“Hi everyone, I’m Xiaofei, twenty-one years old this year,” the screen shows a vibrant, youthful face. He has a buzz cut, eyes where one lid is single and the other double, snow-white teeth, and a small dimple on his left cheek when he smiles. “I’m in Canada now!” To avoid revealing the shooting location, he uses an open umbrella to cover the background. He shifts the umbrella slightly and turns around, revealing an entirely ordinary door on camera. He rings the doorbell, and soon, a crisp sound of a lock clicking open rings from inside.

The camera points directly at the open doorway. An Asian man emerges with a high bridge of the nose and eyes slightly squinted in sleepiness, hair curled, and unkempt stubble on his chin and jaw. “Hello, Teacher Zhen!” Xiaofei greets him enthusiastically from behind the lens. Zhen Xin faces the camera, looking perfectly natural; he smiles with a lazy, weary air, saying, “I’ve been waiting for you all day.”

“I hitched a ride to get here and had to change routes a few times,” Xiaofei says as his lens travels down the hallway into the living room. The space is small but clean. He expected to see a purebred dog or famous paintings, but there were none, only warm, quiet lighting and fluffy linen cushions, no different from an ordinary home. “I thought a big celebrity’s house would be very luxurious!”

Zhen Xin runs a hand through his hair, looking extremely handsome on camera: “He doesn’t like that sort of thing.” He rests a hand on the stair railing and looks up, calling out, “Yao’er, he’s here!” He says it in the Sichuan dialect, which Xiaofei doesn’t understand. “What did you say?”

“Nothing, just joking around.” Zhen Xin’s Taiwanese accent seems to have changed, becoming a bit more sharp-tongued.

Someone walks down the stairs, the sound of slippers hitting the carpet muffled. Xiaofei looks up through the lens and sees a long leg in big shorts straight and beautiful. The other person likely sees the camera and flashes past, retreating into a corner. Xiaofei hurries to greet him: “Hello, Teacher Zhang, sorry for the intrusion!”

Zhen Xin brushes past him and heads up the stairs, speaking in a soft tone: “Didn’t we agree, just for this week…” He is persuading him gently, and one can hear another voice, very low and calm: “I don’t like having a camera pointed at me in my own home…”

Xiaofei tilts his body, using the camera to record this small family dispute—a family of two men. About five minutes later, Zhen Xin leads Zhang Zhun down. Zhang Zhun is clearly uncomfortable, head lowered, forehead hair falling over his nose, as he reaches out to Xiaofei: “Hello.”

Xiaofei shakes that hand; it is thin but powerful—not the brute force of a martial artist, but a healthy, resilient vitality. Perhaps every straight man feels some curiosity about the “shorter” partner in a same-sex couple. He stares at Zhang Zhun rather impolitely until Zhen Xin taps his shoulder: “Are you hungry? Let’s eat first.”

Lunch, already prepared, is heated in the microwave and served steaming hot. Xiaofei sits at the dining table, and even while seated, one can tell he is tall and strong. “You…” Zhen Xin takes off his microwave mitts and sits next to Zhang Zhun, “How tall are you?”

“One meter eighty-nine,” Xiaofei is starving; having rushed around all day with a bag full of equipment, he wolfs the food down, “I’m still growing.”

“Where are you from?”

“Beijing, a typical ‘Chaoyang local’,” Xiaofei smiles mischievously, “Teacher Zhen, since you haven’t been out in these last two years, my girlfriend and her friends have been dying for a glimpse of you!”

Zhen Xin stares at him for a long time before smiling, quite nonchalantly: “There have been some stage plays in Taiwan or international commercials.” He affectionately puts his arm around Zhang Zhun’s shoulders, joking, “These past few years, he’s been the one supporting me.”

As they eat, they chat sporadically. Zhang Zhun barely speaks, sitting quietly as if just keeping Zhen Xin company. Xiaofei can’t help but glance in his direction. Before coming, he specifically watched The Acting; it is hard to imagine that the sophisticated, almost neurotic art merchant was played by an action star. Those despairing tears, those beautiful, seductive provocations—what a pity, he thinks.

After eating, Zhen Xin collects the plates: “Get some sleep early. Tell us about your plan tomorrow.”

“I want to start tonight,” Xiaofei interjects, grabbing the plates from his hands to wash them at the sink himself. “I brought sixty-seven cameras. I’ll get them all installed tonight and test them tomorrow morning.”

Zhen Xin and Zhang Zhun look at each other: “Sixty-seven?”

