It was bitterly cold outside—truly, bone-chillingly cold.
The young man with soft brown hair had buried himself like a mushroom, sunlight caressing the pale strands that draped over his fair arm, lending them an almost transparent fragility, as if he might vanish at any moment.
In truth, his shoulders weren’t trembling, and no sobs escaped his lips. He didn’t look like he was crying; he merely seemed to be sitting there with his head bowed.
Yan Jing had never actually seen Yu Bai cry.
Not even at his father’s funeral.
Little Bai had claimed it was because Tian Ge had butted in, preventing him from shedding any tears.
So Yan Jing figured that this time, with no one to interrupt, Yu Bai must surely be crying.
Not from the frigid air.
He just looked so terribly sad, the same profound sorrow Yan Jing had felt all those years ago at that funeral.
That day, he and his classmates had been led by their teachers to pay respects to a citizen hero he’d never met.
Through the gray, thronging crowd, Yan Jing had spotted an unfamiliar classmate being ushered in. The boy had striking hair and eye color, dressed in a crisp little black suit with a properly buttoned white shirt collar and a simple white flower pinned to his chest.
The black and white that enveloped him were so intensely somber that even the warm light brown around him had faded into a silent chill.
Young Yan Jing, who had been musing about what his father might cook for dinner that evening, found himself staring in a daze. A wave of sadness washed over him too, tears streaming down his cheeks as he forgot all about the family meal awaiting him.
Crying, he had thought that losing a father must be an utterly devastating thing.
If it had been him, he might have been so heartbroken that he’d want to die.
Yan Jing hadn’t known the boy’s relationship with his father back then—how close they were, or anything like that.
But instinctively, he had felt that this strange little boy, who looked so utterly alone even in the midst of the crowd, must have loved his suddenly departed father with all his heart.
He hadn’t known Yu Bai at the time. He had only heard about this student who had become the center of attention at school ever since his hero father’s story hit the news and papers.
It wasn’t until a wayward paper airplane brought them together that the two inexplicably became the best of friends.
Perhaps each other’s only true friend.
Later on, Yan Jing learned that Yu Bai had never met his mother. From childhood to adulthood, only his kind father had raised him.
Teachers and classmates had whispered among themselves that the quiet, unremarkable man must have spotted his son—who had just gotten out of school—in the crowd on the verge of a horrific disaster. That’s why he had floored the accelerator into the out-of-control vehicle, heedless of his own life.
But Yu Bai, at that moment, had been held back at school by his new homeroom teacher. He hadn’t been able to leave on time, as he usually did, to meet his father after work.
The brown-haired boy had slumped over his desk, unhappily scribbling a written pledge about his unusual hair color.
Right then, as his pen tip quivered lightly against the paper in one utterly ordinary instant…
He had lost his entire world.
Without even a chance to say goodbye.
In the more than ten years that followed, Yan Jing never again saw his best friend display such raw vulnerability and grief as he had that day at the funeral—let alone shed a tear.
Not when he bombed an exam and came in second-to-last in the class.
Not when he had no idea what to pursue before filling out his college applications.
Not when he got dragged into one dramatic mishap after another.
Not even when he learned that Doctor Chen, who had been by his side for so many years, planned to retire.
Yu Bai had endured it all with calm composure, as if he didn’t care a bit. He would always brush it off lightly, steering the conversation to some trivial tangent.
In Yan Jing’s eyes, he was the boldest, bravest, and strongest person in the world.
Until this very moment.
With red-rimmed eyes, he had suddenly buried his head between his knees and blamed it all on the weather being too cold.
Yan Jing decided he wouldn’t call out such a convincingly flimsy excuse.
The brown-haired young man sat motionless by the wall, head still bowed, not making a sound. A pale, fragile stretch of neck was exposed, looking all the more forlorn in the overly quiet room.
His friend, sitting beside him, thought for a moment. Gazing out at the gray-blue winter day, he spoke very softly.
“It’s really cold out there. I kinda miss global warming.”
Yan Jing muttered to himself, “Even if the greenhouse effect was all pinned on me… I’d take it. I could handle that.”
The brown mushroom by the wall, looking like it might start molding on its own, twitched its fingertips faintly at its side.
Emboldened by the response, Yan Jing kept murmuring. “I wonder how scientists will explain this cold snap. ‘End of the world’ feels too vague—and they already said that last time. Saying it again? Way too lazy!”
