BWXS CH31
The city-wide math placement exam ended, and spring arrived all at once.
Overnight, the plane trees on the Yingzhong campus sprouted new leaves, the fresh green glistening in the sunlight. On the tree-lined path from the main academic building to the cafeteria, Xie Lan and Dou Sheng walked side by side, listening to Che Ziming, Dai You, and Wang Gou discuss the just-concluded placement exam behind them.
They were placing bets on who would take the top spot this year.
“If it’s not Douzi, it’s Xie Lan. I bet you guys a barbecue meal; the loser treats the top scorer,” Che Ziming vowed solemnly.
Dai You, holding a bottle of coffee, laughed, “You’re betting on both seed players at once? Who’s going to bet against you?”
Che Ziming gritted his teeth. “Fine, I’ll lay it down properly. Based on our childhood friendship, I bet Douzi takes the crown.”
“Alright then,” Wang Gou said immediately. “I bet on Xie Lan.”
Che Ziming nudged Yu Fei, whose eyes were half-closed, with his elbow. “What about you?”
Yu Fei said coldly, “I bet on you shutting up. Let me zone out for a bit, don’t annoy me.”
Dai You laughed out loud, unscrewed his coffee, and took a sip. “I’ll bet on Douzi too. After all, his math ability has never reached its limit.”
The wind rustled the new leaves of the plane trees. Their voices mixed with the white noise of the afternoon, making one feel lazy.
Xie Lan was zoning out when he suddenly heard a metallic clink. In his peripheral vision, a round metal object popped up, reflecting light brilliantly in the air, before falling back and being slapped into Dou Sheng’s palm.
Dou Sheng’s hair, dyed back to black, seemed coated with light in the sun. He extended his hand in front of Xie Lan. “Heads or tails?”
Xie Lan paused, then subconsciously said, “Tails.”
Dou Sheng opened his hand to reveal the answer. It was tails.
He turned back to the guys behind him and smiled. “I bet on Xie Lan.”
Che Ziming roared instantly, “Did you mess up the test yourself?! Insiders are forbidden from betting!”
“I did pretty well.” Dou Sheng carelessly tossed the coin. “Just betting casually. Can’t I bet on whoever I like?”
Che Ziming muttered, “Cut the crap, you definitely messed up. I’m changing to Xie Lan!”
Dai You hissed, hesitating a bit. “If we all switch to Xie Lan, what are we betting on?”
“No take-backs.” Dou Sheng played with the shiny coin, the corners of his lips tilting up slightly. “Once a bet is placed, no changes allowed.”
The group’s laughter drifted down the path. Students passing by on both sides occasionally looked back, casting hurried glances.
Dou Sheng kept playing with those two coins. His pale, slender fingertips moved back and forth over the round coins, incredibly nimble.
Only when eating did he finally put the coins in his pocket. Dai You asked curiously, “What year is it? Where did you even get two steel coins?”
“This is a debt I collected.” Dou Sheng smiled, glancing at Xie Lan.
Xie Lan remained silent, lowering his head to focus on eating.
Every time Dou Sheng played with those coins, Xie Lan felt unsettled. Staring too long made him dizzy, but looking away, he couldn’t help but want to stare again after a while. Toxic.
Spring is here; refuse to be poisoned.
Xie Lan picked out and ate the sweet things on his plate and said, “My uploader verification on Bilibili passed.”
Dou Sheng’s brows relaxed. “Great. What’s your ID?”
Xie Lan had thought about this ID for a long time.
Old stories didn’t need to be brought up; he wanted to completely separate from his YouTube account. Initially, he wanted to use “Renaissance” like his WeChat name, but later felt it lacked a personal symbol. He thought about just using “Xie Lan” as introduced in the live stream, but that name was long taken. After changing it back and forth, the final ID he submitted was “Xie Lan em”.
’em’ were the initials for ‘Er Mao’ (Second Cat). Since Xie Lan 0229 and Xie Lan XL were taken, he had a brain freeze and registered Xie Lan em.