The implication is that it’s too many. Like all ambitious young people, Xiaofei says, “Hallways, bedrooms, bathrooms—a full-coverage reality show. Of course, I’ll edit it later to ensure no personal privacy is leaked.”

Zhang Zhun stands up abruptly, leaving Zhen Xin behind, and walks away.

He is very resistant to this project. Xiaofei is a bit surprised, as he thought actors were more open to cameras. “It’s getting late, Teacher Zhen, you two get some sleep; I’ll do my work.”

Zhen Xin says nothing and chases after Zhang Zhun. Xiaofei takes the cameras and tools from his backpack and begins installing them, starting from the dining room. As he works, he thinks, they must sleep in the same bed, right? Of course, do they sleep cuddling? Maybe… they do other things too? Wow, just the thought of those two faces rubbing together makes his skin crawl.

Although his body is tired, his brain feels high, as if on drugs. By three o’clock, he has finished installing the entire first floor and tiptoes upstairs. Passing the bedroom, he pauses to listen, but hears nothing.

Across from the bedroom is a media room; it is clear they love movies. He walks in and sees row upon row of DVDs in the wall cabinet. Looking up, there are stereo speakers in the four corners of the ceiling—a good angle.

Zhang Zhun gets up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom. Returning to the bedroom, he hears movement in the media room and peeks through the door crack. That guy is stepping on the back of the sofa, trying to reach the speakers to mount a camera. He fails several times, looking quite ridiculous.

Zhang Zhun originally didn’t want to get involved, but his heart softens, so he turns back and pushes the door open.

Xiaofei turns, startled to see him: “Hi,” he says, hunching his back awkwardly, “Did I wake you?”

“I’ll help you,” Zhang Zhun says with no expression, jumping up lightly to stand beside him. Their arms accidentally touch. Xiaofei immediately tenses up, his hands fumbling over the speaker. Zhang Zhun holds the camera for him, saying tepidly, “You’re quite amazing.”

“Huh?” Xiaofei wonders if he is being serious or sarcastic, his heart pounding. Zhang Zhun continues: “Doing a project like this all alone… when I was your age, I wouldn’t have even dared to imagine it.”

“It’s the age of self-media, after all,” Xiaofei is flattered. “Who says documentaries and reality shows can only be made by big TV teams, right?”

Zhang Zhun glances at him. Under the night light, he still looks like an innocent boy. “What about university? Aren’t you in school?”

“I’ve suspended my studies,” Xiaofei says, finding a good spot to install the camera. “This is my job. Once the footage is edited, I put it on video sites or sell it to satellite channels. The money earned goes into the next project. I’m actually a bit famous now.”

Zhang Zhun laughs, a fresh, pleasant sound. “Why choose us?”

This is a key question, but Xiaofei doesn’t sense it. Being unaware, he answers freely: “My girlfriend is a fan of Teacher Zhen. To be honest,” he jumps down from the sofa, “I hadn’t seen The Acting. I only knew it was about a same-sex relationship and was very popular. She nagged me until I watched it.” He turns back to help Zhang Zhun down, but Zhang Zhun lands as lightly as a feather or a withered leaf. Xiaofei pauses, stupidly saying, “And then I saw you…”

Zhang Zhun waits for him to continue. Xiaofei realizes he had a momentary trance: “I… I think you are amazing, and the movie is amazing. When I discussed it with my girlfriend, she said you two were together in real life. I wasn’t surprised at all, really, because those looks between ‘Fang Chi’ and ‘Gao Zhun’ were so real, so touching…”

He stops, feeling he is being too emotional, and scratches his head shyly. “I had just returned from Bolivia and was starting to prepare for my next project, so I rashly sent an email to Teacher Zhen’s management company.”

Zhang Zhun knows what happened next; Zhen Xin showed him that email. He just laughed it off, but Zhen Xin hugged him, held his hand to his lips, and said earnestly, “Let him try?”

Why? Zhang Zhun asked. Zhen Xin’s reply was: “I want those who don’t look favorably upon us to know that we are still together and we are very happy.” He sucked Zhang Zhun’s fingers into his mouth and added, “This way of life is very happy.”

“When I got Teacher Zhen’s reply, I was thrilled,” Xiaofei says, moving the sofa under another speaker. “Teacher Zhang, don’t worry, I will definitely show the world the real you!”

The next day after breakfast, with the bedroom camera installed, Xiaofei suggests starting with a duo interview in the backyard. The DV lens shows two white plastic chairs with Zhen Xin and Zhang Zhun sitting on either side, their arms occasionally touching. “Hi!” they greet the camera, smiling one free-spirited, the other shy.

