Qiao Qingye · Chat

6:15 PM. First floor of "Nocturne", Prelude Theater. Qiao Qingye squatted by the drape of the third booth on the east side, one hand holding the edge of the dark velvet fabric, the other holding a screwdriver, tightening the loose hook at the very end of the curtain track. His movements were unhurried, tightening each turn just enough to hold the tension without stripping the screw—the first lesson he had learned in the fire brigade: when using tools, brute force is your greatest enemy. "...Brother Qingye." A timid voice came from behind him. He looked back to see Xiao Zhou, an intern host, standing two steps away, cradling the spare champagne glasses that had just been replaced, not knowing where to look. "I can do this... You're a top star, you don't have to—" "Just handy." Qiao Qingye tightened the last screw, stood up, and gave the drape a pull. The track glided smoothly, the dark velvet unfolding and closing neatly in his hand, no longer showing the unsettling wobble from before. He slipped the screwdriver into his back pocket and casually took the glasses from Xiao Zhou's arms. "Where do these go?" "B-Behind the bar, the third cabinet..." He nodded and carried the glasses toward the bar. Xiao Zhou followed behind him, seemingly hesitating to say something, but in the end only managed a quiet, "Thank you, Brother Qingye." Qiao Qingye didn't even look back, merely raising a hand to show he heard. Behind the bar, Sam the bartender was checking tonight's wine list. Seeing Qiao Qingye approach with the glasses, he stepped aside. "Helping out again? You're going to spoil the interns sooner or later." "The glasses go in the third cabinet, right?" "...How did you know?" Qiao Qingye didn't answer. He stacked the glasses neatly inside the cabinet, leaving exactly a finger-width's gap between each glass—not for looks, but to keep them from clinking and chipping. Then he closed the cabinet door, stood up straight, and brushed off imaginary dust from his hands. "I've fixed the hinges on the back door. The drape for the third booth on the east side is done too. Also, the baseboard on the third step up from the second-floor landing is loose. Have the engineering department fix it tomorrow morning. It won't affect tonight." Sam looked at him, started to say something, but swallowed it back. In the end, he just shook his head, pulled a clean goblet from under the bar, poured a glass of warm water, and handed it over. "You haven't even caught your breath yet." Qiao Qingye took the cup and took a sip. The water was room temperature—Sam remembered that he didn't drink iced water. "What time do we open?" "Forty-five minutes left." He finished the remaining half cup of water, placed the empty glass back on the bar, and turned toward the stairs. "I'm going to the second floor again." 6:28 PM. The main lights in the second-floor corridor weren't on yet. Only the warm-toned floor lamps in the corners glowed, flowing like a silent river of light from the stairs to the end of the hallway. Qiao Qingye's steps were light, but each step was steady and powerful, leaving barely a sound on the hallway carpet. He walked very slowly. Not because he was deliberately slowing down. It was because his lungs wouldn't allow him to walk too fast. Three years after his discharge, the damage from having one-third of his left lung removed was almost invisible in his daily life—he could run, do pull-ups, and handle all the daily routines at Nocturne. But occasionally, just occasionally, when he climbed the stairs too fast or spoke in sentences that were too long, a faint, dull tightness would ripple through his chest, like an invisible hand tapping his ribs with its knuckles. He didn't hate this feeling. This dull sensation reminded him—he was still alive. Of the three men who had rushed into that chemical warehouse with him, two never made it out. His life was kept at a heavy price, so he never wasted it. He walked to the end of the corridor and paused for a moment in front of the "Gibran" room. A thin sliver of light leaked from the crack under the door, proving that Shen Yunshuo was already inside. He didn't knock. Shen Yunshuo disliked being disturbed, especially during these forty minutes before opening. Qiao Qingye respected everyone's habits—he wouldn't even vacuum the hallway while Shen Yunshuo was inside Gibran, because the vacuum's noise would seep in. He turned back. Halfway down the corridor, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled out his phone, and the screen lit up. It was a WeChat message from Lu Xingyao. 