The avatar was a high-def front photo of the kitten Wutong tucking its paws on the windowsill in the sun. Its look was lazy and reserved, with a trace of natural feline disdain.
Dou Sheng asked in confusion, “What does ’em’ mean?”
Xie Lan felt guilty for some reason. He drank two mouthfuls of yogurt before saying, “Demon.” (Note: E-Mo).
“Huh?” Wang Gou dropped his spoon. “Good lord, that doesn’t match your temperament at all. Besides, who abbreviates ‘demon’? Who could decipher that?”
Dou Sheng frowned, picked up an egg tart, threw it into his mouth, and swallowed it in a few gulps before his brows suddenly relaxed.
“I think I should change my name too. Acronym culture is so popular now; if I don’t change, I’ll be old.” He pulled out his phone.
When he submitted the info, Xie Lan refreshed his homepage—World’s Most Handsome Dou, dm.
Xie Lan stared blankly at the screen.
Yu Fei put down his phone and frowned. “Are you two sick? What does ‘dm’ mean?”
“Dan Mo (Indifferent),” Dou Sheng smiled. “World’s Most Handsome Dou, Indifferent.”
Che Ziming rolled his eyes. “I think you should reverse it. md—World’s Most Handsome Dou, Ma De (Dammit).”
“Pfft!!—” Wang Gou sprayed his shredded potatoes.
Xie Lan watched them laughing and suddenly remembered something. He asked Che Ziming, “How is your grandma?”
“She’s fine.” Che Ziming grinned, showing a row of white teeth. “My dad got discharged last Wednesday. My grandma only went crazy that one time.”
After lunch, everyone returned to the dorms. Xie Lan wasn’t sleepy, so he sat on his bed writing a creator plan.
Dou Sheng originally sat in the middle of his own bed, glanced at him, scooted closer, glanced again, and scooted closer again.
“What type of Uploader do you plan to be?” he asked mysteriously in a hushed tone, as if discussing state secrets. “I think if you play the violin without showing your face, you could do some scenic performances.”
Xie Lan put down his pen, feeling a bit strange. “How do you know I won’t show my face? I already showed my face in your livestream.”
Dou Sheng froze, taking a long moment to say “Oh,” before replying faintly, “I just guessed casually. Showing your face is good, of course; there are more options.”
Xie Lan didn’t want to do silhouette performances anymore in the short term. Perhaps it was because of spring; watching the plane trees sprout new buds, he wanted to try something different after a long time, even if it was something crazy for him.
“My initial idea is mainly videos, live streaming depending on my mood. Content will be life and music; music videos will balance performance and arrangement, focusing on quality over quantity.” Xie Lan’s pen tip moved across the paper, casually sketching a simple plane tree. “Besides that, I also want to do some culture and geography stuff. School is busy, so I’ll find chances to travel during holidays.”
Dou Sheng hummed, his clear eyes filled with light. “By the way, what do you want for your debut video?”
Xie Lan thought for a moment. “Actually, I have quite a few mature arrangement demos on hand, recorded intermittently over the past year or so. They can be used directly.”
After Xiao Langjing left, he had actually created a lot of things. Perhaps because his experience and emotions had deepened, many were better than what he used to upload to YouTube, he just hadn’t released them.
Xie Lan selected a few suitable tracks in his mind. “Do you have any videos that need BGM or transition music? Preferably something with a strong narrative; daily vlogs might not hold it up.”
Dou Sheng clutched his chest and collapsed onto the bed with a bang, laughing as he said, “Zha xin le (My heart is pricked).”
Xie Lan put down his notebook. “What does ‘zha xin’ mean?”
“It’s like a knife.” Dou Sheng paused, then corrected himself, “No, a knife is too crude. A sword. A sword piercing through the heart. It makes the heart ache, the kind you remember for a lifetime.”
Xie Lan was stunned, staring blankly for a while before barely managing to retract his gaze. An arrow through the heart?
