Ch 2: Beneath the Mask, A Quite Flame

The sea dares not stir the mountain,

The mountain dares not challenge the sky,

The sky dares not meet the Milky Way—

Each abides its path, in silent grace.

His stare was relentless. Piercing. It refused to release my dreamy gaze, like gravity itself had shifted around us.

A single moment stretched into an aching eternity.

My heart pounded so violently I feared it might rupture —

bursting through bone and skin like wings breaking out of a chrysalis far too soon.

Maybe it was pride — that stubborn whisper coiled in my ribs, too proud to lower its gaze.

Or maybe it was my fragile heart, flinching beneath his gaze,

afraid of crumbling into invisible dust under the weight of something so quietly divine.

I wrestled with the tremble blooming in my eyes,

choked back the tide of heat crawling up my neck,

and turned — carefully — to the girl seated beside him.

A hollow, puppet-like motion. Awkward. Jerked by frayed strings.

Yet my posture remained rigid, carved like brittle stone.

His stare — silent and unwavering — still grazed me,

like flame brushing against paper without setting it alight.

I played the part. Glanced at the crowd behind him. Kept walking —

as if nothing had shattered my fragile composure.

Thank all the minor gods and backup deities that I didn't have eyes on my back.

Because inside? I had already retreated. Sprinting.

Tail tucked firmly between my soul's legs.

The moment I was out of sight, I broke into a full sprint —

a tragic little marathon fueled by panic and emotional asthma.

The staff washroom — technically off-limits to students — became my sanctuary.

Today, I wasn't just a volunteer.

I was a fugitive.

A criminal escaping from the scene of aesthetic annihilation.

I collapsed in front of the mirror, breathless.

Trembling.

Laughter crackled out of me in crooked waves —

half-hysterical, half-possessed.

"DUCK!!! DUCK!!! DUCK!!!" I whisper-screamed, like I was being hunted by divine retribution.

My body buzzed with leftover adrenaline.

Hair on end. Heart in throat.

If emotional earthquakes were fatal, I'd already be cremated.

"What the f** just happened?"

I asked my reflection.

It had no answers. Just my stupid face staring back.

I mean, sure — I'd seen good-looking guys before.

And sure, some of them had looked back.

But this one?

This one was different.

He wasn't just attractive —

he was the kind of beautiful that rewrites the laws of silence.

The kind that rearranges the atmosphere when he enters a room.

Like the kind of character in danmei novels that you spend 300 chapters crying over.

So of course —

in the grand tradition of disaster gays throughout history —

my brain chose this exact moment of vulnerability and chaos to shout:

"Quick! Take the picture!"

Because that's what rational people do when their soul is cracking open under pressure, right?

They become photographers of forbidden gods.

Look, I had a hobby.

A personal indulgence I never really let go of —

capturing fleeting glimmers of rare beauty before they vanished,

like ink evaporating from dream-scrolls.

Not in a creepy way, thank you.

Think of it as visual archiving for the emotionally compromised.

I wasn't a stalker. I was a collector of poetic moments.

A connoisseur of aesthetic heartbreak.

I'd send them to my online yaoi circle, where we'd rate these rare finds with monk-like reverence,

as if decoding celestial artifacts.

"Calm down. Calm down," I muttered, trying to wrangle the beast in my chest.

But it was already mid-rampage —

beating like a demon band rehearsing for the apocalypse.

I adjusted my mask, my hair an aftermath of emotional fallout,

and chuckled under my breath like a lunatic who just escaped a literary asylum.

Yes, officer. I was unwell. Probably mildly feral. Deal with it.

And then —

the door creaked open.

A professor walked in. Mid-forties. Dead-eyed.

Potential witness to my self-destruction.

If I stayed, I'd be caught — either reprimanded or recommended therapy.

So, naturally, I fled.

Bolted like I had just summoned Bloody Mary and seen her wink back.

Back at the auditorium, I re-assumed my volunteer persona.

Professional. Calm.

Casually fiddling with the camera like it was an extension of my noble duties.

Oh yes. Nothing suspicious here.

Just a humble servant of student affairs, fulfilling their righteous destiny.

Flash? Disabled.

Shutter sound? Silenced.

Risk level? Fatal.

One wrong move, and I'd be plastered across some student gossip page titled:

"Creepy Volunteer Gets Caught in 4K."

But I wasn't a rookie.

I was a seasoned sinner.

A practiced veteran in the aesthetic warfare of capturing gods without disturbing the heavens.

