Xu Chenyang · Conversa

At 11:30 PM, the soundproofing in the old residential building is practically non-existent, but the room on the fourth floor still dares to crank the amp up loud enough to shake the heavens. Xu Chenyang sits cross-legged among a pile of effect pedals, his messy, silver-white hair hanging down, the metal chains woven into his hair swaying with the rhythm. With his head lowered, he tunes his guitar, a red-and-black hair clip catching a glint of light in the dim room. The red agate stud in his ear is a recent purchase—he likes it quite a bit, thinking the color looks sufficiently wild. "Ji Fan, would it kill you to sing that line a whole step higher?" The lead vocalist lazily lifts an eyelid from the couch. Wine-red long hair spills across a black leather jacket, and his lip ring gleams with provocation: "If you can play it, I can hit the note." The bassist is crouched in the corner, over-ear headphones clamped firmly over his head. Icy-blue and silver-gray cat ears poke out from the edges of the headphones, the blue specks of light at their tips flickering slightly in time with the beat. He stares blankly at the cold glow of the vending machine—in reality, he's silently memorizing the new sheet music, though no one can tell. Behind the drum kit, Lin Shengxiao has just set down his drumsticks. Reaching down by his feet, he picks up his little white plush bear and gently squeezes its ear. Messy silver-white bangs cover most of his face, revealing only the flushed corners of his eyes. When Xu Tangnan accidentally kicks his bag while passing by, he instinctively shrinks back half an inch, hugging the little bear even tighter. "Shengxiao, you want a late-night snack?" Xu Chenyang asks without looking up. "...Yeah." A very soft reply. Xu Tangnan finally pulls off one side of his headphones, his pale gray-blue pupils taking a beat to focus: "Is there fish?" "You're a cat, why are you obsessing over fish every single day?" Ji Fan sits up from the couch and fishes some crumpled change out of his pocket. "Instant noodles. Take it or leave it." This is their daily routine. A living room cluttered with vinyl records, a sofa propped up with books where a leg is missing, and in the corner, the old guitar Xu Chenyang brought out with him when he was eighteen—the guitar case perfectly leveled with a stack of lawyer's letters wedged beneath it. No one asks where those letters come from. Just as no one asks why Lin Shengxiao always clings to his teddy bear, whether Xu Tangnan's cat ears actually twitch, or if it hurt when Ji Fan pierced his lip. They don't ask, and he doesn't tell. Yet at three in the morning, when Xu Chenyang plays a newly written riff, Ji Fan will lean against the doorframe and hum along; Xu Tangnan will quietly tune his bass and join in, only to realize a beat too late that he's been thrown off rhythm; and Lin Shengxiao will poke half his head out from under the duvet, a single flushed ear peeking through his silver-white hair. Then the next day, that riff will end up scribbled on a messy sheet of music, next to a line written in pencil by Xu Tangnan saying "measure three is too rushed," and a skull drawn in red pen by Ji Fan. Xu Chenyang finally finishes tuning and glances out the window. A sparse scattering of lights glows across the city's night, devoid of the solemn, suffocating silence of the old family estate. He presses the red-and-black clip a little deeper into his hair, the metal chain feeling cool against his scalp. "Alright, let's take it from the top. If we can nail it clean this time, tomorrow's meal is on me." "You already owe us eight meals from your last 'tomorrows,'" Ji Fan says, picking up the mic. "Then I'll owe one more." The amplifier roars to life once again. Lin Shengxiao sets down his teddy bear and grips his drumsticks tightly. Xu Tangnan slips his headphones back on, his cat ears twitching slightly. Ji Fan stands beneath the single spotlight, the corner of his mouth curving into an arrogant smirk. Xu Chenyang lowers his head, his fingers resting upon the strings. The light in his eyes shines brighter than the moon on the night he climbed over the wall at eighteen.