Chapter 14
Some people are just like that.
His gaze was neither coquettish nor alluring; he didn’t even move a finger. Yet, with just a single glance, he could make people willingly follow him. Duan Qingshen stared intently at the motorcycle ahead, pondering this.
The tires rolled over Beijing’s autumn roads, leaving the Sixth Ring Road behind. It was two o’clock in the afternoon with perfect weather. Liang Yuanxing rode in front.
The traffic on the Jingkai Expressway near Xinfadi and Haizi Park slowed for a while. During the jam, Liang Yuanxing pushed his goggles up. October was a comfortable season in Beijing: cold during the day, but not bitterly so. He tilted his head slightly upward, gazing at a dense cumulus cloud in the sky.
A song titled “Capital Letters” played in his earphones. As the prelude began, his walkie-talkie buzzed. Duan Qingshen, in the adjacent lane just behind him, asked, “Can you send me that song?”
“Sure.” Liang Yuanxing immediately shared the currently playing track with him via WeChat.
Duan Qingshen’s music playlist lacked personal preference; he simply saved a few curated lists like “100 Songs Perfect for Driving” on his music app.
Liang Yuanxing nearly choked on his noodles when he learned this during their meal at the service area.
“Ah—?” The noodles slipped back into his bowl. “You mean you’ve never made a playlist for yourself?”
Liang Yuanxing thought this was the most absurd thing he’d ever heard.
“Yes.” Duan Qingshen answered calmly. “Why such a big reaction?”
“What else?” Liang Yuanxing stammered, searching for the right words. “Of course it’s because…”
He trailed off. Duan Qingshen didn’t press him and continued eating. The noodle soup at the service area was decent, and Duan Qingshen ate leisurely, eyes never dropping from Liang Yuanxing.
He kept watching him because he knew why Liang Yuanxing was hesitating and didn’t want to miss the subtle expressions crossing his face.
Chewing thoughtfully, Duan Qingshen swallowed and took a spoonful of soup.
He figured Liang Yuanxing was trying to justify his earlier shock; it was simple—everyone approaches life differently. Liang Yuanxing must have realized this too—it wasn’t really a big deal.
“Well… I don’t think you’re strange,” Liang Yuanxing said.
Duan Qingshen nodded, picking up a piece of pickled vegetable, crunching it audibly. “Hmm.”
Actually, he didn’t mind what Liang Yuanxing thought; it was inconsequential. But a mischievous impulse made him want to see Liang Yuanxing fumble for words.
“Alright, I did find you a bit strange for a moment. Sorry.” Liang Yuanxing put on a very obedient expression.
Surprised at the sudden apology, Duan Qingshen panicked. He hadn’t meant to truly demand one. Putting down his chopsticks, he swallowed and said, “It’s nothing. Just teasing you. Don’t take it seriously—I didn’t mind.”
People came and went in the service area. The Rongwu Expressway led from Rongcheng in Shandong toward Wuhai in Inner Mongolia. There were fewer self-driving tourists heading northwest at the end of October than at the start, but still some. The tail end of autumn was still autumn.
Most travelers had done their homework beforehand. Some already wore windbreakers because the outdoor temperature had dropped to about six degrees Celsius.
Since leaving Beijing, they had traveled for eight hours and over 500 kilometers. Tonight, they would stay in Ordos.
They chose a hotel near the expressway exit, refueled after dinner at the service area. When they stepped out of the gas station convenience store, Liang Yuanxing’s phone flashed a blue alert for strong winds issued by the Dongsheng District Meteorological Station.
Liang Yuanxing never took such wind warnings seriously—after all, he was a kid from Zhejiang, where typhoons were as common as relatives every year. He thought a mere level seven wind was nothing—
“Wow…” He raised a hand to shield his eyes, then turned to Duan Qingshen. “Inner Mongolia has its own typhoons too?”
At first, Duan Qingshen didn’t understand, but soon caught on. “At least the desert is still two hundred kilometers away, or else the wind would be full of sand.”
“Inner Mongolia has deserts?” His impression was only of vast grasslands.
“Yes.” Duan Qingshen walked toward the parking area with him. “Nearby is Xiangshawan. Want to go? I can get you a sandboard.”
The wind was too loud; Liang Yuanxing misheard, “A scraping board?”
Duan Qingshen followed his words, “Yeah, southern folks have heavy dampness.”
Liang Yuanxing frowned and shook his head. “Forget it, I’m afraid of pain.”
—He didn’t notice the oddity: why would he need a scraping board if they went to Xiangshawan? There was no connection at all. Duan Qingshen could only laugh and cry, reaching out to pat his head but stopping himself, instead softly rubbing the back of his neck twice.
Liang Yuanxing took a last sip of water, put on his helmet, and mounted the motorcycle.
Duan Qingshen didn’t start the engine immediately. Standing beside Liang Yuanxing’s bike, he said, “I mentioned the sandboard for sliding down dunes. Want to try?”
Liang Yuanxing didn’t lower his goggles, looking at him. “Ah…”
A little hesitant, somewhat interested but wary of delaying their trip.
Duan Qingshen said, “Think about it tonight. You won’t sleep anyway.”
They were only about ten kilometers from the booked hotel. After passing the toll station, they took the ramp. The open terrain made the wind roar like an army charging.
