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Wen Fu hummed a few lines into the pillow.

Fei Bolin was so sleepy he didn't catch a single word, only remembered Wen Fu sounding like a kitten, finally scooting over to nuzzle his chin and asking: '...Can I?'

He was dying to sleep, just figured Wen Fu was asking if his singing was okay, and said without hesitation: 'It's good.'

Then Wen Fu settled down.

Fei Bolin was out like a light the next second.

A night passed and Fei Bolin basically forgot the whole thing. Wen Fu woke up the next day and didn't say a word about it either. Until the first day of the May Day holiday, when Wen Fu got up early, demolished half a chilled watermelon, wiped his mouth, and told Fei Bolin: 'Bo-ge, I'm heading out.'

Fei Bolin was washing dishes, poked his head out from the kitchen: 'Where?!'

Wen Fu blinked: 'Going to Qi Yichuan's place to practice singing.'

Fei Bolin frowned: 'Practice singing?'

Wen Fu said: 'You agreed last week.'

'When did I—' Fei Bolin paused, then suddenly realized, 'That Sunday night?'

Wen Fu nodded.

This was being shoved into something he'd already signed up for.

Fei Bolin couldn't back out now, so he could only ask: 'How long do you need to practice?'

Wen Fu said: 'Until the Children's Day Singing Competition.'

Children's Day was only a month away — four weekends.

Fei Bolin did the math. It wasn't that long, really, but he wasn't sure what else he'd agreed to that night. How long each visit? A weekend was two days — would Wen Fu stay there both days? Was he about to become an empty-nest old man?

Wen Fu watched his expression sour and quickly said: 'I want thick-gravy noodles for lunch, Bo-ge, can you make them?'

Meaning he'd be back by noon.

Fei Bolin's face brightened a bit: 'Then remember to come home — you got money on you?'

'Yeah.'

'Any snacks in your bag?'

'There... no.'

Fei Bolin dug out the Lin's Convenience Store key from his pocket and tossed it over: 'Go grab some from the shop.'

It was his habit — every time Wen Fu went out on a weekend, he'd make him take a backpack full of snacks. It wasn't exactly a famine era anymore, but he always wanted to make sure Wen Fu wouldn't go hungry on the way home.

And facts seemed to prove him right — every time Wen Fu came home, the backpack was completely empty, not a single thing left inside.

Wen Fu took the key, dashed off to the Lin's Convenience Store at home, grabbed a whole bag of his favorite snacks, wrote up a list and left it on the table so Fei Bolin could check the inventory, then locked up and, as usual, put the key under the flowerpot by the door.

He knew the way to Qi Yichuan's place by heart. It was far, and Fei Bolin always told him he could take a cab, but Wen Fu couldn't bear to spend the money, so he stood outside the Residential Complex with his backpack, waiting for the bus.

Weekend buses were packed. Wen Fu stood the whole way, hating how crowded it was, and whenever he got a little space he'd quickly swap the backpack Fei Bolin had bought him to his front and hug it, so it wouldn't get scuffed again.

By the time he got to Qi Yichuan's place it was already nine in the morning. Wen Fu was just stepping out of his shoes at the door when Qi Yichuan came over carrying a fruit platter the housekeeper had made: 'First time I didn't come pick you up and you show up this late? You serious?'

His mouth was complaining, but his hands didn't hesitate at all to pass the platter over.

Wen Fu said thanks first, took the platter, and started eating big bites.

Qi Yichuan saw him like that and couldn't help getting cocky, pulling Wen Fu toward the equipment room while bragging: 'I've got so much fruit here, surely some of it's better than what your gege gives you, right?'

Wen Fu didn't deny it this time: 'Everything except watermelon.'

Qi Yichuan: 'Why?'

Wen Fu: 'My gege buys watermelon.'

Qi Yichuan: '...'

Qi Yichuan wasn't having it: 'Then what's your favorite thing to eat?'

His platter had mangosteen, wax apple, jackfruit, rambutan — which of those wasn't better than watermelon?

Wen Fu didn't hesitate for a second: 'Watermelon.'

Qi Yichuan nearly choked on his own blood.

And decided he absolutely wasn't eating watermelon this summer.

The two of them sat cross-legged on the floor chatting about anime for a while, then Qi Yichuan turned on the Air Conditioner and pulled Wen Fu into discussing the competition.

