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The small club was dimly lit, a haze of smoke curling near the ceiling as a smooth hum of conversation filled the air. The scent of aged whiskey and polished wood mingled with the low, sultry notes of a saxophone drifting from the stage. Candles flickered in small glass holders on each table, casting long shadows against the deep mahogany walls. The atmosphere buzzed with a subdued energy, a mixture of anticipation and nostalgia woven into the air.
Feng Xin and Mu Qing sat in a small booth at the far right end of the place, already bickering with Pei Ming, who leaned back in his chair with an amused smirk. The occasional chime of glassware from the bar punctuated their conversation, adding to the rhythm of the night.
"I don't see why we had to come here," Feng Xin grumbled, scanning the room with mild distaste. "I don’t want to be a wingman. This isn't exactly my scene."
Mu Qing scoffed, arms crossed. "You mean you have a scene?"
Pei Ming waved them off, his grin widening. "Come on, loosen up. The guy playing here tonight has a great voice. And look around—beautiful women everywhere. Try to have some fun for once."
But they were soon distracted by the sudden lack of music, and two men behind the counter arguing in hushed but heated tones. One was dressed entirely in black, his dark coat blending into the shadows as he leaned slightly forward, his voice a low murmur of tension. The other, clad in deep red, gestured emphatically, his expression sharp with frustration. Their exchange seemed just on the verge of spilling over before the man in red let out a final clipped remark and turned sharply, heading toward the backstage. The man in black lingered for a moment, exhaling heavily before following him behind the curtain.
Feng Xin caught a glimpse of the encounter, his brows furrowing slightly. "What’s their deal?"
Mu Qing barely spared them a glance. "Not our business."
Pei Ming smirked, knocking back a sip of his drink. "Maybe a lovers’ quarrel?"
Before either of them could reply, a server approached their table. He was tall and lean, moving with an effortless grace that made him stand out in the moody atmosphere. Dressed in soft pastel tones that contrasted sharply with the dark, smoky surroundings, he exuded a bright, bubbly energy that felt almost out of place yet entirely captivating. His long hair was tied back loosely, framing a face that was strikingly pretty, his features delicate but expressive. His smile was warm and inviting, radiating a charm that immediately drew attention. His eyes landed on Pei Ming, and immediately, he sighed.
"Pei Ming," the man greeted, a warning edge to his tone. "Don't harass anyone tonight, alright?"
Pei Ming placed a hand over his heart, mock-wounded. "You wound me, Shi Qingxuan. I'm just here for the music."
The guy turned to Feng Xin and Mu Qing with an easy smile, the kind that seemed almost too bright for the moody, smoke-laced atmosphere of the jazz club. "You two must be new. I'm Shi Qingxuan," he introduced himself, setting down a small notepad he had been holding. "I run this place with my husband."
Feng Xin raised a brow. "Your husband?"
Shi Qingxuan nodded. "Yeah, the guy in black you saw arguing earlier." His tone was lighthearted, but there was a flicker of something amused in his expression, as if he was used to this kind of reaction. "Don’t worry, he always looks like he's about to kill someone, but he's really a sweetheart."
Mu Qing scoffed. "Somehow, I doubt that."
Feng Xin, still watching Shi Qingxuan with mild curiosity, gestured vaguely toward the bar where the earlier argument had taken place. "And the other guy? The one in red?"
"Oh, him?" Shi Qingxuan waved a hand dismissively. "That’s Hua Cheng. He’s a good friend of ours—and an investor in the club, technically. But more importantly, he’s the husband of our star performer tonight." His smile widened, a clear note of excitement slipping into his voice. "You’ll see when he gets on stage—he’s amazing."
Mu Qing tilted his head slightly. "Investor first, husband second? That says a lot."
Shi Qingxuan let out a laugh. "Oh, it’s not like that! They’re crazy about each other—just have a, uh… passionate way of expressing it. Trust me, my friend could sing Hua Cheng the phone book, and the guy would still look like he’s ready to get the moon for him." He sighed dramatically. "It's all very romantic in a slightly terrifying way."
Feng Xin leaned back in his seat, arms crossed. "So what was that argument about, then?"
Shi Qingxuan shrugged. "Who knows? They fight all the time, but it’s never serious. He Xuan just likes to act all brooding and intense, and Hua Cheng is stubborn enough to push his buttons. It’s their dynamic." He waved off the thought and leaned in conspiratorially. "But forget them for a second—my friend’s is the real reason you should be paying attention tonight. The guy’s got a voice that could knock the air out of your lungs. And the way he plays?" He whistled softly, shaking his head. "He could make a whole room cry without saying a word."
Mu Qing, who had been quietly listening, lifted his glass to his lips with a skeptical hum. "Sounds like you’re his number one fan."