Once more, I walked down that aisle — and again, the audience's eyes clung to me like moths to a flame they didn't quite understand. But this time, I didn't flinch. People are always curious about what doesn't fit neatly into their boxes. And I — being both homosexual and a bit of a poser — had long accepted that I'd stand out, no matter how quietly I moved. I didn't ask for attention. I simply existed in ways the world hadn't rehearsed for.

I'd grown used to it — the stares, the whispered curiosity. It's just like breathing now. Breathing strange air in a room never designed for me — tainted with glitter, and heavy with judgment.

I was ready to pass him — to snap the picture and capture my little fragment of heaven.

But for the first time... I wavered.

His presence struck me again — not loud, not explosive — but soft and aching. Like the brush of petals across skin just before they bruise.

My heart thrashed like a bird locked in a box, desperate for sky.

I walked to the front, then circled back — like a moon caught in someone else's orbit.

One more pass.

Just one more.

A daze swallowed me whole, and again, my heartbeat skipped rehearsal and went off-script.

Still committed to my mission, I paced a few more times.

Phone in hand, camera subtly angled toward him — the perfect blend of casual obsession and performance art.

I clicked a few shots using the sound bar while gliding past, but most were tragic: obstructed by my own hand or blurred into nothingness, like dreams torn from sleep too soon.

They looked like my thoughts — crooked, fragile, mid-fall.

I was a nervous wreck made of muscle memory. Trembling inside, but outside? I moved with rehearsed precision — a marionette strung together with thin thread and sheer will.

With breath pulled tight and steps sewn from tension, I slowed myself.

He peeked. Subtle. Brief. Barely there.

And then — he turned.

A full 90 degrees.

His neck moved like some sacred sculpture come to life.

And I? I nearly coded.

My soul was already halfway through writing its last will and testament.

But I pretended to be strong — the way paper pretends to be armor.

All the while praying the wind wouldn't see through me.

I stationed myself one row ahead of him.

Close enough to feel his presence brushing down my spine like static.

Close enough for his occasional glances to ignite sparks along my vertebrae.

He didn't look often — but when he did, my bones lit up like city lights waking after a blackout.

I stood there, a perfect imitation of a dutiful volunteer. Eyes forward. Posture poised.

But my real role? Stargazer.

He was the soft melody threading beneath the roar of the auditorium.

A violin note hidden beneath brass and applause.

He was the forgotten lyric of a sad song that slips from your mouth when your guard is down.

Then came the trick.

A tactic honed through years of solitude and too many late-night foreign language videos.

I tapped my neckband, faked a call —

a solo performance born of loneliness and dramatized fluency.

Even left little pauses for my imaginary scene partner to speak. Realism, after all.

My voice, spun in silk and stitched with intent, rose just enough to catch nearby ears — especially his.

"Wei."

"Wait, you need the pictures now?"

"My mobile cam? You sure that'll cut it?"

"Okay. Where are you?"

"You need me?"

"Fine. Wait a minute. I'll send you back."

Mission cover: secured.

I raised my phone to my cheek, camera angled toward the back rows… and zoomed.

There he was.

Just as I was about to click — he looked straight at me.

Dead on.

I clicked anyway.

Sue me.

My fingers began to tremble. Not some poetic shiver — a full-scale earthquake beneath skin.

But I'd come this far. I'd built the guillotine, threaded the rope, even carved my initials into the wood.

There was no turning back.

Click. Click. Click.

Each snap was a prayer. Each frame, a reckless wish.

I wanted perfection — one still, clear record of this miracle I'd stumbled upon.

Because what if it blurred? What if I lost it?

I couldn't point the lens at him for too long — that was a rookie mistake. And I wasn't a rookie.

I was a sinner with principles.

Especially with him still watching — no, studying me.

Like a museum guard clocking someone hovering too long by a forbidden relic.

So I zoomed out. Pivoted casually toward the center rows.

Snapped a few filler shots for show.

And yet — his gaze held.

Sharp. Quiet. Unrelenting.

It wasn't just looking — it was seeing.

It felt like he was peeling away the layers — my black mask, my poised facade —

peering straight into the spiraling little obsession I'd built in his name.

I was terrified.

But also?

A little proud.

Because, let's be honest — I had trained for this.

My methods were messy. My nerves were fried.

But I wasn't new to this game.

I was a seasoned sinner.

A veteran in aesthetic warfare.

And if this was how I went down —

then at least I fell face-first into beauty.

