A Gong-Perspective Collection of Short Stories - Chapter 3

A guitarist who can earn the approval of Du Qiao—the owner and half-manager—would never be a bad guitarist.

Moreover, You Xingge himself was famously handsome and talented; he played the guitar exceptionally well.

Thus, exactly as written in the book, he successfully integrated into the band.

Charles was even happier than he was. The boisterous drummer had a very distinct personality; he insisted on a lunch meeting, laughing so hard his teeth showed as they clinked glasses.

Li Gu was repeatedly warning them to drink less, only to see the lead singer silently finish off a whole bottle.

He met Cheng Jiye’s gaze: “…”

Cheng Jiye: “…I’m drinking very little.”

The bassist, who had upturned eyes, closed them in exasperation.

Sitting in the corner was the keyboardist, Chen Qing, whom You Xingge hadn’t met the day before. He was also drinking silently. He had black, shoulder-length hair, a widow’s peak, and a pale complexion. He started slightly when he met You Xingge’s attentive gaze, then offered a half-smile.

You Xingge returned the smile, a brilliant one.

“A ONE with a guitarist is a complete ONE,” Charles toasted. He was the type who got drunk easily; his face was already flushing. “Cheers!”

“Cheers.”

Five glasses clinked together, splashing golden liquid.

The band accepted You Xingge in an easy, effortless manner. Reality was unfolding exactly according to the book’s trajectory.

“To music,” Charles said.

You Xingge looked into Cheng Jiye’s eyes. The man paused before saying: “To the present.”

Cheng Jiye’s calm black eyes flickered over You Xingge’s face.

You Xingge offered a faint smile in return.

At this moment, the band members had no idea that in one year, they would disband. The golden years they spent together would be shelved in their twenties, becoming nothing more than a few indifferent sentences in an interview given by a successful Cheng Jiye years later.

But before that happens.

You Xingge thought to himself: I still have time to do many things.

As the liquor flowed, he revealed a smile with curving eyes.

You Xingge quickly moved into the room next to Cheng Jiye’s that he was renting.

His belongings were pitifully few; his entire worldly estate consisted of one suitcase and one instrument bag, as concise as the man himself.

It was a small five-story building, an ordinary residential block like those seen everywhere by the roadside. It was close to the center of the South District and, likewise, close to Huracán Bar. They were on the second floor; his room and Cheng Jiye’s were connected by the balcony corridor.

No one lived downstairs, and the top floor had been rented out entirely by the band to serve as a rehearsal studio.

Cheng Jiye was a bit surprised when he confirmed that You Xingge really wanted to rent it. However, facing their new guitarist’s hard-to-resist smile, Cheng Jiye crushed his cigarette, nodded, and drafted a contract.

“You have the front door key. There’s a kitchen and bathroom. What else… there’s a pot of Milan flowers on the balcony; don’t step on them when you walk past. But if you use the front door, you shouldn’t have that problem.”

While Cheng Jiye was saying these things, he thought You Xingge was listening intently. In reality, You Xingge’s gaze was scanning the interior—meticulously neat, the small living room somehow fit an entire wall of bookshelves and a piano. The place was so clean it felt out of step with the surrounding environment. Then, his gaze settled on the back of Cheng Jiye’s head.

The book mentioned that Cheng Jiye had a rebellious streak and was very defiant in his youth.

The scent of smoke on Cheng Jiye hadn’t fully dissipated. As his hair swayed with the breeze, the pale sky seemed to blend with the scent on his body. He had just put on his coat and hadn’t tidied it yet; he had likely been leaning against the sofa reading earlier, as the folds of his shirt were quite wrinkled.

He had been silent for too long. Sensing something was off, Cheng Jiye turned his head and found the guy daydreaming.

A flicker of playful mischief appeared in Cheng Jiye’s eyes: “Are you listening to me?”

Does this little curly-head zone out during class too?

You Xingge shifted his gaze inconspicuously and crinkled his eyes: “I’m listening.”

The sky remained in that half-bright, half-dim state. There was a fresh scent in the air. You Xingge’s instrument bag was placed by the side of the sofa. The sun had come out at some unknown point.

Today was likely to be the day Cheng Jiye spoke the most in his twenty-some years. The lead singer, so intense on stage, was quite a lazy person in daily life; today was a rare occurrence for him.

After everything was settled, You Xingge simply glanced at the rental contract before signing his name.

“You…” Just as Cheng Jiye frowned and started to say something, the curly-haired guitarist was drawn to the piano in front of him.

You Xingge didn’t hear Cheng Jiye’s words. He lifted a corner of the cloth covering the piano and stood there, almost casually striking a sequence of notes.

It was very casual, he didn’t even sit down.

The sunlight, which had arrived unnoticed, poured through the glass window. His hair shimmered in the light, and even his fingertips leaping over the notes became somewhat transparent.

