“Ready? We’re switching to a side close-up, moving from Jiang Tong around to Gao Kun’s side.” Kun Cheng’s voice snapped Xia Xiqing out of his daze. He quickly composed his expression and walked to the spot where Jiang Tong had been sitting moments before.
“Pay attention to the handheld camera’s shakiness—don’t overdo it, but convey emotional fluctuation.” Director Kun gave detailed instructions to the cinematographer before settling in front of the monitor. “After the take starts, Jiang Tong sits down, and Gao Kun says, ‘Don’t sit too close to me.’ Got it?”
“Mm.” Xia Xiqing turned halfway, head bowed. His palms were sweaty, his heart pounding wildly against his chest. He couldn’t get back into Jiang Tong’s emotional state at all.
“Action!”
Jiang Tong turned and bent down stiffly, preparing to sit beside Gao Kun. But Gao Kun suddenly spoke up, “Don’t get too close to me.”
This sentence startled Jiang Tong into a momentary freeze. His eyes filled with confusion, but he still moved back slightly before sitting down.
Farther away is better.
Jiang Tong sat on the roadside. Behind him, the sycamore trees stored the summer’s special offering—the long, drawn-out chirping of cicadas. One sound followed another, creating a powerful resonance with his increasingly rapid heartbeat. He turned his head to look at Gao Kun. This man seemed like some kind of wildly growing plant, or perhaps an animal—something Jiang Tong had never encountered before.
Sharp features, a gentle heart.
“What are you looking at?”
“Looking at you…”
Xia Xiqing suddenly realized his mistake. Such a conversation could only happen between Xia Xiqing and Zhou Ziheng, not between Jiang Tong and Gao Kun.
“Sorry.” Xia Xiqing raised his hand to touch his forehead but quickly lowered it, scrambling to his feet to apologize to the crew. “Let’s do that again. I forgot my lines just now.”
Despite his words, Zhou Ziheng saw clearly. After Gao Kun finished his line, Jiang Tong had no lines to deliver. His eyes met Xia Xiqing’s, who looked visibly disheartened, sparking a sudden realization within him.
Kuncheng called out from the other end, “It’s fine. Let’s do another take, starting from that point.”
Just as Xia Xiqing prepared to return to his position, Zhou Ziheng spoke again.
“Sorry, I talked too much earlier and disrupted your flow.”
For some reason, Xia Xiqing suddenly panicked, as if some hidden secret had been brutally exposed, about to be revealed. Without thinking, he blurted out, “No. It’s nothing to do with you.”
The words came too fast, as if spoken to himself. Spilled water couldn’t be retrieved. Since he’d gone this far, Xia Xiqing might as well push it further.
“I don’t even remember what you just said.”
He clung tightly to his shell, refusing to emerge no matter what.
He’d never been this afraid before.
“Action!”
“What are you looking at?”
Hearing Gao Kun’s words, Jiang Tong turned his head away, offering no response. Truthfully, he desperately wanted to confront the man before him—to demand why he’d followed him that night, why he’d tried to kill him. If he could get the words out smoothly, he would have confronted him.
But he couldn’t.
Thinking this, Jiang Tong just wanted to leave quietly. Last time, this man hadn’t actually killed him. This time, he’d saved him—it was even. Hopefully, they’d never cross paths again. He glanced back at him once more, noticing the blood from the wound above his eyebrow hadn’t fully clotted yet, trickling down his cheek. Beyond that, his knuckles were raw and scraped, his lips split, and his jawline bruised and purple.
Jiang Tong sighed almost inaudibly. He tugged at the worn, oversized work shirt he wore, finally unbuttoning it to reveal the faded black short-sleeved undershirt beneath. He’d worn this shirt for two years; the seam on the side had come undone. Jiang Tong grabbed the seam and pulled with all his strength, tearing it apart.
Hearing the fabric snap, Gao Kun turned to see Jiang Tong tearing at the hem of his undershirt. His face crumpled with the effort until he finally pulled out a long, black strip of cloth.
Exhaling a sigh of relief, Jiang Tong leaned closer, one hand holding the strip of fabric, the other reaching for Gao Kun’s injured right hand. Before he could touch it, Gao Kun flinched away. As if startled, he suddenly stood up and took two steps back, his emotions running high. “Don’t touch me.”
Jiang Tong froze for two seconds, glancing up at Gao Kun with an awkward expression. He blinked twice, saying nothing, withdrew his hand, stuffed the torn black fabric back into his pocket, and quickly buttoned up his work uniform.
