Like or dislike?
He didn’t wait for Zhou Ziheng’s answer. But Zhou Ziheng’s arms tightening around his waist, his increasingly heavy breathing, and the kisses brimming with aggression all gave Xia Xiqing the answer in the most direct way possible.
Xia Xiqing relished this sensation, savoring the visceral proof of Zhou Ziheng’s intense need for him. Yet he also dreaded the moment Zhou Ziheng might actually utter those two words. To him, human emotions followed a singular, peaked curve—simmering slowly in ambiguity, gradually intensifying until love was recognized at its zenith.
But once at the summit, the descent was inevitable.
Like a parabola, the higher the apex, the harder the fall.
This was enough. This moment was enough. He needed Zhou Ziheng just as Zhou Ziheng still needed him. No definition mattered.
Zhou Ziheng’s kisses weren’t particularly skilled—they were pure, impetuous passion, as if he wanted to steal his soul away with a single kiss.
Unable to voice his true thoughts, Zhou Ziheng could only express every desire through his body. He’d always held fast to his principles, habitually avoiding anything that clouded the mind—be it tobacco or alcohol.
He liked to stay sharp at all times.
But then Xia Xiqing appeared. He relentlessly tempted him, teased him, and disrupted his once-steely resolve. From the very beginning, Zhou knew better than anyone. That’s why he kept warning himself: stay away from Xia Xiqing. He wasn’t a good man. He was a dangerous substance—highly flammable, explosive, and utterly seductive.
“Hot?” Xia Xiqing’s voice was thick with moisture, like the steamy glass of a sauna. His long fingers tugged at the hem of Zhou Ziheng’s hoodie, trying to pull it up. “Take it off?”
Before the lingering intimacy of his words faded, Zhou Ziheng kissed him again, slipping his own shirt off. The tipping point between men was often fierce and unpredictable. He understood Xia Xiqing’s expectations of him perfectly well. But unfortunately, even if he was the one forced into addiction, he would still be the one in control. a thin sheen of sweat glistening on his skin. Silk pajamas clung to his body, sticky and clammy, suffocating his thoughts. Consciousness and action worked in reverse—the more intense the movements, the slower his mind became, the more passive he grew. His posture atop Zhou Ziheng shifted from that of a proud panther to a clingy kitten.
Zhou Ziheng seized the moment to flip him over, pinning Xia Xiqing’s shoulders beneath him. A bead of sweat, long held in place, rolled down from his temple, landing precisely at Xia Xiqing’s lips. Zhou Ziheng watched helplessly as Xia Xiqing extended his tongue, gently licking away the droplet. That face, both innocent and lustful, broke into a lazy smile.
“Salty.”
But you’re so sweet. Zhou Ziheng’s last shred of sanity surrendered its desperate struggle, drowning alongside Xia Xiqing in the surging waves.
The childish voice from the projection occasionally surfaced, colliding like a fawn into Xia Xiqing’s heart. Even as both were nearly consumed by the surging desire, he hadn’t forgotten to tease.
“It really is… childish… childish…” The last two syllables were drowned out by gasps. Xia Xiqing’s shoulders shook so violently he couldn’t speak. Listening to the obedient voice of the young Zhou Ziheng while entangled with the adult version of him—this experience was truly peculiar.
Zhou Ziheng pressed his lips against Xia Xiqing’s moist, crimson mouth. At the height of their tense encounter, the child in the projection suddenly called out “Brother” twice in a crisp, childlike voice. Xia Xiqing burst into laughter, mimicking the soft, childish tone as he laughed.
“Brother.” Xia Xiqing reached out to smooth the frown lines between Zhou Ziheng’s brows. Teased like this, Zhou Ziheng felt his dignity challenged and bit Xia Xiqing’s lower lip hard.
“So adorable when you were little… Why so fierce now?” Xia Xiqing leaned in for a kiss, trying to appease him. “Call me again… Let me hear if your childhood voice was prettier… or if it’s… now…”
He hadn’t expected much. Zhou Ziheng never met his expectations, and Xia Xiqing knew this well. What he hadn’t anticipated was Zhou Ziheng actually leaning down to whisper into his ear, his voice deep and husky.
“Brother.”
Another light kiss grazed Xia Xiqing’s earlobe.
“Satisfied, Xiqing Brother?”
The bells of the Cathedral of a Thousand Flowers struck heavy blows against the heart valves. His very soul shattered into fragments, scattered across the vast cosmos.
The afternoon audition had already drained Xia Xiqing of considerable energy. He had no idea how long the ordeal had lasted; his consciousness was too hazy. After just two rounds, he had fallen asleep. Zhou Ziheng was stubborn as ever. No matter how Xia Xiqing coaxed or pleaded, he refused to yield.