Shi Qingxuan beamed. "Of course! He’s my best friend. Been with me through everything." His tone softened just a bit before he shook himself and grinned again. "But you don’t have to take my word for it. Just wait until he starts. Even the grumpiest of you will be impressed."
Shi Qingxuan straightened up as if about to leave, dusting off his sleeves with a dramatic flourish. "Alright, I’ll leave you to your drinks for now. But trust me, you’re in for a treat."
But then, instead of walking away, he very pointedly slid into the empty chair at their table, propping his chin up on one hand with an exaggerated sigh.
Mu Qing raised a brow. "Didn’t you just say you were leaving?"
Shi Qingxuan waved a hand dismissively. "I changed my mind. Besides, the bar is running just fine without me for a few minutes." He leaned back, feigning nonchalance. "Might as well keep you two company for a song or two."
Feng Xin eyed him skeptically, taking a slow sip of his drink. "Or is this just an excuse to keep talking about your famous friend?"
Shi Qingxuan gasped, pressing a hand to his chest as if mortally offended. "How dare you! I would never be so shameless."
Feng Xin didn’t look convinced. Mu Qing snorted.
"Okay, fine," Shi Qingxuan admitted, grinning. "Maybe a little. But can you blame me? A-Lian’s the best." He leaned in conspiratorially.
The murmur of the club softened as the lights dimmed, a hush of anticipation falling over the crowd. A single spotlight flickered to life, illuminating the stage as the band members took their places—an upright bassist adjusting his strings, a pianist flexing his fingers, a guitarist rolling his shoulders in preparation.
And then, he walked in.
Xie Lian stepped onto the stage with the kind of grace that turned heads without trying, his presence magnetic. He was dressed simply—elegant, effortless. A crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, dark slacks that fit just right, and a vest that accentuated the lean lines of his frame. His long chesnut hair, still as silky and smooth as they remembered, was half-tied at the back of his head, a few loose strands framing his face. He looked radiant under the warm stage lights, the glow casting delicate shadows over his high cheekbones, the curve of his lips, the quiet confidence in his posture.
And—most striking of all—he looked happy.
Not just at ease, not just content. But truly, unmistakably happy.
Feng Xin and Mu Qing felt their breath hitch in unison.
It had been eight years. Eight long years since they last saw him—since they had walked away, leaving him to face the wreckage of his life alone. Eight years since his parents had passed away, since their familial business had crumbled, since everything he had worked for had been swept away in the tide of misfortune.
And yet, here he was.
Thriving .
Mu Qing’s grip tightened around his glass, his fingers turning white against the smooth surface. His pulse pounded in his ears as his mind struggled to reconcile the man before him with the one they had left.
Feng Xin sat rigid, his usually broad and relaxed frame now stiff with something unreadable. He swallowed, eyes locked onto the stage as if afraid Xie Lian would disappear the moment he blinked.
Neither of them had expected this.
They had imagined—if they ever saw him again—finding someone weathered, worn-down by time and hardship. Someone bitter, resentful. Someone still carrying the weight of the past.
But this Xie Lian was untouchable, radiant in a way that made their throats close up.
He took his place at the center of the stage, sitting behind drums, adjusting the microphone with a natural ease, flashing a quick smile at the pianist who gave him a supportive nod. Then, he turned to the crowd, his expression open and warm, eyes shining with something light, something free.
He hadn’t seen them.
He had no idea they were here, frozen in place, watching him like ghosts watching the living.
Mu Qing felt a lump rise in his throat. He swallowed hard and forced himself to speak, though his voice betrayed him, faltering at the edges.
"Wh-What was his name again?"
Shi Qingxuan, who had been happily watching the stage, turned to him with a curious tilt of the head. "Huh? You mean Xie Lian?"
Mu Qing flinched, just slightly.
Shi Qingxuan’s gaze flickered between him and Feng Xin, his brows knitting together in mild intrigue. "Wait… do you guys know him?"
Feng Xin’s fingers clenched against the edge of the table.
Neither of them answered.
Because the truth was, they didn’t. Not anymore.
The music began, slow and haunting. A hush settled over the club as the first notes resonated through the smoky air, weaving through the dim light like something ghostly. Xie Lian’s voice followed, soft at first, delicate, before swelling into something raw, something aching.
I'm the next act waiting in the wings
Feng Xin’s grip tightened around his glass. The words struck something deep, something buried. The image came unbidden—Xie Lian, left behind, waiting. Waiting for help that never came, for friends who never returned.
I'm an animal trapped in your hot car
Mu Qing stiffened. Trapped. The memory was suffocating—Xie Lian struggling to keep his business afloat, to claw his way out of ruin while they had stood on the sidelines, doing nothing. He had been desperate, drowning in debt, burdened by grief. They had been right there, close enough to help. And yet, they had turned away.