The warm afternoon sun filtered through the bookshelves. Fine dust motes floated in the air, visible in the light. The room carried the specific scent of printer’s ink and wood characteristic of books. Beneath his soft, dry hair, the young man—who looked much too youthful—pressed the keys. His fingers were long, and the arc of their movement was beautiful.

Cheng Jiye leaned against the wall watching, his brow smoothing out for a moment.

At this moment, the enthusiastic focus in You Xingge’s eyes was something no one could imitate. His young face was caressed by the notes as they flowed smoothly into the air. Cheng Jiye’s finger subconsciously traced circles, parsing this small segment of music from the inside out.

It was a passage from Debussy’s “Clair de Lune.”

The pleasant, hazy melody came to an abrupt halt at the final pouring note.

You Xingge looked toward Cheng Jiye’s eyes with a start.

“That’s not right. The last one is this note.” The man, whose features usually looked quite cold, simply grasped You Xingge’s fingertip and struck another key.

As the final note fell, a smile brewed in Cheng Jiye’s dark eyes.

Aside from being a bit too simple-minded, everything about the new guitarist suited his aesthetic perfectly.

And—

Cheng Jiye’s gaze fell on the deep chestnut eyes illuminated by the sun. A river of chocolate flowed there, with ice cubes bumping against the banks, gilded with a golden edge by the sunlight.

He looks good.

You Xingge’s finger inconspicuously brushed against Cheng Jiye’s hand, feeling the clear, delicate texture and a warmth that was just right.

The male lead’s ‘tofu’ tastes quite good. You Xingge lowered his eyes and withdrew his hand. Positioned with his back to the piano, he leaned back, his hands hitting the keys and producing uneven sounds.

“Bro,” he said.

You Xingge could now say this word smoothly and completely; he even sounded quite cheerful.

The male lead in front of him had been staring at his face for quite a while. If he didn’t remind him, they might be standing here for a long time.

You Xingge said: “So, we’re neighbors from now on?”

He raised an eyebrow. In his light-colored jacket, the naturally tall youth gave off the illusion that he was still growing—a sense of uncertainty mixed within his vibrant energy.

“You could say that,” Cheng Jiye said softly, as if finally snapping out of it. The lazy smile returned to his voice. “Our guitarist.”

Cheng Jiye had a good voice, not just on stage, but now too.

His ability to flirt was also top-tier.

What a pity, he’s a straight guy.

Despite his internal thoughts, You Xingge replied jokingly: “Alright, Lord Lead Singer, I’ll be coming to bother you every day.”

Cheng Jiye gave a grunt of affirmation, tossing his cigarette butt into the trash can before saying: “Rehearsal is the day after tomorrow. You can prepare a bit first.”

He remembered something: “You play the guitar very well. Better than the previous ones.”

You Xingge asked, a bit curious: “Why were the previous ones fired?”

Cheng Jiye went silent for a moment before answering concisely: “The third one was irresponsible. The second one was because of women; his private life was too chaotic.”

Cheng Jiye, who usually spoke without much emotional coloring, had strictly added the word “too” to his evaluation. One could imagine just how chaotic it was.

“What about the first one?”

“The first one.” Cheng Jiye’s expression became a bit complex.

That was the band’s first guitarist. At the start of the band’s formation, there should have been a bond.

He was a very responsible and seemingly clean-living person.

“He got sick.”

And he hid it.

Cheng Jiye spoke calmly: “Because of that, he left ONE.”

You Xingge grew pensive.

He remembered this person. Anything related to the male lead usually got a mention or two in the book, such as ONE’s first guitarist.

He contracted AIDS and later passed away.

The book mentioned vaguely that he was gay.

You Xingge sometimes couldn’t understand why this “Qidian” novel felt so out of place with the site’s usual style. After all, not many authors would describe a gay character in a Qidian story, even if only in passing.

Especially on the premise that the protagonist is straight.

Cheng Jiye didn’t know what he was thinking. He slowly leaned back as well, pressing against the table.

The sunlight coming through the balcony window split the room down the middle, happening to shroud Cheng Jiye and his shadow in darkness. Only where You Xingge stood was bathed in light—a linear beam of light separating the two of them.

The scent of wood filled the air.

For a moment, Cheng Jiye couldn’t quite decipher You Xingge’s expression in the afternoon sun. Perhaps because he had just thought of their first guitarist and his specific sexual orientation, a subtle feeling welled up inside Cheng Jiye.

“I’m going back to my room. Call me if you need anything,” Cheng Jiye said, pulling out his cigarette pack again, ignoring the inexplicable irritability in his heart.

It certainly wasn’t directed at You Xingge.

It was just that in the overly warm afternoon air, he felt a bit restless.

He couldn’t explain it.

The sunlight at the neck of the vase on the balcony formed a near-perfect oval. As soon as Cheng Jiye walked past, he disrupted the shadow.

He was completely unaware.