They sat close together as Fang Muyang pulled an old white feather from a book and began drawing on her palm.

Fei Ni was ticklish—he was drawing on her palm, but her feet tingled too, and even the music in her ears seemed to tickle. She raised her other hand to swat at him, “Stop that, it tickles too much.”

But Fang Muyang wouldn’t listen.

Thinking he hadn’t heard, she spoke louder: “Please stop teasing me. It tickles.”

Only after he had been drawing for a while did Fei Ni realize he was transcribing the music.

Fang Muyang’s strokes were hurried and heavy-handed. The tickling was nearly unbearable—Fei Ni’s lips bore teeth marks from biting them, her toes curled together as she desperately wanted to scratch one foot with the other, but Fang Muyang showed no sign of stopping. She was both ticklish and slightly fearful, her heart racing because they were listening to forbidden broadcasts. Yet the music in her ears stirred different emotions entirely. These sensations intertwined until Fei Ni could hardly bear it. She could have simply removed the earphones and left, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop listening. Finally exasperated, she burst out: “How can you be like this? Why can’t you draw on your palm?”

He was tormenting her almost beyond endurance.

But since what they were doing wasn’t exactly above board, she couldn’t express her anger openly either.

Her irritation carried a hint of pleading as she brought her mouth to his other ear, worried he couldn’t hear: “Please, can’t you draw on your palm?”

Fang Muyang said: “I want to make sure you remember it clearly, so you can play it later.”

“How could I play it with such thin walls?”

The sounds from next door immediately proved her point.

Fei Ni knew Fang Muyang heard it too, and he stopped drawing on her palm. But her torment hadn’t lessened.

Wang Xiaoman’s bed wasn’t particularly old, yet it creaked and groaned with just two people on it. Besides the bed’s noise, there was another sound—the first time Fei Ni heard it, she thought they were slapping each other, but careful listening proved otherwise.

Previously, when Fei Ni heard such sounds, she would stuff cotton in her ears, muffling everything. But now she heard it. Back when the broadcasting station was selecting people, Fei Ni had been rejected while Wang Xiaoman was chosen, supposedly because Wang Xiaoman’s voice better represented the working class. The sounds she was making now certainly couldn’t represent the working class.

This time Fei Ni truly couldn’t take it anymore. She pulled out her earphones, plugged them into Fang Muyang’s ear, and moved to return to her bed. With the neighbors’ sounds, she couldn’t properly enjoy the music in the earphones.

The radio at least had a buffer, but the neighbors’ sounds were crystal clear. She couldn’t pretend not to hear them.

Before she could stand, Fang Muyang’s arm wrapped around her shoulders, and the earphone was returned to her—though in her other ear. Her original ear was now closer to him, presumably to better hear him speak. He pulled her closer, his lips touching her earlobe as he asked, “Was it always this poorly soundproofed?”

Fei Ni made a soft sound of agreement.

“Could you always hear everything?”

Her affirmative response was even quieter.

“Wait a moment, let me get something.” Fei Ni broke free from Fang Muyang’s grasp, took the flashlight, and tiptoed to get the cotton by her pillow. She tore off a piece and stuffed it in Fang Muyang’s free ear, then put some in her own, but the neighbors’ sounds still penetrated the cotton barrier. She could hear not only the rhythmic impacts from next door but also her heartbeat and Fang Muyang’s breathing. When he spoke, her ears burned unbearably. Her hands clutched the bedsheet tightly, twisting it, until she couldn’t stand it anymore and said, “I am tired this time. I’m going to stop listening.”

This time Fang Muyang didn’t stop her. Fei Ni practically fled to her bed. She covered her head with the blanket, curling into a ball, trying desperately to drive the neighbors’ sounds from her mind, but it was useless. She almost hated Wang Xiaoman—why did she have to be so loud? Even if it hurt, couldn’t she endure it quietly? Why make such sounds? And if it was so uncomfortable, why do it every week? If Fei Ni had listened carefully, separating Wang Xiaoman’s voice from the bed creaks and other sounds, she would have known the sounds weren’t from pain. But she dared not and was too embarrassed to contemplate their true meaning. Accompanied by these sounds, she kept remembering the sensation of Fang Muyang writing notes on her hand, tossing and turning, unable to sleep.

Fei Ni’s blanket wasn’t particularly thick, but she felt inexplicably hot.