'The rules say they support originals more — singing your own song will definitely score higher than a cover.' Qi Yichuan held the printed rules in his hand. 'The result is decided by five judges plus a special guest music teacher and two hundred audience members with entry tickets who vote live — so, original or cover?'

'Original.' Wen Fu said. 'I want the Guitar.'

Qi Yichuan agreed: 'Got any idea what direction you want to go?'

That question stumped Wen Fu.

'No way,' Qi Yichuan was speechless. 'So you just flap your lips and say 'original' and that's it, but you actually haven't thought about anything?'

Wen Fu didn't deny it. His understanding of music was pure — like a blank page printed only with Sheet Music and arrangements. He could sing with the highest pitch accuracy, flawlessly complete any clearly defined performance, rattle off the timbre of every instrument, casually write a smooth, peaceful melody. It was a gift he'd had since childhood, as simple as drinking water or eating food. But tie it to a competition — how to please listeners, how to score high, how to create a style the masses would enjoy — he was clueless.

Wen Fu said: 'Think about what?'

Qi Yichuan sighed, thinking Wen Fu was so totally unprepared he was doomed to lose: 'You gotta think, man. What's the popular style right now, how to write songs, how to arrange so most people vote for you. Like, our competition theme is pop music — you going up there playing your Violin, no matter how good, won't work. Pop has tons of subgenres: Chinese-style, rap, folk, rock, Mandarin, Cantonese... you gotta make a call.'

Wen Fu thought for a moment, then asked: 'What's popular right now?'

Qi Yichuan got it right away: 'So we're decided, we're going for the style the masses love most, right?'

Wen Fu thought briefly — if he wanted the Guitar, he should start from the most common tastes. Highbrow stuff with no audience wouldn't work.

In a competition, especially one with audience voting, if you wanted to win, you had to be ready to cater to others.

Qi Yichuan grinned, pulled out his phone, and showed Wen Fu his favorite playlist: 'Most popular? That's Cantonese songs! Look — Eason Chan, Miriam Yeung, Jacky Cheung, Janice Vidal, Hacken Lee...'

He got so into it he started singing to himself: 'Don't dare die early, gotta stay and keep you company—'

Wen Fu sank into thought amid Qi Yichuan's off-key singing.

He didn't actually know Cantonese songs well. His most direct exposure was from covers on music shows and the broadcasts playing in stores and on the street.

Before, he hadn't had the resources. Even though he'd heard plenty of old songs, he was limited by lack of equipment. Most of the time he didn't even know what the lyrics meant — at most he'd remember the melody and, when alone, imitate those unclear pronunciations while humming a few lines.

Even so, when Qi Yichuan played the playlist, several songs had barely started before Wen Fu could pick up and sing along.

After half an hour of listening, Wen Fu held the phone and went song by song learning the lyrics. He hadn't been singing along long before he turned to dig through his backpack: 'I got it.'

Qi Yichuan lowered the volume: 'Got what?'

Wen Fu, head down looking for a pen: 'I know how to write the competition song.'

Qi Yichuan stared for a few seconds: 'You've only heard a few songs and you already know how to write it?'

Wen Fu said: 'Basically.'

He wrote on the paper for a while, then asked Qi Yichuan: 'Got a Guitar?'

'Yeah, of course.' Qi Yichuan got up to grab it. 'Of all the instruments at home, I only had my dad bring these few — the drum kit alone took a whole van. For the rest, depends what you need. If we can't find something, no big deal — aren't there programs online that simulate arrangements? We can use one of those.'

He leaned over and saw Wen Fu had already jotted down the key, time signature, and instruments in his notebook.

Qi Yichuan nudged Wen Fu with his shoulder: 'Don't just use Guitar, how are you gonna stand out? Add more instruments — drum kit, whatever.'

Wen Fu answered plainly: 'I don't play drums.'

'I do!' Qi Yichuan's eyes lit up talking about it. 'Give me some parts in the arrangement, I'll come accompany you at the competition. Drums are so cool, let me have my moment too. You win the prize, I won't fight you for it.'

Wen Fu sat there spacing out for a bit, maybe taking Qi Yichuan into account. He crossed out the original 'Key A, 4/4' in his notebook, changed it to 'Key C, 2/4,' and asked Qi Yichuan: 'Can you play anything else?'

Qi Yichuan, stammering: 'Um... bass, would that work?'

Wen Fu: 'Play it for me.'

Qi Yichuan scampered off to get it.

When he came back and looked at Wen Fu, he had the glory of a mentor turning around for him.

