Chapter 10: Plucking Feathers · 10

Min Fan didn’t budge. “When you’re giving someone a piggyback, you hold them here?”

Qin Baiyan answered honestly. “I’ve never been carried before.”

“Let your body go limp and wrap your arms around my neck. Got it?”

The second he hoisted him onto his back, Qin Baiyan started to regret it.

This was no good. It felt way too intimate.

Somehow stranger than two grown men locked in an embrace, making out.

Qin Baiyan surrendered his full weight to him—and in exchange, every bit of his body heat, every ounce of support and reliance, came from that single point of contact: Min Fan.

Min Fan had spent years working out, so he didn’t falter on a physical level. Only the tips of his ears turned pink.

The man leaned in close to his ear and murmured, “Can you handle it?”

His voice trailed off in a puff of warm breath that scorched Min Fan’s neck with itchiness amid the lingering chill of early spring.

The young man carried him along the marked path before lightly tossing him toward the trash bin.

Qin Baiyan landed nimbly on his feet, without so much as tumbling inside.

“Thanks for the trouble,” he said. “Next time, I’ll give you a ride. Call it even?”

Xiao Buchuan sipped bird’s nest soup from a cup nearby. “You guys are being awfully polite about this.”

Min Fan stared at Qin Baiyan for a long moment.

He had no headspace right now for anything else. He just couldn’t afford to break character during the take.

The artificial rain was dialed in perfectly—neither too sparse nor too heavy. Every department on set stood ready for a one-take wonder.

Before slipping into character, Min Fan glanced once more at the track dolly rigged for the fixed camera position.

The moment the rain started, his mindset sharpened. Even his sense of smell grew keener.

The rusty tang of the long rail track carried the metallic edge of blood.

“Ready! Three, two, one!”

The shot opened with a low-angle view, like ants gazing up at a van speeding into the rain-slicked night, backlit against the glare.

Up ahead, a pack of drunks caused a scene, yanking at a street cleaner’s cart and blocking the road completely.

The thugs hopped out, weapons concealed in their hands, and barked orders to clear the way.

“Don’t block the road! Get lost!”

“You don’t even know—”

“Shut your trap! Move it!”

The camera panned a hundred and fifty degrees along the van’s side. From the dark alley, three figures crouched low and fast—two prepping syringes and first-aid gear, the third jimmying a lock.

The trunk’s creak was drowned out by blaring horns in the distance. The intersection was gridlocked.

The unconscious Lu Fang was hauled out like a sack of trash. The young man bent into a half-kneel, gritting his teeth as he shouldered the full weight.

“You got this, bro?” the boy asked anxiously. “Want me to take over?”

“Quit yapping. Keep moving!”

The other two swiftly dragged the sack onto the van and erased any traces before peeling out.

The young man, with the man on his back, retreated step by step into the shadows of the alley. His fingers clamped tight around the man’s wrist.

His fingertips burned hot against the man’s inner wrist, chilled to the bone.

A pulse—faint but steady. He was still alive. They could save him.

The moment Min Fan felt that delicate texture at the wrist, his heart skipped. In an instant, he sank back into the role of the disheveled, sickly programmer shrouded in gloom.

The voice in his earpiece crackled from Group Two: “Hurry it up! We’re pulling out!”

The boy flipped open the trash bin, revealing a mess of cigarette butts, chip bags, and soggy instant noodles.

The young man folded the man over and tossed him in. The three vanished into the night like scurrying insects.

The thugs came stomping over, cursing under their breath, flashlights sweeping the alley twice over.

Nothing but rain pattering down. No sign of anything amiss.

The van sped away, toward Lu Fang’s final resting place.

“Cut!” The director called out, grinning with satisfaction. “Two more takes—one bursting with emotion, one reined way in!”

Assistants rushed over with ginger tea and towels. The van rolled back to its starting mark.

The assistant director coached the extras, stealing occasional glances at the two leads from the mainland. When their eyes met, they exchanged reluctant nods.

…Yeah, they nailed the vibe.

No surprise from Qin Baiyan, but that young guy held his own too.

Qin Baiyan reeked of rotting garbage. Once they’d wiped him down, they reapplied fake blood and sharpened the contours of his wounds.