“Teacher Zhen, Teacher Zhang, how long have you been together?” This is the first question, asked directly.

“Almost three years.” Zhen Xin keeps laughing the kind of laughter he cannot suppress. He notices it himself and bites his lip, looking at Zhang Zhun, who immediately lowers his head, looking constrained.

“Three years already, no need to be this lovey-dovey, right!” Xiaofei jokes from behind the camera. Zhang Zhun’s face turns bright red, and he covers his lips with his hand. Zhen Xin tugs on his sleeve: “Hey, say something.”

Zhang Zhun refuses, shaking his head slightly. If it were yesterday, Xiaofei wouldn’t have dared to talk to Zhang Zhun so freely, but after last night’s chat, his confidence grows: “Teacher Zhang, The Acting made you a star overnight. If I recall correctly, you won three Best Actor awards at home and abroad, but were banned by the media because of the gay scandal. May I ask… have you ever regretted it?”

Zhang Zhun stares at the lens like a startled animal. After a long pause, he licks his lips and speaks: “Regret… there is a little bit.” His hand moves unconsciously toward Zhen Xin. Zhen Xin doesn’t even look over, but he takes his hand. “I was too impulsive at the time. If I could do it all over again, I would probably…”

Zhen Xin seems interested in this question and interrupts: “We would probably have a secret relationship?”

Zhang Zhun turns to look at him, eyes curving as he laughs: “Right, at least not so high-profile!”

Xiaofei joins in their laughter: “The audience is curious, myself included. What is the life of two Best Actor award winners like? How is a family made up of two men different from one of a man and a woman?”

“There’s no difference, really,” Zhen Xin replies, though Xiaofei notices he keeps kneading Zhang Zhun’s fingers. “Maybe the bed needs to be of better quality?”

The joke is a bit overboard; Zhang Zhun kicks his chair. Zhen Xin leans in and whispers in his ear, likely apologizing and begging for mercy.

“My point might be a bit off,” Xiaofei continues, “but along the way, I’ve noticed many Canadian families have dogs, but you don’t seem to have one?”

The two fall silent for a moment. Xiaofei waits until Zhen Xin finally says, “We had one before, a Labrador, but…” He looks at Zhang Zhun as if asking for permission, “We have other plans…”

“Other plans?” Xiaofei is sensitive, “Do you mean… adopting a child?”

Zhang Zhun starts to get restless, his brow furrowing. Zhen Xin quickly grips his hand tightly: “We have that intention,” he shakes Zhang Zhun’s arm, “He likes children very much.”

Xiaofei looks at Zhang Zhun’s face through the lens gentle, serious, conservative. It is hard to imagine someone like him being gay. “Are you two… married? Since Canada is a country where same-sex marriage is legal.”

“Not yet,” Zhen Xin does as he usually likes to do, pulling Zhang Zhun’s hand to his lips and kissing it vaguely. “I would love to, but he isn’t willing.”

“It’s not that I’m unwilling…” Zhang Zhun finally speaks, still looking down, more shy than resistant. “Two grown men, getting married, it feels so strange…”

It feels so strange… His voice is so deep, making the listener feel soft inside. Xiaofei’s curiosity is fully piqued. Such a traditional man, what role does he play in this same-sex relationship? Is he the passive one? Is it the same in bed? He loosens his collar, suddenly feeling the Canadian sun is a bit scorching.

At lunch, Zhen Xin is busy in the kitchen. The dishes are a mix of Chinese and Western. Zhang Zhun is wearing only big shorts, doing pull-ups on the horizontal bar in the yard. Xiaofei watches that beautiful body through the kitchen window. “I thought Teacher Zhang would be doing the cooking.”

“Him?” Zhen Xin takes the stir-fried bamboo shoots out of the pan, “He makes it too spicy to eat.”

“Does he get used to your cooking? People from Sichuan love their spice.”

“He’s okay. He lived in Guangdong for a few years.”

At the mention of Guangdong, both fall silent. Xiaofei thinks for a moment, then says: “Xie Danying’s wedding, you two…”

“We didn’t go to the wedding, but we congratulated them at home,” Zhen Xin takes off his apron and walks to the door: “Brother Zhun, it’s time to eat.”

Zhang Zhun jumps down from the horizontal bar and walks into the house in slippers, dripping wet. Xiaofei stares at his flowing muscle lines, watching him shake his hair and head to the sink like a child to rinse his arms. Zhen Xin is not very happy, his Taiwanese accent returning: “How many times have I told you? Use the bathroom to rinse, the water is getting everywhere.”