“Speaking of which, this extreme shift from hot to cold reminds me of something from geography class. Some climate thing like… what was it?”
Yan Jing racked his nearly depleted store of schoolboy knowledge. “El… El-something?”
The brown mushroom stirred again, as if trying to recall along with him.
The not-so-bright musclehead pondered intensely until inspiration struck. He slapped his thigh. “Got it! Ecuador and La La Na!”
The instant the words left his mouth, the brown mushroom by the wall went rigid. It blurted out, “It’s El Niño and La Niña!”
The voice from between his knees was still muffled. He didn’t raise his head, and there was no obvious sob in it—just a lively exasperation, like he couldn’t stand this.
Yan Jing let out a relieved breath and grinned sheepishly, scratching his head. “…Haha, yeah, El Niño and La Niña.”
The balled-up mushroom couldn’t resist ribbing him. “How do you even remember it that garbled? Your geography teacher would drop dead.”
“I was second-to-last, remember?” Yan Jing said shamelessly. “He already died of anger from me a bunch of times.”
“And you’re proud of that?”
“Hell yeah. At least after graduation, I’m not sweeping streets.” Yan Jing puffed out his muscular chest and added offhandedly, “They all figured I’d end up sweeping streets—or maybe the funeral parlor.”
“…Yeah.” The mushroom paused, then amended, “Screw ’em. Let it anger them to death.”
Yan Jing chuckled, staunchly defending his blunder. “Knew you’d spoil me. Doesn’t ‘Ecuador and La La Na’ just sound cuter?”
The mushroom’s muffled voice grew even more animated as it shot back, “Cute my ass.”
The muted sunlight filtering through the glass window seemed to carry a touch of warmth at last.
After a brief silence, the brown mushroom—still hugging its knees—suddenly piped up. “I figured out where that extra pillow came from.”
“Pillow? What pillow?”
“This morning when I got up, I saw a pillow covering my phone—I’d forgotten to silence it. But my bed already had four pillows… Turns out I didn’t put that one there myself because it was noisy.”
He spoke in such disjointed fragments that Yan Jing didn’t quite follow, but it didn’t stop him from replying.
Yan Jing said earnestly, “Well, make sure you give the extra pillow back.”
The brown hair draped in the crook of his arm stirred. The mushroom buried his head a little deeper and murmured softly, “…I will.”
A moment later, he spoke again, his tone one of sudden realization. “Today I discovered something. Turns out I’m into hands.”
“Eh?” Yan Jing was floored. “A hand guy? You?”
It was only the second time he’d heard Little Bai mention a hobby, after Go.
Feeling an odd spark of shared enthusiasm, Yan Jing leaned in curiously. “What kind of hands?”
“Good-looking ones, I guess.”
” Duh, hand guys like good-looking hands! Who likes ugly ones? I mean, what specifically?”
The brown mushroom fell quiet for a bit, as if picturing something. Then he answered slowly.
“Smooth, clean pale skin. Long, well-proportioned fingers. Elegant joints—a little bony and slender… but with real strength to them.”
Yan Jing eyed his friend’s dangling fingertips. At first, he thought it was just self-admiration.
Until that final description—it didn’t match his own hands at all.
Little Bai’s hands were nice, sure, but they lacked any sense of power. He was too slender and pale overall—the sort Yan Jing could knock down with one punch.
“Sounds like some seriously good-looking hands,” he said.
Yan Jing hummed thoughtfully in agreement, though he felt a sudden itch of curiosity and eagerly thrust his hand forward. “Check out mine!”
The Brown Mushroom, backed into the corner, finally lifted his head at the sound.
His hair was a tousled mess, the faint flush at the corners of his eyes had faded, and any tears had long since been wiped away on his arm. He truly didn’t look like he’d been crying. His pale eyes gazed over in a daze.
Then he spotted the muscle-bound man beaming with anticipation, holding out his hand first to show the back, then flipping it to reveal the palm—a full, thorough display, complete with smug boasting.
“Doesn’t my hand just scream power?”
It did scream power.
His nails were short and blunt, his knuckles thicker and more prominent than most people’s, and his palm was covered in the thick calluses earned from endless hours pumping iron.