The only one he knew with that function was Cupid. Piercing the heart, causing pain, yet making it memorable.1
Xie Lan suddenly remembered a word Che Ziming used daily and hesitated, “Ai le (In love)?”
Dou Sheng froze. “?”
Xie Lan sighed and pressed a hand on his head. “I’m just letting you use the music, you don’t need to be so moved.”
Dou Sheng’s hair was fresh and fluffy, feeling a bit slippery to the touch, very nice.
Just as Xie Lan was about to pull his hand back, Dou Sheng slapped his wrist, laughing scoldingly, “No respect for your elders!”
Xie Lan was speechless. “You’re only six months older than me, always saying you’re big.”
“I am big.” Dou Sheng laughed, then returned to the topic. “I haven’t finished editing the ‘Persona’ video yet. It has the narrative feel you want. We can release it as a collaboration. I happen to need two pieces of music: one light and happy, with a strong rhythm, like lu, la, la. And one that can just go zir—coming out and making the heart tremble.”
Xie Lan almost collapsed laughing.
“Got it.” He nodded while laughing and taking notes. “One triple beat, one partita.”
Dou Sheng snapped his fingers. “Two swords combined, looking down on the martial arts world.”
Xie Lan hadn’t heard either of those idioms.
But that didn’t stop him from understanding Dou Sheng. He grabbed a coin lying on Dou Sheng’s pillow, tossed it up, and caught it in his palm.
Revealed—it was tails again.
For the next few days, apart from studying, Xie Lan put almost all his effort into adjusting the arrangements.
In the past, his arrangements were mostly authorized anime songs that he adjusted for violin solo. Xie Lan had absolute confidence in the quality of his demos; using them directly wouldn’t be a problem. But perhaps because it was his first submission, and a collaboration with Dou Sheng, he put in 120% effort, mixing in drum beats and wind sounds to accentuate the music.
Dou Sheng was also working hard on the video. According to Xie Lan’s observation, he was extremely dedicated to this video. He abandoned homework for all six subjects, carefully designing storyboards on paper during evening study hall, and editing bit by bit on his computer back in the dorm. Sometimes while eating, he would suddenly frown, fish out his phone to record inspiration in his memos, or decide to scrap previous ideas.
At night, Xie Lan wore headphones to test the software-simulated mixing. In his peripheral vision was Dou Sheng’s slender hand holding the mouse, the cord moving slightly, his index finger clicking occasionally—the clicks were light and very focused.
During the break of Friday evening study hall, just as Xie Lan finished a 400-character essay wearing a “mask of pain,” Dou Sheng gently poked him from below.
Xie Lan looked up. “Hm?”
An iPad was extended from under the desk. Dou Sheng shared an earphone with him. “Check the effect.”
It was done.
Xie Lan sat up straight immediately, glanced calmly at the back door where people were coming and going to ensure safety, and put on the earphone.
Dou Sheng had recorded 500 minutes of footage, but the final product was only three and a half minutes long. It was a very stream-of-consciousness micro-film with no narration. The shots were either of a grey-toned world with blurry, out-of-focus passerby faces, or a rebellious, down-and-out youth hurrying through the streets. The camera pushed and pulled between the youth’s perspective and the passersby’s perspective, possessing a quality of wanting to speak but stopping.
The “Wayward Youth” had three character facets. During the day, under the bright sun, he carried an angry aura, moving quickly through the narrow South Alley, with residents avoiding him. Then came a fast-paced change of outfits, capturing hand gestures and body language that became increasingly exaggerated with each shot. He lifted his chin arrogantly at the camera, his profile sharp and eyes cold and proud, a bit like a street hippie, creating a strong clash with Xie Lan’s classical triple-beat BGM. Returning home at night, the boy yanked his dirty hoodie off by the collar, revealing a slightly wrinkled white shirt underneath. He hooked the dirty clothes over his shoulder with one finger. Rain splashed on the car window; the boy looked up from the mirror, black hair and black eyes filled with mist, gradually spreading across the entire screen.