Zhang Zhun pushes his sweaty hair back, revealing delicate brows and eyes: “Oh, I forgot. Next time.”

Zhen Xin serves his rice and hands him the chopsticks: “You say ‘next time’ every time.”

Zhang Zhun sits down carelessly: “You are so long-winded.”

Xiaofei watches them with fascination, like watching a bickering couple or two old friends with great rapport. He picks up his bowl and takes a couple of bites; truthfully, Zhen Xin’s cooking is good. “What do you usually do in the afternoon?”

“I scroll through Weibo and write some film reviews,” Zhen Xin answers, “He goes to the martial arts school to teach students.”

“A martial arts school?” Xiaofei raises his voice.

“It’s not far from here, ‘Zhang’s Martial Arts Studio’,” Zhen Xin habitually wipes the oily corner of Zhang Zhun’s mouth with his thumb. “That’s why I say he’s the one supporting me now.”

With Xiaofei present, Zhang Zhun is a bit embarrassed. He dodges slightly and says in a low voice: “You invested in it.”

These two are truly in love. Xiaofei doesn’t say it out loud, but he thinks to himself, how can such ordinary little interactions between two men look so… blush-inducing? He swallows and asks Zhang Zhun: “Can you take me there?”

Zhang Zhun doesn’t even look up: “Sure, let’s leave at 1:30.”

At 1:30, Xiaofei follows him toward the nearest bus stop. After walking quite a distance, he looks back and sees Zhen Xin still watching from the doorway. From afar, Xiaofei waves at him: “Since it’s just the two of us guys, will Teacher Zhen be jealous?”

Zhang Zhun doesn’t answer the question, searching his own clothes with his hands: “Do you have any cigarettes?”

“I don’t smoke,” Xiaofei replies.

Zhang Zhun sighs and stops talking. They walk to the bus stop in silence. While waiting, Zhang Zhun remains quiet. Xiaofei feels awkward—well, not just awkward, but something else, something prickling and itchy that makes him excited: “Can I film you?”

He reaches for his phone. Zhang Zhun, perhaps nervous or repulsed, frowns and glances at him, turning half-away to present his shaved, blue-tinged temple and slender neck to him.

The meaning is clear. Xiaofei pouts in disappointment, but thick-skinned, he forces a conversation: “It sounds like there’s some noise… is that the sound of waves?”

“Yes, follow this road and you’ll reach the sea in five minutes by car.” Zhang Zhun points for him. His hand is very thin; a normal man’s watch would look big on it. Xiaofei secretly leans closer and measures his height with his eyes—he’s really small, reaching about his own collarbone. “When… when did you realize you were gay?”

Zhang Zhun turns back abruptly, looking at him with an injured expression. Only for a brief second, then he pulls a smile: “I never thought I was gay.”

Xiaofei is a bit stunned: “Then you and Teacher Zhen…”

“There’s only him.”

There should have been more to say, explaining why “only him” or how “only him,” but the bus arrives, and they get on and sit one behind the other. Xiaofei looks out the window, restless, watching the midsummer scenery whip by as the salty sea breeze blows through the gaps in the window.

The evening program is a gay bar. It was Xiaofei’s request, as the audience’s tastes are becoming more and more exotic. Zhen Xin is indifferent, but Zhang Zhun is unwilling. While Xiaofei waits in the foyer, he hears them arguing in the living room. He is surprised to hear Zhen Xin say: “We’ve been here so long, we’ve never been. Aren’t you curious about what everyone else is like?”

“What others are like has nothing to do with us. As long as we are good, that’s enough.”

“It won’t kill you to take a look!” Zhen Xin is getting anxious.

“That kind of place…” Zhang Zhun has to speak the truth, “is terrifying…”

The living room goes silent. Xiaofei peeks and, sure enough, Zhen Xin is hugging Zhang Zhun tightly, rubbing his back while turning his face they are kissing, the kind with tongues entangled. Two men rubbing against each other as if on fire. Xiaofei thinks if he weren’t here, they would likely have fallen onto the carpet right then and there.

But he is here. After a while, Zhen Xin pushes Zhang Zhun out and smiles at Xiaofei: “OK, let’s go.”

They go to a cowboy-style gay bar ten-plus kilometers away. It’s likely the only one in the vicinity, so it’s quite popular. Many men stand outside holding beer bottles, some in groups, some alone, checking each other out under the glow of neon lights.

