I wanted you to be able to go to Beijing,” Chen Annan said softly. “Brother… do you regret not going to Beijing?”

Lu Qingyuan didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled out the tickets and looked at them. White cracks ran across the coated paper. The three characters for “The Peony Pavilion” were fragmented by those cracks.

He stared at them for a while, then said calmly, “When I was five years old, Dad once had to go to another city for half a year. I only found out later that if he’d gone through with that assignment, he could’ve gotten a promotion in rank. But when he refused, he didn’t even think twice.”

“Why?” Chen Annan asked.

“Because at that time, he and Mom had just divorced. It wasn’t that he couldn’t have taken me to another city to look after me. He believed I should stay in a familiar place, that it was better for my growth. After all, little kids have a hard time adapting to new environments. Leaving behind familiar people and a familiar place—he believed I wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

As Lu Qingyuan spoke, a hazy glimmer of light, cast from the teaching building’s lamps, shone in his eyes.

“I asked him if he regretted it. He smiled and told me: ‘People shouldn’t regret the decisions of the past. Don’t blame yourself for choices you made, and especially don’t blame your past self. We are always faced with choices. At the very least, the second you made that decision, it was the best choice for that moment.'”

“Dad takes responsibility for every choice he makes. I’m the same way.”

In Lu Qingyuan’s heart, certain things forever transcended scores and grades.

People always talked about ten years of arduous study by the cold window. From ancient times to now, thin sheets of paper could stack up to define a person’s first twenty-odd years of life. Scores could dazzle and confuse the prime seasons of youth.

But on the journey of life, there were always things more worth remembering—perhaps nothing more than a sliver of time in a single inch of land.

At eighteen, Lu Qingyuan couldn’t bear to leave home, so he stayed in Nanjing—just like his father, who had stayed in this city for his sake.

Lu Qingyuan tightened his grip on that hand. “Do you know why I chose Law?”

Chen Annan shook his head, said he didn’t know.

Lu Qingyuan smiled slightly, sitting in the tree’s shadow where moonlight fell in fragments. “In your second year of middle school, you asked me: ‘Brother, why is it the bad guys who do wrong, but the victims are the ones who feel afraid?’ I couldn’t answer at the time. It didn’t seem like Dad had ever told me about that either.”

“I also thought about it for many days. Why? Later, I followed several news reports closely. Your question lingered in my mind the entire time. From that moment on, I decided to study Law.”

Chen Annan’s eyelashes trembled almost imperceptibly.

Lu Qingyuan ruffled his hair. “Peking University’s humanities programs are indeed good. But back then, the school I wanted to go to was China University of Political Science and Law. So whether it was Peking University or not—it was never within my consideration. Why would I have any regrets?”

Chen Annan called out, softly and lowly, “Brother.”

Lu Qingyuan laughed in spite of himself. “How are you always so prone to tears? I really can’t stand seeing you cry.”

“I’m not crying. Sand got in my eye.” Chen Annan knocked his head gently, repeatedly, against his shoulder.

Tonight’s moonlight was very soft and bright. The summer night breeze was a rare comfort. The sound of the performance inside the auditorium seeped through the carved windows. Who knew what scene was playing, but the lines were impassioned, with a dramatic, operatic cadence. Sitting here, they could hear their heartbeats, deafening.

Lu Qingyuan kissed Chen Annan’s forehead first, then the bridge of his nose. Chen Annan’s nose wasn’t the classic tall, straight kind; the tip had a bit of soft flesh. But Lu Qingyuan’s nose bridge was high. They had to tilt their heads slightly so that their noses wouldn’t bump together painfully.

Lu Qingyuan removed his glasses and caught Chen Annan’s lip between his, slowly grinding. Chen Annan’s kissing skills were poor; he only knew how to nibble chaotically. Lu Qingyuan guided his rhythm, letting his tense body gradually relax.

Chen Annan felt this kiss was even longer and gentler than the night breeze.

The old camphor tree behind them spread its flourishing leaves like an umbrella held aloft, shielding all visible lines of sight. There were no streetlights here; even the dark, grubby stone wall was hard to make out.

Not far away was a staircase connected to the teaching building. It was an open-air platform where many students often recited texts or wore headphones for listening practice. But no one could make out what was happening underneath the camphor tree.

It was too dark.

The music inside the auditorium had already started, accompanied by bursts of cheering applause. A mixture of sorrow and joy—that bit of fleeting, lively clamor found within a theatrical play.

Chen Annan felt his lips were going to swell. The long hour seemed to have been fast-forwarded in this moment, passing in an instant.

People were already trickling out of the auditorium, stepping down the stone steps, chatting quietly about the performance. People were also coming out of the lecture halls inside the teaching building.

Can’t kiss anymore. With this fluttering caution in his heart, Chen Annan didn’t move.

Finally, Lu Qingyuan let him go and said, “Let’s go.”

Chen Annan’s lips were numb, yet he still asked, reluctantly, “Are we going home now?”

“No, let’s move somewhere else,” Lu Qingyuan said. “There are a bit too many people here. We can still stay out another half hour.”

Chen Annan was delighted at not going home and bounced along, being led away. They strolled down the small paths of Nanjing University. Underneath the teaching building was a Ginkgo Forest. It would be beautiful in the fall, large swathes of golden leaves flamboyantly displayed—a beauty unique to Nanjing’s autumn.

Pity it was summer now; they couldn’t see such beautiful scenery.

Their two shadows stretched infinitely long under the streetlights. Lu Qingyuan suddenly said, “I’m planning to give up the guaranteed graduate admission at Nanjing University.”

Chen Annan didn’t react immediately. “Huh?!”

“I haven’t told Dad yet, but he’s always supported my choices,” Lu Qingyuan said this lightly, as if casually discussing everyday matters. “I’m going to China University of Political Science and Law for my master’s.”

Through these recent events, Lu Qingyuan understood that what he wanted was far more than this. The Law program at Nanjing University wasn’t enough. He wanted to step into a broader world. He wanted to contribute his share to the ideal of justice, even if it was just a drop in the ocean. But a young man in his twenties—his pursuits were still vivid and bright.

Chen Annan was stunned. This meant they would be apart.

But times had changed. His thoughts were no longer as childish as they once were. Besides, modern communication was highly developed. High-speed trains and planes to Beijing made it very close now. He was willing to try a long-distance relationship. He nodded, “Alright. I’ll come visit you on my vacations, then.”

Lu Qingyuan, however, slowly came to a stop. He didn’t speak, only looked at Chen Annan.

The streetlight glowed between them, casting a hazy, shallow circle of light.

Chen Annan stared back, uncomprehending. Lu Qingyuan’s eyes, behind the reflective lenses of his glasses, were hard to read.

Lu Qingyuan just looked quietly into his eyes, as if trying to see through to the very structure of his bones. “I told you all this to ask you—”

“Are you willing to come with me to Beijing and take the exam?”