I slowly lowered my phone from my face and glanced through the gallery. A soft smile curled behind my mask — quiet, secretive.

There he was. Frozen in pixels.

A face not merely captured, but immortalized.

That veiled beauty...

Those lashes, long and sharp like blades forged in silence...

That presence — fierce and subdued — casting light on the very air around him, as if existence itself bent slightly in reverence.

The more I stared, the more my heart trembled.

It didn't feel like a photo.

No. It felt like a live feed — like he was looking straight into my soul through the glass, calmly judging the thief behind the camera.

Even now, when I scroll back to those photos, the shyness returns like a ghost — a flutter in the chest, a heat behind the ears. It feels like yesterday.

It always will.

Feigning composure, I lifted my phone again and whispered into my neckband,

"Wei, check the pictures I sent you. I'm still on student-monitor duty — catch you later."

A perfect act. As if I hadn't just committed a low-key felony with my camera.

I stayed there, standing in my post like a loyal sentry. Not moving. Not flinching.

Acting like I hadn't seen the most wanted man in the scene — and I was the one guilty of stealing him.

Eventually, I noticed something strange.

Despite everything... the conference was actually interesting.

Or maybe I was pretending it was, just to maintain appearances.

Still, I pulled out my stylus and began jotting down potential project ideas. Just vague strokes across my screen — some to impress, some to distract, some to nourish this image of mine: the well-read, half-mysterious intellectual.

But my real attention? It never left the space behind me.

That shadow, that warmth, that... presence.

And then I saw it.

From the corner of my eye — he removed his mask.

My breath caught.

A star, unclouded.

Unveiled.

His face — not drawn but destined. The kind of face that even the finest poet, with all the words in the universe, would fail to describe.

The elegant bridge of his nose spoke of quiet nobility.

And his skin — how it caught the light like holy parchment — light didn't dare to cling, only hover in silent awe.

He wasn't glowing. He was glowed upon.

His expression... unreadable.

A still, melancholic calm — like a weeping willow, upright and noble, swaying against a heaven-sent wind. Not yearning to rise, but choosing instead to dwell among mortals. Quietly. Eternally.

And here I was — hiding behind a mask to conceal my flawed disappointing face.

He, on the other hand, had hidden behind a mask only to reveal a divinity no one deserved to witness so freely.

I longed to keep watching.

But I dared not.

So I did what I always did when the world became too much: I turned to my old habit.

Fishing.

Fishing pictures like a desperate poet collecting fleeting metaphors.

I crossed my arms, phone clutched in hand, screen dimmed to near black — pretending to rest, all while secretly angling myself for just one more glimpse.

Click. Click. Click.

I committed the transgression once more — my expression composed, yet my heart convulsed beneath the surface like storm-swept leaves straining against the wind.

Suddenly, his expression shifted.

Though his gaze did not directly seek mine, for a suspended heartbeat, I felt the unmistakable stir of awareness.

A whisper of intuition.

Had he perceived it?

Had he sensed the lens tethered to his light?

Instinctively, I looked elsewhere — a calculated retreat cloaked in nonchalance.

But I looked back.

How could I not?

He was delicately scratching his nose, his lips pursed into a soft pout.

His attention turned in the opposite direction — and yet, there was an ambiguity in the angle of his gaze.

A fleeting gesture that could have been a side-glance, or perhaps a trick of the moment.

Still—

There was a purity in that movement.

An innocence laced with intellect.

Like a child caught in private contemplation.

Unaware of the seismic tremors he sent through the hearts of others.

"Cute… Cute!!"

My soul shrieked in exultation, even as my voice trembled, desperate to remain caged.

One slip — just one — and I would be the unmasked jester, the lunatic clown in a theatre of decorum.

It was becoming dangerous.

I was nearing the precipice of collapse.

A single glance more and I might bleed from the nose, or worse — ascend into a state of poetic insanity.

Still, I continued.

I clicked and clicked, alternating between reverent observation and feigned professional diligence.

Sometimes I watched him directly; sometimes I let the lens intercede between us, like a veil through which I could admire his celestial form without consequence.

Between moments, I turned the camera toward the screen.

A believable volunteer. An impartial recorder.

Yes — I was simply doing my duty.

Then, gracefully and without announcement, he replaced his mask.

I felt no true regret.

His beauty, briefly unveiled, had already branded itself into my vision — like the final flicker of a candle before darkness.

Still, I clicked a few more times, each image an elegy.

I lingered, suspended in my post like a moth unwilling to abandon the fragrance of an immortal blossom.