Pushing himself up with one hand braced against the ground, Jiang Tong struggled to his feet. Though his stomach still ached and his foot throbbed, all he wanted now was to get away from here.
Watching his reaction, observing his series of movements, Gao Kun felt a strange discomfort in his chest—like the feeling of accidentally stepping on a little snail while playing in the fields as a child.
He clenched his back teeth. “Hey.”
Jiang Tong’s shoulders flinched again, but this time he didn’t pause. Instead, he quickened his pace, limping as he went.
Blood smeared his eyelashes. Gao Kun raised his hand and wiped it with the back of his palm, frowning in disgust at the smeared blood. He glanced at the stubborn boy ahead, then quickened his pace to catch up. “You’re walking so fast, you’ll ruin your foot.”
Jiang Tong knew all too well—his foot hurt like hell. But in his current state, no amount of effort could shake the person behind him.
With every stumbling step he took, the end of the black cloth strip in his pocket swayed a few times. Gao Kun reached out, snatched the strip, and swiftly wrapped it several times around his own palm, binding the bleeding knuckles.
“I told you to stop walking.”
No response.
“Stop!”
Jiang Tong finally halted. His hearing impairment meant he relied on hearing aids stuffed into his ears to perceive the world. The devices were old and yellowed, occasionally emitting harsh, grating noises. Since first wearing them at age ten—rescued from a world of utter silence—Jiang Tong had grown accustomed to this cacophony.
But the voice behind him was too clear, as if it didn’t need the aid of these small devices, but instead penetrated straight into his heart through some other medium. Clear to the point of being frightening.
“I have a disease,” the other person said casually, walking up beside him. “The contagious kind.”
Jiang Tong looked up at him, the hearing aid in his ear shifting slightly. He pushed it back in place and steadied himself. “Wh-what… disease…” His speech remained as laborious as ever, earnest like a child just learning to talk.
The red-haired boy lowered his head, silent. Jiang Tong remained quiet too, standing awkwardly before him.
The camera shook, mirroring the turmoil within a soul. Gao Kun’s brow furrowed deeply. His fingers clenched and unclenched, his Adam’s apple bobbing as if something stuck in his throat.
If silence could be dissected, it would reveal countless invisible struggles. No matter what kind of silence it was.
“That night must have scared the hell out of you,” he finally spoke, still looking down as he kicked a small pebble aside. “I was crazy back then. I thought I didn’t have long to live. I didn’t want to just die alone, sick and forgotten, rotting away somewhere with no one to know.” My whole fucking life’s been a mess. Why me? I didn’t do anything wrong. Why me? I just wanted to make money! And I really couldn’t help it…”
He rattled off a long string of words, speaking fast and heavy with emotion. Jiang Tong caught some of it, the rest he had to guess. But he heard that he didn’t want to die alone.
Neither did he.
This sudden shared understanding made Jiang Tong lower his guard. People can be so unpredictable—one moment terrified out of their minds, the next suddenly fearless. He bit his lower lip, trying to speak. “Then… then… you… now… do you still… want to…”
“Not now. I was fucking out of my mind back then. Actually, after I saw you, I didn’t want to kill…” His words trailed off, as if hesitating over his choice of words. But after a long pause, he didn’t continue. Instead, he lifted his still-bruised chin toward Jiang Tong. “My name is Gao Kun. What’s yours?”
The sudden question caught Jiang Tong off guard. “Jiang… Jiang…”
“Jiang what?”
Gao Kun’s pressing question made Jiang Tong, who’d always struggled with speech, panic even more. His nerves left him speechless. His tongue pressed hard against his teeth as he strained to form the syllable “Tong,” but it felt stuck, refusing to come out. His face flushed crimson with frustration.
“Hey, hey, why the rush? Don’t bite your tongue.” Gao Kun reached out to pat him, but upon seeing the blood on his own hand, he frowned and instead nudged Jiang Tong’s toes with his foot.
Jiang Tong snapped his head up.
“What? Remembered your name?” Gao Kun raised an eyebrow, but accidentally tugged at the wound on his brow bone, sucking in a sharp breath. “Damn, that fucking hurts.”
“Tong…”
“Tong?”
His pronunciation was slurred, leaving Gao Kun utterly confused. “Jiang Tong?” Jiang Tong shook his head, gesturing in the air twice before spending ages tracing the character for “Tong” in the air. Still baffled, Gao Kun reached out, only for Jiang Tong to grab his hand and try writing the character on his palm—only to be dodged again.