After the toll gate, the expressway ramp curved sharply back. Next to the Rongwu Expressway was the Jingla Line, with nothing to block the view. Earth and sky merged seamlessly, the night sky descended, and their two vehicles seemed to race toward the stars.
Duan Qingshen had booked the nearest decent-looking hotel.
It offered laundry service. When checking in, Duan Qingshen asked the front desk for two large laundry bags. As the clerk turned to fetch them, Liang Yuanxing suddenly felt unwell.
He stood by Duan Qingshen, head down looking at his phone. Suddenly, he set the phone on the counter with a thud, covered his nose and mouth with one hand, and grabbed Duan Qingshen’s arm like clutching a lifeline.
Duan Qingshen immediately recognized a nosebleed. Liang Yuanxing looked panicked—not because nosebleeds were scary, but because he feared making a mess everywhere.
Instinctively, Liang Yuanxing tilted his head back. Duan Qingshen exclaimed softly, cupping the back of his head and pulling it back, “Don’t tilt your head back; let it flow downward.”
Blood seeped through Liang Yuanxing’s fingers. Another clerk hurried over with a box of tissues. Duan Qingshen quickly thanked her, pulling out three or four sheets. “Take your hand away.”
Liang Yuanxing made muffled sounds, shaking his head to refuse. In such a public place, with two couples also checking in nearby, he knew perfectly well how embarrassing he’d look if he let go.
Two drops of blood hit the floor. Duan Qingshen said again, “Take it away.”
This time, a little firmer. Then softer: “Blood is dirty. You can’t tilt your head back and swallow it through your nose—take your hand away and let it flow out. It’s okay.”
The front desk staff said, “Yes, don’t worry. We’ve hosted many out-of-town guests who just aren’t used to the climate.”
The lobby manager brought a warm, wet towel over. “Here, take this!”
“Thanks.” Duan Qingshen took it. His grip on Liang Yuanxing’s wrist hadn’t been tight, but once he had the towel, he gently pulled Liang Yuanxing’s hand away and wiped his face.
Liang Yuanxing froze, shocked.
Ultimately, he couldn’t accept seeing his “idol” covered in blood on half his face... and then crouching down to wipe blood off the floor. The lobby manager even exclaimed loudly, telling him not to worry about the floor.
Liang Yuanxing covered the towel with both hands, watching Duan Qingshen discard the tissues in the bin, then grab the large laundry bag from the front desk, steady his suitcase, and take Liang Yuanxing’s bag.
He looked at him and said, “Follow me. No more holding your hand.”
Liang Yuanxing nodded.
Inside the elevator, he saw his reflection on the wall—there were blood stains on his clothes too. He moved the towel away and gently wiped his face.
It had only been a brief nosebleed. Liang Yuanxing sighed deeply, drained.
Duan Qingshen stood beside him, saying, “It’s the climate. It’s dry here. A little nosebleed is nothing.”
Liang Yuanxing shook his head weakly. “I can’t idolize you anymore. Your image is ruined.”
Duan Qingshen studied him and thought: If you ruin your own image, why blame my idol status? He smiled. “I told you, don’t treat me like an idol. I’m just an unemployed drifter.”
“Me too,” Liang Yuanxing replied.
The elevator arrived and the doors opened. Duan Qingshen, carrying a backpack, slung Liang Yuanxing’s bag over one shoulder, freeing a hand to steady his back.
“You’re different. You lost your job because the store closed; I quit… resigned.”
It was late, around ten-thirty. Duan Qingshen had ordered some fruit and a box of multivitamins via delivery.
Liang Yuanxing felt a bit annoyed, sitting down, “We’re both southerners. Why aren’t you bothered?”
“I am,” Duan Qingshen admitted. “My throat hurts badly. Beijing is dry at this time too, but it rained when we were there, so humidity was better.”
“I see…” Liang Yuanxing took off his cycling jacket, revealing a long-sleeve T-shirt underneath. The jacket was one piece; he wore a T-shirt above and only underwear below.
A few days ago, when they shared a room, they showered one after the other. Liang Yuanxing usually delayed, letting Duan Qingshen shower first while he changed clothes.
But now… Duan Qingshen was waiting for the delivery, showing no intention of showering first.
Liang Yuanxing had to take off half the cycling suit because Duan Qingshen, holding the laundry bag, came over and said, “Take it off quickly and put it in here.”
“…” Liang Yuanxing felt embarrassed, especially since Duan Qingshen was fully dressed. But a little mental preparation helped.
Just as he was about to stand and continue undressing, Duan Qingshen put the bag down and said, “I’m going out for a smoke.”
“Ah?” Liang Yuanxing looked up.
He understood—Duan Qingshen was giving him privacy to undress. He wanted to say it was unnecessary; though he was that shy southern type who dreaded big communal baths, Duan Qingshen had already left the room and closed the door behind him.
Liang Yuanxing looked at the laundry bag on the floor, open wide. When they passed Zhenjiang, they undressed together and it was fine then. He frowned slightly.
He glanced at the cold door, feeling somewhat displeased.
What was this now—growing distant?
He pursed his lips, quickly stripped off the cycling suit, stuffed it into the laundry bag, and went to shower.