Qi Yichuan cleared his throat, played bass, and couldn't help singing a couple lines to add to his own moment.

'How was that?' he asked when he finished.

Wen Fu kept his head down, editing the Sheet Music: 'Works.'

Then added: 'If you keep your mouth shut.'

Qi Yichuan: '...'

In the end, the arrangement used more than two instruments.

Qi Yichuan's bass got cut in the second week of Wen Fu writing the song, swapped back for drums. They still needed piano and synthesizer, so he ran off and rented a music studio, used the instruments there to grind it out with Wen Fu for two weeks, recorded the complete arrangement, copied it to a USB drive, ready for the night of the competition.

With about two weeks left before the competition, Wen Fu slowly, reluctantly started writing lyrics.

The singing would be done by him alone; all Qi Yichuan had to do was accompany him on stage. So the second-to-last week, Qi Yichuan lent Wen Fu his Guitar so he didn't have to keep running back and forth.

Wen Fu's method of writing lyrics was clumsy. With Qi Yichuan, that misleading 'mentor,' leading him on, he dove headfirst into Cantonese creation and couldn't get out.

But as a born-and-raised inland kid, Wen Fu couldn't speak Cantonese at all.

So he could only revise over and over. He'd write down the first draft of the lyrics, then go through the Cantonese songs he'd heard, marking the Cantonese pronunciation word by word. Whenever something didn't flow smoothly when spoken, he'd tweak it a bit, to avoid making a fool of himself on stage.

When the final product was brought to Qi Yichuan, he only said: 'The lyrics, well, you just started learning to write, so they're a bit rough. But no worries, the audience won't understand anyway. Our track is badass, and with me right there, you'll be unstoppable — championship!'

Wen Fu didn't pick up his thread.

The last weekend, the two of them kept playing together at Qi Yichuan's place, and once they confirmed it was close to the effect they wanted for the competition, Wen Fu went home.

Children's Day fell on a Sunday. Wen Fu had reported the singing competition to his homeroom teacher, so he could skip evening study hall.

The night before the competition, by all logic Wen Fu should have been squeezing in a few rehearsals with Qi Yichuan, but he refused. He was used to spending Saturday nights with Fei Bolin and didn't think a competition was enough reason to break that habit. He told Qi Yichuan they could push rehearsals to the next day.

Late that night, Wen Fu wore Fei Bolin's headphones, hunched over his desk listening to his own arrangement, holding the lyric book and softly singing along.

He remembered Fei Bolin saying the soundproofing in the apartment was bad — no one lived upstairs, but there were still neighbors next door.

Fei Bolin passed behind Wen Fu and glanced at the lyric book, vaguely catching the words 'White Brow' and 'scar.'

He smiled: 'How come there's a scar in the song too.'

Wen Fu didn't get it at first, then looked at his own lyric book, turned around and said: 'Because the inspiration is Bo-ge.'

Because the inspiration was Fei Bolin — when writing the song, it was only natural he couldn't avoid the scar he'd left on his chin the first time they met.

Fei Bolin froze for a moment.

Wen Fu, seeing he didn't believe it, nodded seriously: 'It's Bo-ge.'

'What's the song called?'

After asking, Fei Bolin walked up to Wen Fu, lowered his eyes and asked quietly: 'First song you've ever written, and you're letting me be part of it?'

He was tall. In the better part of a year since Wen Fu had met him, Wen Fu had been growing, and Fei Bolin had been growing too. Wen Fu was younger and grew faster — from a 170 cm little guy to a 175 cm little guy — while he went from 183 cm to 187 cm.

The 187 cm Fei Bolin stood in this dim, cramped room. The desk lamp's light couldn't reach his height, only barely touching below his eyelashes. In the hazy glow, the shadows of his lashes were long and thick, and when he looked at Wen Fu, his eyes were a deep, dark ink.

'It's called The White Brow.' Wen Fu even looked down to confirm the song title, then tilted his head up to look at Fei Bolin. 'Bo-ge, is the first time important?'

Fei Bolin said: 'Sometimes it is.'

'Like?'

'Like your song.'

Wen Fu thought for a moment, then nodded again: 'Bo-ge is important.'

He suddenly realized tomorrow would be his first time performing on stage, and the people in the audience would be his first official listeners in all these years.

Fei Bolin was important. In his first song, he should naturally be among Wen Fu's first listeners.

Wen Fu asked, holding onto Fei Bolin's fingers: 'Will Bo-ge come tomorrow?'