Jiang Tong’s eyes dimmed for a moment. Cars roared past on the road, their horns blaring sharply and abruptly, startling birds hidden in the dense foliage. They flapped their wings and darted out, flying toward the distant sky.
Its reckless panic carried away a palm-sized green leaf, like a startled feather drifting slowly with the wind. It spun and fell, landing between Jiang Tong and Gao Kun.
Jiang Tong reached out, his slender fingers catching the leaf. The setting sun illuminated its veins, just as it illuminated the capillaries beneath the skin of his pale hand.
A flash of delight lit his face as he held the leaf up, waving it in front of Gao Kun.
“What are you waving around?” Gao Kun looked at him with an expression reserved for fools. “It’s just a plane tree leaf.”
“Wutong?” Gao Kun’s eyes flickered. “Your name is Jiang Tong?”
Jiang Tong nodded immediately, looking delighted. As night approached, the hues of the sunset deepened and intensified, lending a faint flush to Jiang Tong’s overly pale face, making him resemble the vibrant imported fruits displayed on supermarket refrigerated shelves.
“Jiang Tong… Not bad. I’ll take it.” Gao Kun couldn’t think of anything more cultured to say. Clearing his throat, he snatched the leaf from Jiang Tong’s hand and twirled it on his fingertip. “Test you a bit. What’s my name?”
“Gao… Kun…” Strangely enough, he pronounced Gao Kun’s name far more clearly than his own, his face lighting up with an expression that seemed to demand praise. Gao Kun stopped twirling the leaf and examined its surface—it was surprisingly clean.
He tapped Jiang Tong’s head gently with the leaf. “Not bad. Pretty sharp.”
“Cut!”
They finally wrapped filming for this scene before sunset. Though they switched camera angles several times mid-take, both actors managed to keep their continuity intact, preventing any loss of efficiency. After filming wrapped, Zhou Ziheng and Xia Xiqing both rushed to the monitor. Unlike Zhou Ziheng, a seasoned veteran, Xia Xiqing still felt some nerves inside. Despite his usual carefree, lazy demeanor, once he committed to something, his competitive spirit burned brighter than anyone else’s.
“Gao Kun’s added foot movement just now was spot-on,” Kuncheng remarked, using the character name as he often did on set. He pointed at the monitor. “It perfectly echoed the leaf gesture later on.” He looked up at Zhou Ziheng. “Really good. Any on-the-spot improvisation is welcome—as long as it doesn’t slow us down, I fully encourage it. Don’t act stiffly; that’s boring. Play the person, not the part.”
Kun Cheng rattled off a whole speech, but Xia Xiqing was distracted and didn’t really listen. Earlier, when Zhou Ziheng’s toes had extended toward him during filming, it had startled him so much he nearly blew the take.
“Jiang Tong was also excellent. His expressive eyes show real talent.”
Xia Xiqing snapped back to attention and gave Director Kun a smile.
“Let’s grab something to eat first,” Kun Cheng glanced at his watch. “We’ll shoot the night scene at 8:30 for our dedicated session. Gao Kun and Jiang Tong should change into their looks immediately after dinner.”
Zhou Ziheng noticed Xia Xiqing seemed a bit dazed. As soon as the director left, he took Xia Xiqing’s arm. “What’s wrong? Tired?”
“No,” Xia Xiqing wiped his face. “Just a little tired.” The two followed most of the crew out. Zhou Ziheng got into his chauffeured van first, where Xiao Luo was unpacking his dinner. Turning around, he realized Xia Xiqing was gone.
“Huh? Where’d he go?”
Xiao Luo clicked his tongue twice. “Did you forget? Sister Jiang Yin assigned him his own van and assistant. He doesn’t ride with us.” He shoved chopsticks into Zhou Ziheng’s hands. “Eat up. You’ve been at it since six this morning. You really don’t feel tired?”
During filming, Zhou Ziheng would usually fall silent the moment “Cut” was called. Acting drained him emotionally, leaving him weary when he returned to himself. But with Xia Xiqing around, it was different. He couldn’t wait to become Zhou Ziheng again.
He shoved a chopstickful of vegetables into his mouth, but the food tasted utterly bland. Zhou Ziheng bowed his head and shoveled down a mouthful of rice. Xiao Luo watched him and asked, “Is the AC not cold enough? Too hot to eat?” He turned it down a few more degrees. Hearing the commotion outside, he stood up from his seat to take a look. “Why is it so noisy?”