「Brother Qingye, I went to try that dessert shop this afternoon and bought you a cheese tart. It's in your locker. You're not allowed to let anyone else eat it, not even Gu Zhixu.」 Qiao Qingye stared at the screen for a few seconds, a faint, barely noticeable smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He typed three characters. 「Got it.」 Then he put his phone back in his pocket, his pace slightly faster than before. 6:40 PM. The lounge door was open. When Qiao Qingye walked in, Lu Xingyao was already there, standing in front of the full-length mirror buttoning his shirt. It was a dark gray silk shirt with a sharp cut—tonight's work uniform. Hearing footsteps, he glanced in the mirror, his peach blossom eyes curving into a smile. "Brother Qingye, patrolling the venue again?" "One of the drape hooks was loose." "The one in East Three?" "Yeah." "Figured." Lu Xingyao buttoned down to the second-to-last button and stopped, studying Qiao Qingye's expression in the mirror. "Brother Shen gave me a Tarot card today." "What card?" "The High Priestess, reversed." Lu Xingyao turned around, leaning against the vanity with his arms crossed. "He said not to trust my intuition too much tonight. Do you think he's just being cryptic again?" "Not necessarily." Qiao Qingye walked to his locker and opened the door. Hanging inside was tonight's work uniform—a dark blue cotton shirt, not as exquisite as Lu Xingyao's, but ironed without a single crease. On the second shelf of the locker sat a small white paper box, the cheese tart Lu Xingyao had mentioned. He took it out, glanced at it, and put it back. "What do you mean?" Lu Xingyao asked. "When it comes to Shen Yunshuo's words, listen to thirty percent, ponder seventy percent." Qiao Qingye took out his shirt and closed the locker door. "He never says anything he isn't sure of." "What you just said sounds a lot like Shen Yunshuo too." "I don't do Tarot." Lu Xingyao laughed and was about to say something else when he was interrupted by a sound from the corridor. It was very quiet—not footsteps, but the low hum of skateboard wheels rolling across the floor. Qiao Qingye and Lu Xingyao looked toward the door at the same time. "Gu Zhixu is here?" Lu Xingyao lowered his voice. "Did he come through the back door? I didn't even hear—" "I just fixed the back door hinges this afternoon," Qiao Qingye said calmly. "It shouldn't make any sound now." Lu Xingyao froze for a beat, then burst out laughing, bending over. "So he can sneak in without a sound now? You're totally setting him up." Qiao Qingye didn't explain. He unfolded his dark blue shirt, gave it a shake, and began to change. Lu Xingyao's gaze drifted unconsciously over him—broad, powerful shoulders and back, a tightly tapered waist, and V-lines on both sides disappearing into his waistband. The long, pale scar on the inside of his left arm was barely visible under the lounge's dim, warm light. Lu Xingyao averted his eyes. Qiao Qingye never went out of his way to show off that scar, but he never went out of his way to hide it either. He treated this heaviest mark on his body just like he treated the hinge on the back door or the loose screw—acknowledging its existence, dealing with it, and then moving on to the next task. "Brother Qingye." "Yeah?" "Have you ever thought..." Lu Xingyao paused, seemingly weighing his words. "If there comes a day when you can't do this job anymore, what would you do?" Qiao Qingye fastened the top button of his shirt, turned around, and looked at Lu Xingyao with calm eyes. "Fixing things." "Huh?" "The world isn't short of things that need fixing. Doors, windows, lights, people." He paused. "They're all about the same." Lu Xingyao looked at him and didn't answer. But in those always-curving peach blossom eyes, a faint look, almost like heartache, flashed briefly. Qiao Qingye walked over and reached out to ruffle Lu Xingyao's hair. The gesture was so sudden that Lu Xingyao didn't react at all, blankly letting him ruffle it for about two seconds. By the time he snapped out of it and was about to protest, Qiao Qingye had already withdrawn his hand and was walking toward the door. "I'll eat the cheese tart," he paused. "Tell Gu Zhixu that the back door won't make noise anymore, so he can just use the front door next time if he wants. No one's going to judge him."