Her movements on the upper bunk were clearly felt by Fang Muyang below. He got up to pour water, drank half a glass, and asked the still-awake Fei Ni: “Would you like some water?”

Fei Ni made another soft sound of agreement. Fang Muyang poured water and stood holding it up for her to drink.

“I can do it myself.”

“Just drink it like this.”

She poked her head out, lips touching the glass as she drank the water he’d poured.

“Want more?”

“No, thank you.”

Fei Ni drank the water and lay on her pillow, hands covering her ears, but the more she tried not to hear, the more sensitive her hearing became.

She heard their door open and close. After a while, she didn’t hear it open again.

Not knowing why Fang Muyang hadn’t returned, her heart raced, and she couldn’t help but go look for him.

She slipped on her shoes and quietly opened the door. The flashlight beam revealed no sign of him. Walking forward, she found the washroom door ajar. When she pushed it open, the light fell on Fang Muyang’s back as he faced the window.

Fei Ni closed the door and tiptoed in. Only then did Fang Muyang turn around, discovering her presence. “Why did you come?”

“What are you doing here?”

Fang Muyang pointed to the moon outside.

Fei Ni went to look too. It wasn’t the fifteenth yet, so the moon wasn’t perfectly round. She noticed his clothing—just a shirt with rolled-up sleeves. “How can you come out wearing only a shirt? Let’s go back.”

“I’m not cold.”

“How can that be?”

“Don’t believe me? Feel my hands—they’re warm.”

As if possessed, Fei Ni reached out to touch them. He’d just washed his hands and hadn’t dried them, but they weren’t cold at all.

Her hands weren’t particularly cold either.

Fang Muyang held onto Fei Ni’s hand and whispered in her ear: “See? I wasn’t lying.”

“Don’t do this. What if someone comes in?”

“Who would come at this hour? Besides, we’re married.”

“Even married people would be embarrassed to be caught like this.”

Yet she merely spoke the words, making no move to withdraw her hand from his. Thinking of the sounds still coming from next door, Fei Ni had no intention of returning immediately, choosing instead to join Fang Muyang in gazing at the sky through the window. It had been a long time since she’d seen such a blue sky, with scattered buildings appearing as dark shadows below. The half-open window let in a breeze that slightly cooled their heated skin.

Though autumn had arrived, mosquitoes were still active. Fei Ni saw one and tried to swat it, but as usual, it escaped her grasp.

“I remember you used to be the same way with flies—could never catch them, your bottle always empty.”

“Really? That was so long ago, I’ve forgotten.” She was surprised he remembered, though he seemed to only remember her embarrassing moments.

“Do you remember when someone put a package of flies on your desk? You cried, and your deskmate reported it to the teacher.”

“That didn’t happen.” Why did he only remember her embarrassing moments? And how could flies make her cry?

“I was the one who gave you those flies. I saw you trying to catch flies with your swatter every day but never catching any.”

Back then, Fang Muyang often saw Fei Ni wandering around school with her fly swatter, always wearing a white blouse with her hair in two braids tied together on each side, her skirt sometimes blue, sometimes floral, appearing in every corner of the school. Fei Ni was known for being clever, scoring perfect fives in every subject, and understanding everything the teachers taught. But Fang Muyang thought she was a bit silly, and out of sympathy and a spirit of mutual help, he gave her all the flies he caught. Besides flies, he’d even given her a live sparrow. In his eagerness to help and do good deeds anonymously, he hadn’t expected to make her cry and get reported.

“Who couldn’t catch any?” Fei Ni ignored his supposed good deed, focusing on the crucial point.

“Me, of course.”

Fei Ni hadn’t cared much about the mosquito before, but now she was determined to prove a point.

The more she tried to swat the mosquito, the more she missed, and when she finally thought she saw it, she ended up slapping Fang Muyang’s arm instead.

Fei Ni’s face reddened instantly, not just because she’d proved Fang Muyang right, but because the slapping sound reminded her of next door—in some ways, the sounds were quite similar.

Her slap had been hard enough to redden his arm.

“I’m sorry.”

“Does your hand hurt? Let me massage it.” Like previous times, Fang Muyang began rubbing her palm.

Her palm grew warm under his touch, and then Fang Muyang’s face drew closer to hers, so close she could almost count his eyelashes, and then her lips began to feel warm too.