For the second violin demo, Dou Sheng only used a long, trailing note—appearing suddenly and stopping abruptly.
When it finished playing, the black screen reflected Xie Lan’s slightly stunned eyes.
Dou Sheng was spinning a pen over a math test paper beside him, seemingly glancing inadvertently at Xie Lan’s screen. “Finished watching?”
His voice sounded a bit rushing. Xie Lan paused. “Just finished, what’s the rush?”
“Who’s rushing?” Dou Sheng curled his lip, wrote a string of completely nonsensical math formulas on the paper, and said, “Just asking for your opinion. This video has a special meaning, after all.”
Special meaning?
Xie Lan was stunned. “What special meaning?”
Dou Sheng clicked his tongue, continued scribbling randomly, and after a long while whispered, “Guess it’s because it’s the first time collaborating on a video with someone. More or less, there’s a tiny bit of nervousness.”
“…”
Confusion slowly crept onto Xie Lan’s face.
He silently opened his phone, went to Dou Sheng’s homepage, scrolled back frantically through several screens, and pointed at one randomly. “This one, collab with Game Zone’s Cyber Fatty. This one, with Life Zone’s La La Little Ding Dong. This one, with Study Zone’s Dry Goods Superman Teacher Wang. What, are they not human?”
Dou Sheng was dumbfounded.
“How many of my videos did you binge?” He looked at Xie Lan in shock.
Xie Lan huffed. “I binged your entire career.”
He even tipped a few coins for some—”some” meaning very few, as coins were a scarce resource.
Dou Sheng bent his long legs, toes resting on the ground, tipping his chair back.
Xie Lan felt he was being a bit hyperactive today.
“Forget it, never mind all that.” Dou Sheng shook his head. “Just say how it is. Is it qualified to be your debut work?”
Xie Lan looked at the screen where the video had ended.
It was a heavily stylized video. The passerby perspective was the most brilliant—glancing sideways from a high vantage point at the boy pulling down his cap and ducking into an alley corner, or filming from ground level as dirty sneakers kicked away gravel, looking up to give a close-up of that streak of dyed hair in the sunlight. Rather than a passerby’s perspective, it was more like the prying eyes from a street corner, the stubborn weeds in a wall crack—the eyes of those “wild kindred spirits” watching the boy.
“I think this isn’t a video everyone will understand. The message requires pondering,” Xie Lan phrased carefully. “It might not be as light and happy as your daily vlogs, nor as safe as your game reviews.”
Dou Sheng glanced at him faintly. “You’d better have a ‘but’.”
Xie Lan hooked the corner of his lips. “But, it’s very high-class. Speaking for myself, I like it.”
Bang.
Dou Sheng extended his long leg and sent Yu Fei in the front seat flying.
Yu Fei was originally lying on his desk half-dead. His chair was suddenly kicked forward; almost as thin as a paper man, his lower body slid under the desk, and under the pressure of the chair back, his upper body jerked back, leaving him paralyzed in the chair.
Xie Lan was startled. “Are you okay?”
It felt like Yu Fei had snapped.
However, Yu Fei seemed used to it. Maintaining his paralyzed posture leaning back in the chair, he rolled his eyes at Dou Sheng.
“Are you f*cking sick?” he cursed weakly. “What, did your follower count break a million again?”
Dou Sheng’s Adam’s apple moved. “Just stretching my legs.”
“Addicted to kicking your grandpa,” Yu Fei yelled lifelessly. “Che Ziming, move me back, I can’t breathe.”
Che Ziming was huddled with Dai You discussing a math problem. Without looking up, he used his toe to hook Yu Fei’s chair leg and pull him back a few centimeters.
Practiced to a heartbreaking degree.
Xie Lan asked in a low voice, “For the joint submission, do I need to do anything?”
Dou Sheng opened the web version of Bilibili. “I invited you as Staff. Once you click accept, I can upload the video anytime.”
“Oh.”