Yu Bai recoiled instinctively. “Those calluses are so rough you could scrub pots with them! Ugly as hell—seriously, tidy up and get it away from me.”
“What? This is a strength!”
Yan Jing waggled his palm happily, mimicking a scrubbing motion. “I’ve actually used them to scrub a pot before. For real—way better than a rag.”
“…”
Yu Bai forgot his earlier gloom in sheer disbelief. “Who the hell thinks to scrub a pot with their calluses?”
Yan Jing shot back righteously. “You literally just said that yourself!”
…Okay, fine. He had said it first.
Yu Bai was at a loss for words. His expression deflated, and he settled for shooting Yan Jing a silent glare.
Sensing that Yu Bai’s mood had lifted, Yan Jing felt a rush of accomplishment, like a mission completed. He pressed on. “Someday I’ll put on a callus-pot-scrubbing show for you… and Brother Xie.”
He supposed he could even reluctantly perform for Brother Xie.
Though he had no idea what was going on with Xie Wufang, he hoped the enigmatic, terrifying Non-Human hadn’t run into any trouble.
That way, Little Bai wouldn’t be sad anymore.
He wouldn’t turn into a heartbroken, moldering mushroom.
“…He has zero interest in that freak show,” Yu Bai muttered under his breath. Only then did he belatedly turn to the friend who’d stuck by his side. “Why’d you follow me out here anyway? Aren’t you cold?”
“I saw you bolt out of nowhere. Had to make sure you were okay.”
As he spoke, Yan Jing flexed his bulging biceps with casual flair. “Cold? This is nothing. I barely feel it—a piece of cake.”
Yu Bai paused at the exaggerated confidence in his tone. He didn’t offer a stiff thank-you, just quirked the corners of his mouth slightly. “Then head back out like that. No jacket.”
“…No way, no way!” Yan Jing backpedaled at lightspeed. “That’s for later. I might feel the cold then. Let me warm up in your room a bit longer.”
“Speaking of which, why’s your place so damn hot?” He frowned in confusion. “You crank the heat before summer even ended?”
It had been even toastier in the living room earlier. Now, huddled in this closed-door bedroom, it was a touch more bearable—not quite so oppressively warm.
“I had no clue the weather was turning. Why would I fire up the heater in summer?”
Yu Bai shot back, then something occurred to him. He abruptly glanced at the wall adjoining the next bedroom.
Had it been because he’d left his own bedroom door open while sleeping last night? Maybe Xie Wufang, in his “sleep,” hadn’t bothered closing his either.
With the neighboring bedroom door flung wide, it connected straight to the living room. Air could flow freely between them.
Was the weird heat coming from Xie Wufang…?
Yu Bai wasn’t sure. He hesitated, then rose quietly and cracked open the door.
Yan Jing blinked in surprise and whispered, “Little Bai, where are you—”
The figure padding lightly toward the hallway whipped around and pressed a finger to his lips in a shush. Yan Jing clamped his mouth shut and froze in place.
As soon as the door swung open, a rush of even warmer air wafted in.
In the abruptly hushed suite, Yu Bai crept forward on the lightest, slowest footsteps imaginable, slipping into the bedroom where someone lay sleeping.
The closer he drew to the man lying quietly on his side atop the bed, the more pronounced the warmth became.
He could see him more clearly now, too.
Slightly wavy black hair spilled messily across the pillow. The sharp, handsome profile looked unusually pale, a pallor absent on most days. Even the long, slender fingers resting atop the cloud-like quilt seemed stripped of their usual forceful poise—the kind they held when slamming down a chess piece—leaving them thinner, more delicate.
What on earth was Xie Wufang’s condition right now?
He’d described it as human “sleeping”…
A sleeping person could be roused without issue. Nothing catastrophic.
Did he understand that?
Yu Bai had already warned him that daytime sleep would be noisy, which was why he’d suggested closing the curtains.
And Xie Wufang had said, “Okay.”
If only he’d followed up then with, “Should I wake you for dinner?”
He stood at the bedside, the scene still as an oil painting. Yu Bai’s thoughts swirled in chaos as he stared at the man for a long moment.
Then he drew a deep breath, mustered his courage, and bent down with exquisite care.
The Brown Mushroom, too timid to speak, extended a finger that trembled ever so slightly.
He poked the man’s shoulder, gently.