“Why didn’t you grab my hand back there?” the man asked point-blank. “Hovering like that, how could you check the pulse?”

Min Fan held a paper cup in his left hand. He flipped his right palm outward toward him.

“How hard do I need to press?”

Qin Baiyan’s breath hitched.

The young man was teasing him, staying in character.

But in that fleeting moment as he raised his hand—palm down, a glint of white light flashing—it was as elegant as drawing a sword with flair.

The man’s fingertips, roughened by calluses, pressed down on the radial artery.

“Right here.”

Their gazes locked. They both felt it—the strong, unmistakable throb.

One heartbeat rising and falling, insistent enough to nearly push back against the other’s fingers.

Min Fan didn’t pull away. He offered the paper cup.

“Ginger tea?”

Qin Baiyan stared at him in silence before letting go and downing the half cup of steaming liquid.

The ginger tea burned fierce and spicy, swelling in his chest like fire.

They shot the scene four times over, and the director couldn’t get enough.

That’s how great work gets made—picking the best from a stack of excellent takes, not scraping the bottom of the barrel.

After wrapping up the shoot, Director Xiao treated the cast and crew to a late-night snack, ordering over a dozen dishes from a tea restaurant.

Qin Baiyan had a phone conference to attend and slipped away right after filming.

Ayi devoured his food with eyes gleaming, then turned to Min Fan.

“Which one are you having? These chicken feet are so tender and chewy, and that rice noodle roll is amazing!”

“Maybe later.”

“It’ll be cold by then!” Ayi scooted closer, then suddenly remembered something. “Wait a sec, Brother Fan, did you even have dinner?”

Min Fan brushed it off.

“I don’t think so.”

“Hang on, I didn’t see you eat lunch either.” Ayi grabbed a napkin to wipe his mouth, his expression turning serious. “You’re not dieting, are you? Your body fat percentage is already plenty low.”

“No,” Min Fan said. “I’m just not hungry.”

“You’ve got to take care of yourself. If your stomach acts up at all, Doctor Wang’s right here on set. You can call me too, no problem.”

“Mm.”

It was probably the weather.

At the tail end of winter shifting into spring, the days had been swinging wildly between cold snaps and unseasonable warmth, capped off by another chill wave a couple days back.

Min Fan could spend an entire day curled up with a pillow, not wanting to touch any kind of fun.

On the way back to the hotel, he made his usual detour to the side bedroom.

The night-light was on, and Qin Baiyan was reading, wrapped in a blanket.

Min Fan leaned against the doorframe but didn’t go in.

These days, they were like roommates whose rapport had cooled to something lukewarm—neither close nor hostile.

No explicit rules had been laid down, but they both knew to keep their habits in check, avoiding any intrusion into each other’s space.

Filming didn’t start again until three in the afternoon tomorrow. He could crash for a solid twelve hours. The thought alone was bliss.

The young man yawned, ready to surrender to the siren call of the goose-down bed.

Qin Baiyan spoke up in his usual even tone. “Last time I was giving you that lecture, I forgot to bring this one. You need to read it.”

He pulled out another book. Performance Biology—nearly the size of an A4 sheet and thick as a brick.

Min Fan scowled at it for a moment before reaching out to take it. “I’ll get through it as quick as I can.”

Before their hands met the book, they both noticed something drifting down.

A single feather floated into view before them, like a frost-kissed leaf speckled with ink.

Min Fan caught the book and scooped up the feather.

“Where’d this come from?”

“I didn’t see it clearly,” Qin Baiyan said, studying it. “Seemed like it came from right beside me.”

The young man had a hunch.

Without a word, he stepped closer and plucked a strand of Qin Baiyan’s hair.

Nothing happened.

Qin Baiyan: “…”

Min Fan swiftly yanked another.

The black strand dissolved into a long cream-colored feather, marked with the distinctive brown speckles of a haidongqing.

“Yours now,” Qin Baiyan said mildly. “No need to thank me.”

He pulled the blanket back around his shoulders and returned to his book under the tall standing lamp, long since accustomed to these inexplicable occurrences.