The collaboration invite came through, and Xie Lan immediately clicked accept. Then he glanced at Dou Sheng, but Dou Sheng didn’t seem to plan on uploading it immediately. He just casually glanced at the system notification, turned off the tablet, and lowered his head to start writing that math paper again—
The math homework from three days ago; Old Ma had already gone over it.
Xie Lan was exasperated. He wanted to poke him and ask what he meant by this, but felt he shouldn’t ask.
He didn’t want to appear too eager.
Every Friday after school, Xie Lan would stay in the classroom a bit longer with Dou Sheng and the others, listening to Che Ziming and Wang Gou crack jokes before considering the week over. But today, there seemed to be a silent understanding between him and Dou Sheng; as soon as school was out, they grabbed their bags and left, leaving the squad far behind.
Once home, Dou Sheng locked himself in his room. Xie Lan had nothing to do, so he forced himself to calmly go back to his room to do homework.
A Chinese language paper was spread out on the desk. All the characters seemed to be holding hands and dancing, mocking him for becoming illiterate whenever he got anxious.
His mind was full of: Video, video, when is the video releasing?
He forced himself to hold out until 10 PM. Having been home for an hour, Xie Lan picked up his water cup and walked to Dou Sheng’s door.
The door was open. Dou Sheng was sitting in front of the computer, staring dead at the screen. The moment Xie Lan stood at the door, the screen seemed to flash, and what he saw was a huge Taobao page.
Why is this person online shopping now…
Xie Lan felt a wave of suffocation. “When are you uploading the video?”
“Oh.” Dou Sheng looked back at him, acting nonchalant. “I already uploaded it.”
Xie Lan paused. “Already uploaded?”
Dou Sheng casually clicked on a product page. “It’s in the review queue. What’s there to stare at? Calm down, go to sleep early, we have makeup classes tomorrow.”
“I am calm,” Xie Lan said immediately, then paused and added in a flat tone, “I was just asking casually, suddenly remembered it.”
Dou Sheng nodded perfunctorily and leaned close to the screen, as if browsing the product very seriously.
Xie Lan glanced at the product details page and froze.
Adult diapers.
Dou Sheng wasn’t just looking; he seemed to be looking very seriously. The page scrolled down slowly, his eyes fixed on the screen, even the back of his head revealing an air of intense research.
Xie Lan stood at the door in confusion for a long while before turning to leave.
The moon was big tonight, the night sky clear as if washed.
But lying in bed, Xie Lan felt his heart burning. After a long time, he sighed softly, rolled over, and poked the cat.
Wutong lay by his pillow, squinting at him.
“Wutong,” he whispered. “What do I have to be nervous about? I’m at least a YouTuber with three million subs. What scenes haven’t I seen?”
In Che Ziming’s words, this was called “following the heart” (cong xin), abbreviated as Song (Cowardly).
But he couldn’t quite figure it out. Opening a Bilibili account was just to try something new. The main creator of this submission was Dou Sheng; he was only responsible for adding two BGM tracks. And those two tracks were of sufficient standard, the performance top-tier. What was there to be cowardly about?
Xie Lan sighed deeply, rolling over to look at the moon.
Maybe it was because of the look in Dou Sheng’s eyes reflecting on the screen after the video ended in the classroom—that look of expectation he hadn’t managed to hide in time.
Or maybe it was the fingers clicking the mouse lightly in his peripheral vision for several consecutive nights, and the back of Dou Sheng’s head just now as he forcibly researched diapers.
“Dan Mo” and “Demon’s” first video collaboration. It was unspoken, neither saying how much they valued it.
But those who knew, knew.
Xie Lan imitated Dou Sheng and clicked his tongue, poking the cat again. “Do you think my ending note was a bit sharp? Sigh, recorded it over a year ago, didn’t have time to re-record it this time.”
The cat didn’t make a sound, just squinted at him. Dignified.
Xie Lan took out his phone and messaged Dou Sheng.
Renaissance: Is it out yet?
RJJSD: Still under review. Little Broken Station’s review speed is erratic. Go to sleep early.