Zhen Xin parks the car carelessly at the entrance and walks side-by-side with Zhang Zhun. Xiaofei takes out his phone and points the camera at them. With a “click,” he starts recording: “Teachers, what is your take on the gay nightlife?”

“We never have ‘nightlife’,” Zhen Xin says. “This is also our first time at a bar like this.”

Zhang Zhun hides behind his arm, avoiding the lens, but Xiaofei, like an ignorant child, chases after him: “Rumor has it in the circle, Teacher Zhen, that you used to love playing around.”

Zhen Xin laughs: “I wouldn’t dare anymore. Who told me to find a martial arts champion as a boyfriend!”

Xiaofei walks in front, steadying the camera, pushing the bar door open with his back. Stifling air and loud music immediately drown them. Xiaofei yells: “Do gay couples stay loyal to each other like regular men and women?”

They both know the answer many people are promiscuous, like Gao Zhun in the movie. Zhen Xin casually pulls Zhang Zhun closer: “I don’t care about others, but we don’t mess around.”

When he says this, his expression is very serious. That aloof air from his prime years returns, his head held high, his gaze sharp, lingering on the edge of his curls with a warning.

Xiaofei is suppressed by his aura and slowly moves the camera away, turning to film the interior: a long wooden bar, a vintage jukebox, a pool table. The light is fairly bright, and the patrons are orderly. Except for a few young men in floral shirts kissing, most are just chatting. After a lap, the camera returns to Zhang Zhun’s face: “Teacher Zhang,” he can’t help but ask, “When you said ‘only’ Teacher Zhen this afternoon, what did you mean?”

On camera, Zhang Zhun blushes, his lips moving but no words coming out. The more he is like this, the more Xiaofei pushes: “Who chased who? Was it natural, or was there some catalyst? The movie was so explicit, were you confused for a moment? I mean, you two…”

Zhen Xin’s arm extends and blocks him. Xiaofei immediately realizes he has overstepped. Just as he is about to explain, a guy in a Texas cowboy hat approaches Zhen Xin, greeting him and showing him his phone. Zhen Xin waves him off coldly, but the guy is deliberate, dragging it out endlessly.

“Hi,” someone else speaks up on the other side, addressing Zhang Zhun. “Newbie.”

Zhang Zhun is clearly nervous. Not the nervousness of a confrontation, but the awkwardness and disorientation of a straight man encountering a gay person. Xiaofei, standing next to him, can clearly feel that he is shy, extremely shy.

The person says something enthusiastically. Zhang Zhun backs away, glancing at Zhen Xin for help. Xiaofei knows his English isn’t great, so he puts himself in between: “Don’t bother, OK? He has a boyfriend.”

The person laughs, pointing at Zhen Xin. Zhang Zhun understands—he says he didn’t expect both of them to be his boyfriends. Zhang Zhun is surprised, even angry. Because of the anger, he doesn’t notice the guy suggestively placing his hand on his belt buckle, four fingers pointing down, sliding explicitly against his crotch. Xiaofei sees it, and his anger flares. He is about the same height as the guy and, without giving any face, shoves him hard.

The move surprises Zhang Zhun, who uses his body to pin Xiaofei so he can’t move forward. The sleazy guy doesn’t get angry at all, chuckling as he wisely backs off. Walking away, he shouts something back at them. Zhang Zhun didn’t hear it clearly, so he turns back, chin tilted, and stupidly asks Xiaofei: “What’s a ‘threesome’?”

The word rolls off his tongue. Xiaofei feels as if his throat is being choked, unable to even swallow. “It just… means…” He is bewildered; the music seems to have been amplified tenfold, deafeningly loud, yet strangely, his heartbeat is even louder…

Returning home, Zhen Xin pulls Zhang Zhun into the yard to cool off. Xiaofei wants to join them but feels embarrassed. After fidgeting for a while, he goes upstairs to shower. As soon as he leaves, Zhen Xin leans in, hands roaming as he presses Zhang Zhun against the glass door: “That kid is a bit weird.”

Zhang Zhun knows what he wants to say and doesn’t dodge, looking him straight in the eyes: “He’s just curious.”

Zhen Xin brushes his face with the tip of his nose, bit by bit, until his lips press against Zhang Zhun’s, then says in a deep voice: “I’m very unhappy…” With that, he kisses him, moist and burning, filling Zhang Zhun’s mouth entirely with his tongue, rubbing against him until the back of Zhang Zhun’s head slides back and forth against the glass door.