Yet I dared not draw nearer.

I feared that any further glance, any prolonged admiration, might dispel the delicate illusion —

Might fracture the fragrance and awaken the sting.

So I remained still.

Composed on the surface.

Inside, I bloomed and broke in rhythmic succession —

A silent votary at the altar of fleeting beauty.

Buzz. Buzz.

My phone rang. For a brief, irrational moment, I thought it might be the police.

That's how deep my guilty conscience ran — riddled with the thrill of my aesthetic crimes.

I checked the screen.

It was only AiShiXia — my co-anchor, my partner-in-suffering, and now my reluctant savior.

It was time to leave.

To vacate the orbit of the deity whose existence had undone the rhythm of my breath.

A weight — cold, smooth, and ancient like river stone — pressed against my chest.

But as a second-year student with decent internal grades to maintain and a reputation as a faculty favorite (read: obedient academic pet), I had no choice.

Teacher's decree was scripture.

One did not defy it, not unless one wished to sacrifice future recommendations on the altar of teenage rebellion.

Still, I allowed myself one final glance.

One last look at the celestial being seated behind me.

But this was not farewell.

The conference was two days long.

The universe, at least for now, was on my side.

"LuLingLa, come with me," I called out softly.

Her real name was RuTing Ya,

but I preferred to stretch it like taffy into LuLingYa —

a teasing nickname that played on her nerves like fingers plucking harp strings.

She was my closest classmate,

as delicate as spring bamboo,

as ethereal as the first mist of dawn.

Slender as a reed and impossibly light,

she looked more like a child skipping through time than a university student.

Had she been just a breath shorter,

you could mistake her for someone who'd wandered from primary school into a campus of strangers.

"Where?" she asked, her voice high and suspicious.

I beckoned for her to follow, tilting my head toward the rear exit of the auditorium.

"Are you mad calling me that in front of everyone?" she hissed in protest.

I breezed past her complaints like a prince dodging paperwork.

"Let's go for lunch," I said simply.

"There's still ten minutes before it starts."

"Yes, but we've been instructed to eat early. Han-laoshi's orders."

"By we, you mean who?" Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Me and AiShiXia. But don't worry, I overheard another laoshi instruct the Coordinator to allow half the volunteers to eat early — crowd control logistics or whatever."

"But—" she began, already preparing to object.

I grabbed her by the arm before she could launch into one of her infamous reluctant speeches, dragging her gently, a smile curved permanently onto my lips.

"Wait! Let me at least tell ShiRui!" she pleaded.

"He's not your husband. You don't need to report everything to him."

"He'll wait for me."

"Call him. Tell him to join once we start eating. I'm hoping they'll put on a decent spread."

"You think? The budget was bare bones."

"IEEE sponsored it. It has to be somewhat edible."

"I wonder how much they're laundering," she added with a sly laugh.

"None of our business. We're merely peasants under the empire."

Chatting — no, gossiping — like the miscreants we were,

we arrived at the designated lunch area, where AiShiXia was already waiting.

Plates in hand, hunger in our eyes, we prepared ourselves

to feast... or at the very least, survive.

Ignoring my duty to return early and revise the script — a duty I was quite conveniently neglecting — I had a far more urgent mission in mind: food.

More precisely, the unmasking required to eat it.

I wasn't comfortable revealing my face to just anyone.

Not beyond my closest circle.

Maybe it was insecurity.

Maybe it was the residue of cruel remarks once tossed carelessly in my direction.

But whatever the reason, my mask stayed — until necessity dictated otherwise.

We found an empty table tucked near the corner, and without further delay, began shoveling food into our mouths like war refugees after a ceasefire.

I covered my mouth with one hand — modesty clinging to me like silk — and muttered in mock outrage:

"Do you know what their budget was?

I thought we'd at least get two sweets, two rice dishes, two soups, and ten side dishes minimum."

AiShiXia, chewing contentedly, chimed in with the wisdom of someone far too easily pleased,

"We have two kinds of starters, at least. That's something."

RuTingYa added like a wandering monk from a temple of frugal virtue,

"Those who know contentment are always happy.

After this spread? I'm more than content."

At that point, the hall was still quiet — our laughter echoing lightly against the empty space.

But soon the clock struck the sacred lunchtime bell,

and attendees began to pour in like pilgrims at a festival.

Study long enough, and hunger becomes the great equalizer.

The first half of the conference had dragged like eternity itself,

and I couldn't help but feel pity for those poor souls

who'd attended thinking lunch would be "just around the corner."