RJJSD: Don’t rush. If you hadn’t asked, I would have almost forgotten about it.
Forgotten, yeah right.
Xie Lan curled his lip and typed: Oh, so are you waiting for the review?
Dou Sheng replied instantly: Am I stupid? Do I not have a life? Of course I’m not waiting.
I see.
Xie Lan put down his phone and stared into space for a while, deciding to sleep.
It took him a long time to fall asleep that night. Half-asleep in the early morning, he heard Dou Sheng go downstairs to pour water, and vaguely, he heard Dou Sheng sighing—a sigh filled with anxiety.
Early the next morning, when Xie Lan opened his eyes, it was broad daylight. He instinctively reached for his phone.
His own account had automatically posted the collaboration 4 hours ago: “Persona | Diametrically Opposed—Original Intention Awakening”.
What does ‘Original Intention Awakening’ mean?
Xie Lan pondered holding the phone for a while but didn’t get it. He looked at the thumbnail; surprisingly, it wasn’t footage from the video, but a photo Dou Sheng had taken leaning on his shoulder that day walking out of South Alley.
Dou Sheng looked at the camera with cold, rebellious eyes, but his posture was unrestrained and lazy. Xie Lan’s face didn’t appear in the frame, only his shoulder and neck where Dou Sheng’s hand rested. Dou Sheng had put some thought into this picture; he added some light points where his fingertips touched Xie Lan’s collarbone, giving it a touch of holiness and haziness. Near Xie Lan’s neck, there was also a small hand-drawn plane tree leaf.
In the video description box, Dou Sheng had simply written two lines—
[Suddenly remembered why I started making videos]
[55555]
What the hell is 555?
Xie Lan froze for a while longer. After a long time, carrying his confusion, he clicked on the backend. The data flooded his eyes.
The video, approved in the early morning, had already reached 150,000 views, 1.2k comments, 27k likes, and 26k coins. The data curve had been shooting up steeply since 6 AM.
And he himself—New Uploader @XieLan_em—had broken 20,000 followers within hours of the video’s release.
Xie Lan refreshed the homepage. The video had parachuted into the recommended spot in the top left corner, and was the number one automatic recommendation in the search bar.
A topic running contrary to entertainment, yet it had exploded.
Top Comment: “Is this something I deserve to watch? I have no depth, I don’t understand stream of consciousness. I only know how to lick the screen. Godly looks + beautiful body, tie tie2.”
—
Author’s Note:
Lazy Egg chased Dou Egg asking: What does 55555 mean?
Dou Egg said: It’s crying (wuwuwu).
Lazy Egg paused: Why? Are you very sad?
Crying isn’t necessarily sad. Dou Egg looked back and smiled: The usage scenarios for 55555 are very rich. I can give you an example.
Lazy Egg nodded humbly: Go ahead.
Dou Egg sucked in a breath dramatically, staring blankly at a point in the air and muttering: Lazy Egg is so cute, 55555.
Lazy Egg: !
A keyboard warrior passing by sneered: There’s another usage.
Dou Egg side-eyed her: What?
The keyboard warrior pinched her nose and mimicked his tone: The keyboard warrior hit me so hard today, it hurts, 555553.
Dou Egg: …
__
- Zha Xin (扎心) literally means “prick the heart.” In Chinese internet slang, it is used when something hits a sore spot, brings up a painful truth, or is emotionally overwhelming/touching in a bittersweet way.
Xie Lan takes the “heart pricked” imagery literally. He imagines Cupid’s arrow piercing a heart, which represents love. ↩︎ - Tiē Tiē (贴贴) literally means “paste” or “stick close.” In internet slang, particularly in ACG (Anime/Comic/Game) and Danmei culture, it means the user wants to snuggle up to the character, rub cheeks with them, or simply be physically close because they are so cute. ↩︎
- In Mandarin, the number 5 is pronounced Wǔ. When repeated (Wǔ wǔ wǔ), it sounds like the onomatopoeia for crying (Boo hoo hoo). ↩︎