Min Fan twirled the two long feathers between his fingers for a moment, then slipped them into the pages of Performance Biology.

Qin Baiyan, if you were even halfway bald, I could make myself a whole extra pillow.

Might not be any worse than swan down. Sleeping on a firm one was supposed to be good for you, anyway.

Winter nights stretched on forever, dawn arriving fashionably late.

After finishing breakfast, Qin Baiyan noticed Min Fan was still dead to the world.

He kept his distance, respecting the young man’s privacy, though he stayed alert to his surroundings.

For the past few days, he’d caught faint whiffs of snakeberry in the suite.

The closer he got to the master bedroom, the sharper that elusive, crisp scent became.

Those gem-red little berries offered only the faintest hint of sweetness on the tongue, and up close they carried a herbal bitterness like medicinal grass.

You could smell it, yet it was as if it had never been there at all.

A phantom scent, like some idle prank.

But just when you stopped paying attention, it would hook your thoughts again with a sudden waft of sweetness.

Qin Baiyan mulled it over for a bit, then ordered an English breakfast from room service.

From the moment the cart rolled in to when the door clicked shut, Min Fan barely cracked an eyelid, gesturing vaguely for them to leave it on the bedside table.

By one thirty in the afternoon, the food sat untouched.

The young man did value his career, though.

No appetite was one thing—for the sake of keeping his blood sugar stable, he forced down a couple bites. Food was food.

Crashing from low blood sugar mid-scene would only hold everyone else up.

He gnawed on the dry-as-dust bread and made it to the makeup room right on time.

Qin Baiyan’s character had switched identities in the script, his costume style entirely refreshed—more retro now, less aloof.

The sharp suits gave off that elite chill, but this khaki jacket suited him better.

The makeup artist was redoing his hair, pausing mid-comb. “Huh. Where’d this feather come from?”

“Hotel pillows suck—always shedding,” Min Fan said from his perch nearby, still chewing bread. Inwardly, he cursed the white toast for tasting like a hunk of stale rye.

Qin Baiyan plucked the feather from the air and handed it over with practiced ease.

“For you.”

Min Fan shot him a look, as if to complain.

Qin Baiyan tilted his head slightly, and the young man followed his gaze to see a steaming boiled egg.

He slipped the feather into his left pocket and the boiled egg into his right.

Deal sealed.

As soon as the makeup artist stepped out to take a call, Qin Baiyan closed the door and said calmly, “Give me your hand.”

Min Fan extended his hand without a moment’s hesitation.

The man showed no sign of wanting to run lines. His right hand clamped firmly around the young man’s wrist, while his left reached for the side of his neck.

“You’re freezing all over,” he said, his gaze intense. “It’s brutal out there—how are you wearing so little?”

Min Fan couldn’t help thinking this was the lamest pickup line imaginable.

He realized the other man was staring right at him and only met his eyes after a beat.

Up close, Qin Baiyan had that classic Hong Kong cinema look—strikingly handsome and brooding, the kind of face that would turn heads in any era.

They held each other’s gaze for a few seconds, and Min Fan felt an urge to break away.

It was only then that Min Fan noticed his own chilled body temperature warming bit by bit, as if drawn inexorably toward the other man.

His breathing remained even, his heartbeat steady—outwardly calm as still water.

Yet Min Fan felt his cheeks burning.

He thought to himself, I’m such a pure, bashful soul.

“You’re likely in the awakening phase,” Qin Baiyan said. “Your eating habits are shifting, your sleep cycle’s turning nocturnal, and rainy days leave you feeling markedly better.”

More tellingly, at this close range, he could clearly detect the sweet, intoxicating scent of snakeberry.

Innocent yet brazen, it drifted outward all unknowing.

Min Fan replied, “Oh. Well, I don’t shed anyway.”

“You know,” Qin Baiyan said, “snakes are cold-blooded creatures.”

“Pressed against my warmth, you’ll start to change right along with me.”

Min Fan straightened his collar, shifted to a seat well away from Qin Baiyan, and resumed gnawing on his dry bread.

He was done entertaining the man.

Fine then, he thought. Guess I’m not so pure and innocent after all.