Fei Bolin's gaze swept to the hand gripping his — slender, long fingers, even the neat, rounded nails were ones Fei Bolin had trimmed himself tonight after giving Wen Fu a bath.

His eyes lingered on Wen Fu's hand briefly, then pulled back. He shook his head: 'I don't have an entry ticket.'

The singing venue was the School auditorium, rented out. The clubs co-hosting the event took it seriously — they posted a questionnaire in the School's private group chat first, then drew lots from the people who filled it out to select listeners, and only after the selection did they send out entry tickets to the chosen ones, to keep voting fair.

Fei Bolin never looked at the School's private group chat. Even if he had that day, without knowing Wen Fu was competing, he wouldn't have filled out the questionnaire in the first place. Plus, the clubs only announced how to get entry tickets after they'd already selected listeners. Fei Bolin didn't care about these events — missing the chance was inevitable.

Wen Fu realized Fei Bolin couldn't be his first listener.

This was something Fei Bolin considered important, but he had no right to take part.

Wen Fu turned to look thoughtfully at the borrowed Guitar in the corner. He stood up, led Fei Bolin over, picked up the Guitar and the house key, and took Fei Bolin out of the house.

Fei Bolin silently let Wen Fu lead him the whole way. The early summer night streets were quiet — nothing but wind and the occasional insect chirp. He only had to lower his head to see Wen Fu's soft hair, only had to breathe to catch his scent.

After walking for a while, Fei Bolin knew where they were going.

It was the secret base Wen Fu had been using to practice singing lately — only two blocks from their home.

That place was an old, worn street. In the middle of it sat a kindergarten that had been abandoned for years. The houses on either side of the kindergarten were unoccupied. Even rarer, the compound's gate wasn't locked — sometimes kids would run in to play during the day.

Fei Bolin only allowed Wen Fu to come practice here in the evening when the sun hadn't fully set — too dangerous at night.

Tonight, in the quiet emptiness, Wen Fu pushed open the rusty red-painted gate. The moonlight in the yard was thin and cool, falling on puddles from the recent rain. Wen Fu stepped through the water, nimble as a stray cat, leading Fei Bolin toward his usual spot.

The innermost classroom was usually pitch-black, but luckily the moon hung high tonight, and strands of moonlight came straight through the glass windows.

Fei Bolin's eyesight had been off lately — once inside he couldn't see anything, so he instinctively tightened his grip on Wen Fu.

Wen Fu was a regular of the night, having lived alongside darkness like a ghost for years — he quickly adjusted to the dark before him.

He took the Guitar off his back, had Fei Bolin sit against the desk by the entrance, found a good position and posture for himself, and started tuning the Guitar.

No speakers, no extra accompaniment — just like the night they first met. Fei Bolin couldn't see Wen Fu's face; from an unknown distance and direction, he listened to Wen Fu's voice.

Like a string suddenly pulled taut across the water — the moment The White Brow began, the night rippled in his eyes.

Wen Fu's voice was still that clear, low, unhurried thing:

'When I first met him, the street was drizzling in the night

'Blades blazing, weapons clashing

'And it ended with a scar

'Heavy rain pouring, dark clouds failed to hide the moon

'But hid a following no one knew of

'I sought his fragrance, like water trembling in a mirror

'Then met those eyes again, in plain sight of all

'It was fate meddling

'Heaven lent a hand too

'He watched me broken and wretched

'His hand reaching out, not quite decisive

'But his gaze was deep

'Made waves howl in my heart

'Three years of dawn-to-dusk, his scent in every season

'Good dreams, like evergreens, hard to wither

'Let me be reckless once, squander my loneliness

'When love becomes a grave sickness, sinking to the bone

'Fate has already slipped away

'Years are hard to keep, hard to bear, hard to hate or regret

'Remember him, worn and haggard

'Remember him, conscience-stricken

'Even knowing till the end of time I can't chase him, I knelt before the gods and begged to grow old together

'Hands pressed together, kneeling again

'Looking back, who should I ask

'Don't they know — he and I, the best match under heaven?'

Fei Bolin crossed his arms, leaning against the edge of the desk, his long straight legs slightly bent, feet on the ground, toes tapping slowly to the rhythm of the song.

He listened in silence, head down, quiet for a long time in the dark void.

Until the song ended, Fei Bolin closed his eyes for a moment. Beyond his heartbeat, another sound kept echoing in his mind.

—Just inspiration. Not about him.