“Wait…” Zhang Zhun isn’t refusing, just his eyelids turning red as he tilts his chin away and glances up: “It’s recording…”

Zhen Xin glares at the door frame where the small portable camera is flashing a red light. He doesn’t care, pushing his lower body against Zhang Zhun’s crotch, hard, arching twice: “I want to do it.”

“No…” Zhang Zhun is in a difficult position, lips pursed tight. “He’s still here.”

“He’s staying for a week. Are we not supposed to do it for a week?”

Zhang Zhun spreads his legs slightly, letting Zhen Xin’s lower body push in, hot and pressed against his own: “I don’t want to be filmed…” He looks past Zhen Xin’s shoulder at the dark bushes near the wall: “There?”

Zhen Xin bursts out laughing: “Wow, you’re so bold!”

Zhang Zhun blushes immediately, struggling twice in his arms: “Anyway, not in the house!”

Zhen Xin smiles coaxingly, leaning against his earlobe and whispering: “I have a place…”

He grabs Zhang Zhun’s hand and leads him into the house, through the kitchen to the living room, around the walk-in closet to the second floor. Zhang Zhun tiptoes like a thief, his voice muffled as he tries to pull his hand back: “Not the bedroom!”

But Zhen Xin truly means the bedroom. Entering, he doesn’t even close the door, taking off his shirt and throwing it directly over the camera at the door. Zhang Zhun stares nervously at the other three cameras, dazed, not daring to speak.

“Come here, let’s see what to wear tomorrow.” Naturally, Zhen Xin opens the large wardrobe opposite the bedroom door. Because the camera is covered, only Zhang Zhun can see that Zhen Xin’s expression is very… provocative.

He takes a step toward Zhen Xin. In that step, he understands instantly—Zhen Xin wants to do it in the wardrobe… He shakes his head in panic. Zhen Xin simply comes over to pull him. Zhang Zhun whispers a refusal: “It’s too narrow…”

Zhen Xin virtually pushes him inside. The closet is filled with clothes of all lengths, smelling of camphor, laundry detergent, and lingering cologne. Zhang Zhun is pressed against the back panel by Zhen Xin’s chest, the wardrobe door closing with a “bang.”

Blackness—not a sliver of light. Zhen Xin tugs at their clothes in the tiny space. Zhang Zhun listens to his hurried, rough breathing. His jeans are hanging halfway down his knees, his T-shirt peeled above his chest. His mouth is suddenly bitten, his butt cheeks pried open, forcefully kneaded, then closed. He cannot help but spread his legs in the narrow space, hooking them onto Zhen Xin’s pelvic bone.

Zhen Xin suddenly flips him over and holds him tightly from behind. He likely spat, as he pushes in along the inner thigh. Zhang Zhun cries out in ecstasy. Perhaps because his limbs are restricted, or perhaps the thrill of the secret is too stimulating, he is incredibly excited. He grabs Zhen Xin’s hands and pulls them to the front—not to his erect lower parts, but up, making him touch his nipples.

Only halfway in, the cabinet is too narrow; Zhang Zhun cannot open up much. Zhen Xin relies on this cramped posture, pushing his waist forward rapidly. As he thrusts, he twists the thin layer of fat on Zhang Zhun’s chest. Clothes and pants are constantly brushing back and forth against their faces. When he hits hard, they dangle and fall. He is dripping with sweat, his voice hoarse: “You’re so tight… it feels like the first time!”

Zhang Zhun uses all his strength to pry his own butt open, trying to sit back further. Still, he can’t take it all in. He makes a tiny, sticky whimpering sound, heart-wrenching, biting Zhen Xin’s finger to urge him deeper, deeper.

Xiaofei emerges from his shower and can’t find them anywhere. From the kitchen to the living room to the media room, he finally stops at the bedroom door. There is sound inside. He peeks curiously—there is no one there, but the wardrobe is vibrating with a “click-clack” sound, a strange, rhythmic vibration. At this point, he doesn’t think too much, until he sees a short sleeve hanging down from the door frame—the camera has been covered.

He looks at the cabinet, incredulous, his young face freezing before he turns to leave. Suddenly, a faint sound comes from behind, half-suppressed and half-wanton. Through the thick solid wood door, the voice is familiar, but the tone is distant and strange—like scratching glass with long fingernails, or a drop of boiling water hitting the heart. It makes his scalp tingle and his legs tremble.

“Ah…” Zhang Zhun’s sigh is so deep, so long, yet it turns abruptly and stops short, as if a beam of light had just left the sun only to be broken halfway. Xiaofei covers his ears and, listening to his own drum-like heartbeat, flees in panic.