His sleep was restless, yet his eyelids felt impossibly heavy. Xia Xiqing kept feeling as if someone was gently stroking his forehead and cheeks in his dreams—so lightly it blurred the line between reality and illusion. He drifted into a hazy sleep until late at night, waking parched and thirsty. Half-squinting, he made his way to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and downed half a bottle of ice water, instantly feeling more alert.
Though early summer approached, the night breeze still carried a chill. Xia Xiqing shuffled back to his room, eyelids heavy, only to find the projector still running—silent now.
Truthfully, he should have gone home by now. This place wasn’t his home, after all.
Xia Xiqing crouched beside the bed, gazing at Zhou Ziheng’s serene sleeping face. The small, glowing face on the screen gradually merged with the tall boy in reality. Every detail was strikingly similar yet subtly extended, making him feel the beauty of life.
Zhou Ziheng’s hand dangled over the edge of the bed, nowhere to rest. Xia Xiqing tentatively touched his fingertips. Seeing he hadn’t woken, he boldly took hold of his hand. Zhou Ziheng’s fingers were long, his palm broad and dry, reminding Xia Xiqing of how effortlessly he’d cradle the ball with one hand during basketball games.
As if playing with a puppy’s paws, Xia Xiqing grasped his fingers, curling them one by one, then spreading them again, finally interlocking his own fingers between Zhou’s. Their ten fingers fit together with an inexplicable precision.
If his existence were meant only for me.
[That art museum was built by Mom for you, you know?]
Recalling the image of his mother losing her mind in the art museum, Xia Xiqing suddenly felt a prickling sensation down his spine. He weakly released Zhou Ziheng’s hand.
Lowering his head, he noticed a ballpoint pen at his feet—likely the one Zhou Ziheng had used for taking notes.
Xia Xiqing never truly believed he could earn someone’s genuine affection. Most loved only his appearance. Some self-proclaimed connoisseurs admired his talent, while others coveted his family background. But strip away the sugar coating, and the bitter core within him was enough to make anyone retreat.
Selfish and self-serving, a habitual liar, a hypocrite, addicted to womanizing.
He had always believed Zhou Ziheng’s disdain for him was pure blindness. So many people fawned over him, swarming around him, yet Zhou Ziheng alone avoided him like the plague.
But now, no matter how arrogant or stubborn he remained, he had to admit: he simply wasn’t worthy of someone as exceptional as Zhou Ziheng.
The next day at noon, Zhou Ziheng was roused by Jiang Yin’s relentless calls. He’d completely forgotten he still had a commercial to shoot, his mind foggy from sleep. Perhaps because he’d watched his debut drama before bed, his dreams were filled with memories of filming. He dreamt of an older sister in a white dress, stroking his head as she folded a white rose from a tissue.
When he lifted his head again, the girl had vanished without a trace. Zhou Ziheng panicked, running frantically through the park, trying to shout but finding no voice.
Suddenly, he heard someone calling his name from behind. Turning, he saw Xia Xiqing.
Holding a dark red rose, he smiled at him.
As he approached, the rose withered in an instant. His expression was sorrowful, yet no tears fell.
[You don’t like me, do you.]
Cold sweat drenched him as Zhou Ziheng opened his eyes. He lay alone in bed; even the projector had been turned off. Asleep, he couldn’t have held Xia Xiqing back. The fact that he wasn’t there wasn’t a huge blow to him.
He had expected it. He had prepared himself for every terrible possibility.
“I understand. I’ll come over now.” Zhou Ziheng sat on the edge of the bed, slumped forward with his arms resting on his knees, his head hanging limply.
“I didn’t drink. I was just too tired and fell asleep late.” Jiang Yin chattered on at length, drawing Zhou Ziheng into a daze. He switched hands to hold the phone, scratching his hair with his left hand before resting it on his knee.
Suddenly, he noticed something on the palm side of his ring finger. Opening his palm to examine it closely, he finally made it out.
It was drawn in black marker—a tiny, tiny rose, quietly blooming at the very base of his ring finger knuckle.
He chuckled involuntarily, drawing a puzzled response from the other end of the line.
“Nothing.”
Just a little trick that brought him happiness.
To meet the deadline, Zhou Ziheng’s schedule was packed before joining the production. With too many advertising contracts to fulfill and magazine invitations, he had to compress his time to get everything done before focusing on the shoot.
Unlike Xia Xiqing, who had time to spare.
After meeting Director Kuncheng privately again, Xia Xiqing ultimately decided to star in the film.
A phrase the director uttered reminded him of Zhou Ziheng’s debut work he’d watched at his home days prior.