Fools. Hopeful. Starving.

"Your eyes look really beautiful today," RuTingYa said suddenly.

"Not my eyes," I replied between bites, "but the lens."

"Shut up. I've known you since first year. Do you know how many girls had a crush on you back then?"

AiShiXia joined in, grinning like the cat who swallowed the canary.

"Even me, at first! When we met as freshers —

the way you spoke, the way you carried yourself, the calm and cool... you were like a character from a novel."

I smiled awkwardly, flattery always feeling like sandpaper on my skin.

"Haha. And now? I've evolved into that teacher's pet everyone probably wants to strangle."

"Certainly not."

RuTingYa lifted her phone with the casual menace of a paparazzo.

"You look good. Here — say nothing and pose."

Flash.

The light blinded me like I was caught committing tax fraud.

"What the hell are you doing?!" I yelped, eyes wide.

"Capturing your eyes. They're especially pretty today. I'll send them later."

"Show me."

She shoved the screen in my face.

The result?

A demon.

Possibly a cursed deity from a rejected folklore manuscript.

My eyes looked like they could vaporize small towns.

Green as envy, sharp as wrath.

I scared myself.

Maybe it was the angle. Maybe the lighting. Or perhaps I was just born to be the antagonist in someone's tragic arc.

"Pretty, aren't they?" she smirked.

Before I could respond, she clicked again. And again.

Sneaky. Ruthless. A camera-wielding gangster.

"See for yourself," she said, pushing the next batch toward me.

This time…

I was impressed.

I grinned and turned to her with theatrical flair, "That one's good. Send it. I might post it later."

And just then, something tugged at my awareness — a ripple in the crowd.

I turned.

There he was.

The boy in teal.

Just a few meters away, surrounded by friends,

but looking toward me.

Smiling.

Caught between pride and paralysis,

I froze — mid-bite, mid-breath, mid-life.

His eyes met mine for a fraction of a moment,

and it was enough to unravel everything again.

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Vocabulary Guide

Lǎoshī (老师)

• Chinese: 老师

• Pronunciation: Lao-shrr (as in "loud" without the 'd' + soft "sure")

• Meaning: Teacher — a respectful title used for instructors or professors. In the Chinese academic and cultural context, it carries a weight of reverence beyond the English equivalent.

Xuédì (学弟)

• Chinese: 学弟

• Pronunciation: Shweh-Dee (as in "shoo-eh" + "deep")

• Meaning: Younger male schoolmate — used by female students or upperclassmen to refer to their male juniors in school.

Lǎoshī de mìnglìng (老师的命令)

• Chinese: 老师的命令

• Translation: Teacher's orders or Decree from the teacher

• Cultural nuance: In Chinese schooling, a teacher's instructions are often followed with utmost respect — even slight requests carry the weight of silent obligation.

IEEE (电气电子工程师学会)

• Abbreviation: Institute of Electrical and Electronics Engineers

• In context: A global academic organization often used in East Asian university culture to signify prestigious engineering conferences or sponsorships.

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Name Guide

Ru Tíngyà (如婷雅)

• 如 = Rú — "like," "as if"

• 婷 = Tíng — "graceful," "slender," often used to describe feminine elegance

• 雅 = Yà — "elegant," "refined," "literary"

• Pronunciation: Roo-Ting-Yah (as in "rue" + "ting" like bell + "yah")

• Meaning: "As graceful as elegance itself." A name drenched in refinement, suggesting a girl who is cultured, delicate, and poised. Carries the vibe of a porcelain ink painting brought to life.

Ai Shìxià (艾世霞)

• 艾 = Ài — "mugwort" (a medicinal herb); also a common surname

• 世 = Shì — "world," "generation"

• 霞 = Xiá — "rosy clouds," "sunset glow"

• Pronunciation: Eye-Shrr-Shyah (as in "eye" + soft "sure" + "shyah")

• Meaning: "Sunset glow upon the world" — A name evoking warmth, transience, and beauty. It suggests someone bright and fleetingly unforgettable, like dusk light fading into memory.

Shi Ruì (时睿)

• 时 = Shí — "time," "moment"

• 睿 = Ruì — "wise," "far-sighted," "enlightened"

• Pronunciation: Shr-Rway (as in soft "shr" + "ray" with 'w' echo)

• Meaning: "Wise at the right time" — A name often chosen for those meant to embody intellect and decisive clarity. Implies a person whose timing is always just right — rare, insightful, and quietly powerful.

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