It is very late, and he cannot sleep. The wardrobe plays over and over in his mind, vibrating, shaking, along with Zhang Zhun’s soft groans. He feels he has reacted and, panicking, leans against the headboard, not falling into a deep sleep until dawn. At ten in the morning, he goes downstairs with dark circles under his eyes. Halfway down, he hears music coming from the kitchen—”Quizas, Quizas, Quizas.” The melody is light, but he knows the lyrics; they are heartbreaking.

He doesn’t walk down but peeks into the kitchen while hunching over. Zhen Xin and Zhang Zhun have already finished breakfast. Perhaps on a whim, or perhaps lingering in the afterglow of last night’s indulgence, they are gently hugging each other, swaying slowly in the small space in front of the dining table to the rhythm of the song.

Zhang Zhun’s chin rests on Zhen Xin’s shoulder, eyes half-closed like a cat—a bit lazy and weary, perhaps tired out… Xiaofei pinches his thigh hard. He finds he cannot stop this absurd fantasy. He knows how gay men do that, but applying it to Zhang Zhun, he feels it is too degenerate, too dirty.

Zhen Xin might have said something, and Zhang Zhun giggles, moving his chin aside to dodge his lips. Xiaofei turns and walks back upstairs; he really cannot take it, cannot stand them being like this.

He doesn’t go downstairs all day. The cameras will record for him, anyway. After 4:00 PM, there is a knock at the door. He naturally assumes it’s Zhen Xin and stays silent until the person outside speaks: “Hi, are you up?” It’s Zhang Zhun.

He rolls off the bed and opens the door barefoot: “Teacher Zhang,” he says, smoothing his messy hair and leaning slightly, feeling flattered, “How are you…”

Zhang Zhun seems to have just returned from the martial arts school, sweat still hanging on his forehead and neck. His face is a bit red, a glow from strenuous exercise: “You haven’t eaten today, right?” Xiaofei notices he is carrying a paper bag—KFC—the scent of coffee and fried chicken wafting out. “There’s no food at home. I passed KFC on the way back. Popcorn chicken. Want some?”

Xiaofei’s eyes shine: “Yes, yes, I love it!”

“You like it that much?” Zhang Zhun is surprised and quite happy. “I was afraid it wouldn’t suit the taste of you kids.”

He used the word “kids,” and a fire suddenly ignites in Xiaofei: “I’m not a kid anymore,” he corrects him earnestly, “I have a girlfriend, and she says I’m very good!”

“What kind of ‘good’…” As a man, Zhang Zhun immediately understands what he means by “good.” He feels a bit awkward and a bit amused. He turns to leave, but Xiaofei suddenly presses in, closing his arms in an attempt to encircle him. Zhang Zhun steps back reflexively, and the force of their two bodies slams the bedroom door shut.

Bang! It is the sound of the door closing, and also the sound of a fist hitting a jawbone. Xiaofei falls to the floor, holding his chin in pain. Zhang Zhun stands opposite him, cold—there isn’t even a word of reproach before he slams the door and leaves.

Xiaofei has no idea what he did; everything happened too fast, too thoughtlessly. He gets up, wanting to chase him, but fears Zhen Xin discovering it. Zhen Xin… yes, Zhen Xin. He instinctively curls up. Zhang Zhun will tell him, and he will come to hold him accountable. Xiaofei can imagine the scene: Zhen Xin, as the true owner, ordering him to get out of their house.

I messed up! Like a stray dog, he ruffles his hair, angry and squatting in the corner. He squats for so long that when he finally turns to look, the sky outside the window is already dark. He listens; the hallway is quiet. He sneaks out through the door crack, but sees no one upstairs or down. There is a note on the coffee table in Traditional Chinese, which must have been written by Zhen Xin: We went to the beach. Heat it up and eat.

There is a plate of plastic-wrapped macaroni under the note.

It seems Zhang Zhun didn’t tell him. Xiaofei lets out a breath of relief, but at the same time, some inappropriate thoughts emerge. He doesn’t heat the pasta, just tears through the plastic wrap with a fork and eats it cold. As he eats, he throws the fork away, grabs his phone, and rushes into the yard.

There is a bicycle in the yard that he remembers. Sure enough, leaning against the garage door, he lifts it up, hops on, and rides away. Zhang Zhun had pointed out the direction to the beach.