I am all the days that you choose to ignore.
Feng Xin’s breath hitched. His chest felt tight, his pulse hammering in his ears. Days. Weeks. Years. The messages left unanswered, the paths deliberately avoided. He had told himself it was for the best—that Xie Lian would be fine without them. But this song, his voice, stripped away those justifications like peeling away old, rotting paint, exposing what lay underneath.
Guilt .
Beside him, Mu Qing remained unnaturally still, his face unreadable, but his knuckles were white where they pressed against the table.
A sharp inhale. Then, finally, his voice, quieter than usual. “What’s this song about?”
Shi Qingxuan, who had been watching them closely, exhaled softly. There was something knowing in his eyes now, something carefully measured. “It’s about brothers who left.” His tone was lighter than the weight of the words deserved, as if trying to soften the blow. “Xie Lian wrote this song years ago.”
Feng Xin frowned, brow furrowing. “Brothers?”
Shi Qingxuan shrugged, gaze flickering toward the stage. “I don’t know much. He never talks about it. Just that he had two brothers a long time ago, and now…” He hesitated. “…he doesn’t anymore.”
Feng Xin felt something twist, deep and sharp, like glass ripping his insides. Brothers . That’s what they had been for him. So much more than friends.
Mu Qing looked down, lips pressed into a thin line. The ice in his glass had started to melt, the condensation pooling along the table’s surface, but he didn’t move.
And then Xie Lian sang again, his voice rising with quiet aching.
You are all I need
You're all I need
Feng Xin squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, his throat suddenly dry. He could hear it so clearly now. The unspoken plea buried in every note.
Xie Lian had needed them. So much.
I'm in the middle of your picture
Lying in the reeds.
Mu Qing sucked in a sharp breath. The image was so clear now—a picture, frozen in time, untouched. Left behind.
The melody swelled, filling every corner of the dimly lit club, the pulse of the drums increasing like a grieving heartbeat echoing through an empty space. The bassline rumbled low, the piano's lingering chords stretching like the last threads of a frayed rope. Xie Lian’s voice trembled on the final refrain, the raw emotion laced into every note cutting through the smoky haze like a knife.
It’s all wrong, it’s all wrong, it’s all wrong…
Feng Xin’s fingers dug into his thigh beneath the table. His throat stung. His eyes felt heavy.
It’s alright, it’s alright, it’s alright…
Mu Qing exhaled shakily, staring at his drink as if the amber liquid held answers. He had always prided himself on logic, on making the right choices. But if he had been so right, why did every word in that song feel like a wound tearing open?
It’s all wrong, it’s alright…
On stage, Xie Lian lifted a hand briefly to his face, fingers pressing against his temple before lowering to the drumsticks resting in his lap. His shoulders rose and fell with slow, measured breaths. It was subtle—so subtle that most people probably wouldn’t even notice—but Feng Xin and Mu Qing had known him too well once. That small movement, that brief second of pause, was enough to see it.
The way he carried something heavy even now.
Shi Qingxuan sighed, shaking his head. "He always gets emotional when performing this live." His voice was casual, but there was an underlying fondness there, a quiet understanding that told them this wasn’t the first time he had seen Xie Lian like this.
Feng Xin’s jaw tightened. That should’ve been their understanding.
Xie Lian finally looked up, offering the crowd a small, warm smile before the pianist played a few light notes to ease the shift into the next song. The audience stirred, some murmuring in awe, others clapping lightly. But Xie Lian hadn’t looked at them once.
And yet, Feng Xin and Mu Qing felt as if the entire song had been staring right through them.
At the end of the night, but before they could fully gather their thoughts, movement on stage caught their attention.
A man in deep red strode toward Xie Lian with an effortless confidence, weaving past the drum set like he belonged there. Without hesitation, he reached for Xie Lian, one hand resting at his waist while the other gently cradled his face.
And then, right there, in front of everyone, he leaned in and kissed Xie Lian’s temple.
Feng Xin choked on his drink. Mu Qing visibly flinched.
Xie Lian, completely at ease, let out a laugh—light and genuine, the kind of laugh that rang through the air like wind chimes. His entire face lit up, his smile brighter than either of them had ever seen before. He reached up to squeeze the man's wrist in an affectionate, familiar gesture, tilting his head toward him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
It took Feng Xin and Mu Qing a solid three seconds to process what they had just witnessed.
Then—
OH MY GOD?! XIE LIAN IS MARRIED!
The realization hit them like a rock, their brains screaming in unison.
Feng Xin opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
Mu Qing looked like he had seen a ghost.
“Ho ho.”
Shi Qingxuan, watching their silent horror with growing amusement, raised a brow. “You definitely know him.”