[Everything now is fraught with uncertainty, but art endures. Regardless of the medium—I can’t speak for others, but I trust you grasp what I mean.]
These past two days, he’d suddenly realized that even if he ended up repeating past mistakes, at least this one work would permanently preserve their unspoken relationship. The past ambiguities and boundary-crossings—what others saw as artistic elevation—were, in their unspoken understanding, the product of affection.
That was enough. He refused to be forgotten by Zhou Ziheng. Even if recalling this film would later fill him with disgust, it would still count as an achievement—one that, ironically, aligned more closely with Xia Xiqing’s nihilistic artistic pursuit.
“Got plans tonight?” Xia Xiqing sent Zhou Ziheng a voice message on his way home, receiving a prompt reply.
“Gotta attend an event. Probably won’t be home until late tonight.”
Xia Xiqing typed back “Got it” without elaborating. He’d briefly considered inviting Zhou Ziheng to the art gala if he was free, but suddenly realized how naive that was—Zhou Ziheng’s background made him unsuitable for any private gathering.
Let alone accompanying him. There was simply no convincing reason.
Zhou Ziheng sent another message pressing for an answer.
[Moral Exemplar: Do you have plans tonight?]
[Terrorist: I have an event too. I’ll probably be back very late as well.]
Xia Xiqing didn’t elaborate, and Zhou Ziheng didn’t press further. Assistant Xiao Luo urged him to get in the car, so he temporarily put his phone away.
This art dinner was hosted by Mr. Zhong Henan, a highly esteemed collector within the industry, at his private residence. Though held under his name, since Mr. Zhong was approaching ninety, the actual arrangements were handled by his youngest son, Zhong Chi. Numerous prominent collectors and renowned painters were invited. Unlike his father, Zhong Chi was a thoroughgoing businessman, so the dinner naturally drew both old and new acquaintances from the corporate world.
Had it not been for the businessmen, Xia Xiqing would have gladly attended. It was rare to find someone in China willing to host such an art salon. But once the stench of money entered the mix, his enthusiasm waned considerably.
Yet he was fiercely competitive. Having committed to attend, he resolved to put on a show of success and influence—anything less would be a personal embarrassment. Xia Xiqing had initially chosen an army-green trench coat, but reconsidered. After all, he was representing Pulito’s reputation. Opting for a more formal look, he selected a bespoke gray suit and, unusually, tied a navy blue tie. His hair was partially slicked back, giving him a less casual look.
Driving to the dinner, staff at the mansion entrance checked invitations. Xia Xiqing handed his through the window, feeling the security guards scrutinize him—likely recognizing him. He finally understood the burden of public figures: wherever he went, people stared, like a peacock in a zoo.
The ballroom was decorated in a dreamlike fashion, delicate lily-of-the-valley interspersed among the paintings. Groups clustered together, appreciating the famous artworks and sharing their impressions. Honestly, as a painter, Xia Xiqing disliked this part the most—his own creations subjected to excessive interpretation by crowds spouting analyses he himself couldn’t fathom. It felt utterly bizarre.
Having spent so many years abroad, and rarely taken out by his parents back home, Xia Xiqing found himself surrounded by strangers at the banquet. This solitude offered him a welcome respite, broken only occasionally by young, pretty ladies who mustered the courage to approach him for a brief chat.
“You seem to prefer oil paintings, don’t you?”
Xia Xiqing smiled at the inquiring girl, but his eyes drifted toward a young man standing two paintings away. It wasn’t because the man appealed to him, but because the man had been staring at him, seemingly unaware that Xia Xiqing had noticed.
Where did that confidence come from?
“Yes, oil paintings.” Xia Xiqing loosened his tie. “I’ll grab a drink. Excuse me.”
Stepping into the lounge area, he took a breath. Xia Xiqing lifted a glass of absinthe and sipped it. Suddenly, he heard someone call his name. Turning his head, he saw a man in a dark red suit who looked familiar.
“Hello, are you Xia Xiqing?” The man extended a hand eagerly. “I’m Wei Min.”
Xia Xiqing was notoriously bad at remembering faces, but somehow this one clicked instantly.
This was the young playboy he’d met at Yunshui Restaurant last time—the investor behind the Stalking production.
Before he could shake hands, Xia Xiqing turned his head and locked eyes with the young man who’d been watching him from afar. Startled, the man quickly turned away.
What was going on today? Nothing but strange people.
Little did he know, the man he’d scared off was now replying to a message.
[Zhao Ke: Heng Ge, guess who I ran into at the banquet?]
[Zhao Ke: Forget it, don’t guess—I’ll tell you.]
[Zhao Ke: Your CP!]