Facing the summer night wind, he pedals desperately toward the sound of the tides. On the grey-blue asphalt road, the residual scent of daylight steams up. His cheeks feel hot and spicy; they might be swollen, but he feels smug, as if he has obtained a remarkable medal.

The sea isn’t far, but the coastline is long. He rides like a headless fly for over half an hour. Just as he is about to give up and go back, under a secluded rocky peak, on a deserted, empty beach, he sees two beams of light—car headlights. He recognizes the car, but what he can’t believe is the sight of two intertwined bodies rising and falling on the hood.

His heart pounds as if it will explode. He digs into his pockets, his hand trembling as he pulls out his phone—camera, focus, recording. The phone lens captures the distant scene, making the unclear clear. Zhang Zhun’s legs are wide open, knees protruding, Zhen Xin holding his waist, hips moving powerfully. He stares at the point where their lower bodies are connected—it’s too blurry to see clearly.

He records for over ten minutes. Zhen Xin and Zhang Zhun haven’t finished, but he feels he is done for. He stops recording and dials Zhen Xin’s number instead. It goes through. He stares firmly at the two entangled lovers, selfishly wanting them to stop, but they don’t. There is only a busy signal in his ear. Zhen Xin doesn’t even look back at the phone he left in his pants, hanging up the call. Xiaofei squats down and buries his head in his hands. This can’t go on, he warns himself. Stop, hurry up and stop!

So he edits a text: Teacher Zhen, I have something to take care of back home, so I need to end the filming early. I have basically gathered enough material. I’ll do one more group of solo interviews tomorrow and leave at night. My apologies!

He hits “Send,” shoves the phone back into his pocket, picks up the bicycle from the ground, turns it around, and rides away toward the endless, moonlit, black-glistening coastal road.

“The future? Him and me… we’ll probably just live our lives like this. I cook, he does fitness. We have a house and a martial arts studio. I learn to speak Sichuan dialect, and he occasionally pops out a few phrases of Taiwanese. If possible, I’d like a boy and a girl.”

Zhen Xin sits on a high stool borrowed from a neighbor, his hands resting casually on his knees, long legs straight, shoes polished bright, smiling at the camera. “Any other questions?”

“No,” Xiaofei puts down the DV camera, “Thank you, Teacher Zhen.”

Zhen Xin stands up: “I’ll go get him.”

He pushes the door open and leaves. Xiaofei immediately becomes nervous. The sound of the door opening soon rings out behind him; the footsteps sound like Zhang Zhun, but he doesn’t dare turn around, hunching his neck and pretending to fiddle with the equipment.

Zhang Zhun walks past him and sits on the high stool. Perhaps there is some distance between them, but neither speaks. After five minutes of this stalemate, Xiaofei can’t hold it anymore: “Teacher Zhang…” he frantically searches for something to say in his mind, “I’m going to ask you a few questions, about the same as the ones I asked Teacher Zhen. You…” He looks up at him. Zhang Zhun is wearing a black-and-white designer T-shirt, head bowed, his long forehead hair covering half his cheek. Suddenly, Xiaofei loses all his words.

Zhang Zhun starts to get restless, frowning and stomping his foot to stand up. Xiaofei hurries to ask: “You and Teacher Zhen… this relationship of yours, how do you define it yourself?”

Zhang Zhun struggles for a long time before answering: “Just being in love, I suppose.”

“In love?” The single word “love” easily triggers Xiaofei’s manic nerves. “What do you think love is? Mutual solace of the soul, or endless carnal desire?”

Carnal… desire? Zhang Zhun raises his eyebrows as if offended, and almost for the first time, he stares sharply at this kid: “Of course, both exist. We…”

“Don’t you think you make love too frequently?” Xiaofei interrupts. “And your methods are daring.”

Zhang Zhun is stunned, speechless. Xiaofei continues: “You’re the passive one, aren’t you? I’m curious—physiologically, how do you adapt to this role and find pleasure in it, or is it that you were naturally…”

He doesn’t finish the question, and he knows he can’t finish it because Zhang Zhun has already walked out. Only he and that lonely high stool remain in the room. The red light of the DV camera is still on. Perhaps this is the result he wanted—a clean break is better than a thousand threads.

He turns the camera toward himself, freezes for a moment, and forces a smile: “Hi, I’m Xiaofei, twenty-one years old this year. The Canadian summer is over.” He thinks for a moment, distracted. “This experience was very different. It’s like I wasn’t just filming someone else’s life, but experiencing my own growth. There were gains, and there were heartbeats.” He wipes his eyes roughly with his wrist and says softly:

“Goodbye.”