Unable to see clearly through the tinted windows, Xiao Luo simply opened the door and poked his head out. “Hey, Xiaoxiao, what’re you guys doing? Got any popsicles? Hey, hey, give me one! What flavors do you have?”
His little assistant had been lured outside. Zhou Ziheng glanced up at the car door with disdain, only to catch Xia Xiqing striding in with long strides. He slammed the door shut and tossed a bag of ice pops onto his desk.
Zhou Ziheng couldn’t hide the surprise on his face. “You bought this for me?”
“Not eating it?” Xia Xiqing grabbed the ice pop and tore open the wrapper. “Then I’ll have it myself.”
“Eat it!” Zhou Ziheng swiftly snatched the ice pop he’d been craving, tore open the wrapper, and shoved it into his mouth. The icy cold made his teeth chatter, yet he stubbornly insisted it tasted good.
“No one’s taking it from you. Everyone gets one.”
So the ice pops Xiao Luo mentioned earlier were actually bought by Xia Xiqing. Realizing this, Zhou Ziheng instantly felt disappointed. “Everyone gets one?”
“That’s right. Cost me a pretty penny.” Xia Xiqing casually picked up the chopsticks in front of Zhou Ziheng, gave his food a couple of half-hearted pokes, then set them down. “You were clamoring for an ice pop just now, and now you don’t want it?” He grabbed Zhou Ziheng’s wrist, pulled the ice pop toward himself, took a bite, and declared, “It’s pretty tasty.”
Seeing Zhou Ziheng’s face still clouded with displeasure, Xia Xiqing suddenly understood. Propping his chin on his hand, he gave a lazy smile, idly flicking his fingers against his cheek a few times. “I buy the three-yuan ones for everyone else, but I got you the most expensive one—three or four layers of filling.”
Zhou Ziheng shot him a disdainful glance.
“If you insist on being upset, that’s fine. But you need to understand cause and effect.” Xia Xiqing tapped the takeout box lightly with his chopsticks. “I bought them for you specifically. I didn’t buy them for them and just happened to grab one for you. Got it?”
The cream on the ice cream was slowly melting, dripping down the sides. It looked such a waste. Xia Xiqing pried Zhou Ziheng’s hand open and snatched the ice cream. “If you’re not going to eat it, forget it. It’s a waste. I might as well feed it to the dog.”
“Who said I wasn’t going to eat it?” Seeing Xia Xiqing take a bite of the ice cream and start walking out, Zhou Ziheng panicked. He stood up without thinking, ignoring his six-foot-three frame. Suddenly, he slammed his head against the car roof. The pain threw off his balance, and he stumbled backward. Hearing the thud, Xia Xiqing jumped in surprise and turned around to look. In that instant, Zhou Ziheng knocked him down in the otherwise spacious minivan.
This actor, who had never starred in a romance film, found himself, through a series of coincidences, performing the most clichéd scene straight out of a cheesy idol drama.
Tackled. Pressed close. Lips met.
The soft sensation jolted Zhou Ziheng out of his pain. He lifted his head, afraid he was crushing Xia Xiqing, and scrambled off him.
“Damn… my back…” Xia Xiqing also sat up, supporting his waist. His narrowed eyes slowly widened as his vision cleared.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to.”
Another habitual apology, as always.
The ice cream in his hand had melted halfway, dripping sticky and clammy between his fingers. The unpleasant, tacky sensation made him lift his hand, licking the smooth white cream from his fingertips. His gaze drifted lazily to Zhou Ziheng’s face, which always looked so sincere whenever he apologized.
He took a bite of the ice cream, then knelt down, leaning forward to press his lips against Zhou Ziheng’s. The cold, wet ice cream met soft, warm lips. The moment they touched, it melted into a fierce invasion of his tongue, waging a battle of ice and fire with the softest weapon. Intense sweetness ignited at the very touch.
The brief mischief concluded. Xia Xiqing flicked his tongue across Zhou Ziheng’s cream-smeared mouth, shoved the nearly melted ice cream back into Zhou Ziheng’s hand, and arched his eyebrows, his voice laced with teasing, provocative laughter.
“Sorry, I did that on purpose.”
Author’s Note:
Xiao Xiao: Xiao Luo, Xiao Luo! Your van just shook—really hard!
Xiao Luo rushed over to block Xiao Xiao: No, no, no! Don’t open the door!
Xiao Xiao (innocent face): Why?
Xiao Luo (forced smile, pulling her away): We’re going to get popsicles. [Who knows what they’re up to in there…]
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