“Yes, I’m not worthy.” Zhou Ziheng lowered his head and took a half step back.
“I’m just an actor, yet I can’t even put on a decent performance in front of you. I say I want you to care about me… but I can’t even manage a single intimate gesture. At my level, I truly don’t deserve to play games with you.”
With no romantic experience whatsoever, he was a blank slate. Facing an opponent like Xia Xiqing, he could only be manipulated at will. But honestly, even being controlled and played with, he had no complaints. He was willing.
Zhou Ziheng clenched his fists, then relaxed them. “Actually, I never intended to play any games with you. I just desperately wanted to know…”
…desperately wanted to know what place I truly held in your heart. Desperately wanted to know if there was even the slightest chance you might like me.
…desperately wanted to know… if you’d long since noticed my feelings for you and were just waiting for the right moment to push me away.
“…I’m sorry.” Zhou Ziheng wiped his face. “I’m sorry. I was wrong about today. I shouldn’t have failed to refuse Song Nian. Honestly, doing this has been torturing me too.” He took a deep breath, the anger from his face completely vanished. He smiled faintly. “You’re free. You can do whatever you want.”
It’s just my damn possessiveness tormenting me. It’s not your fault.
His heart had once been a lush, verdant forest.
After falling for Xia Xiqing, that forest caught fire. Raging flames and thick smoke engulfed it. Even the most skilled firefighters were helpless against such a blaze, forced to watch helplessly as the fire spread until everything was reduced to ashes.
He thought he could pull back in time, only to discover there was no turning back.
Seeing the smile on Zhou Ziheng’s face, Xia Xiqing’s heart suddenly twisted in pain. He didn’t want to see Zhou Ziheng like this. He couldn’t even understand why he’d spoken such harsh words to provoke him. It was as if he’d become a different person.
If it had been any other lover putting on a show in front of him, Xia Xiqing would have walked away without a word, ending the relationship there and then. He knew Zhou Ziheng hadn’t done anything substantial—he hadn’t even touched Song Nian.
He was merely testing the waters.
When he realized Zhou Ziheng was probing him, fear overwhelmed anger within his heart.
The terror of being seen through triggered his self-preservation instinct, forcing an extreme reaction.
Xia Xiqing tried to speak, but the words came with immense difficulty. “I…”
After waiting a long time, Zhou Ziheng still didn’t hear Xia Xiqing’s words. His heart would soar high with every one of Xia Xiqing’s movements, only to plummet back down.
“If you don’t want to forgive me now, it’s okay.” Zhou Ziheng didn’t even dare touch Xia Xiqing—at first it was for the act, now it was guilt, fearing Xia Xiqing might resist even more fiercely. “I’m sorry, please don’t be angry. I just felt like you seemed a bit…”
…uncomfortable.
Before those three words could escape his lips, Xia Xiqing, leaning against the dryer, nearly lost his footing. He steadied himself by grabbing the sink. Zhou Ziheng’s heart lurched. Without a second thought, he pulled Xia Xiqing into his arms. Xia Xiqing pushed with all his strength, but couldn’t budge him.
Only then did Zhou Ziheng feel the abnormal heat radiating from him. He loosened his embrace and reached out to touch Xia Xiqing’s forehead, but was dodged. With no other option, Zhou Ziheng cupped the back of his neck and pressed his own forehead against Xia Xiqing’s.
“What if someone sees us…”
“Let them see,” Zhou Ziheng nearly snapped at him in frustration, but quickly suppressed his emotions, softening his voice. “At worst, we’ll make the gossip headlines. As long as you don’t mind.”
I certainly don’t care.
Xia Xiqing didn’t speak, nor did he struggle. Zhou Ziheng sniffed, pulling his forehead away. “You have a fever. Let’s go back to the hotel.”
“I’m a man. A cold and fever aren’t serious illnesses. They’re still in the private room. I’ll just call Xiaoxiao.”
Zhou Ziheng pretended not to hear this, continuing his own line of thought. “Can you even walk? Forget it. Don’t try. I’ll carry you.” He crouched down in front of Xia Xiqing. “Get on my back. Let’s go back.”
Then he remembered how vulnerable sick people were. He shouldn’t be so forceful. Turning back, he looked up at Xia Xiqing. “Get on.”
Xia Xiqing’s nose stung. Why did this man keep enduring his harshness and absurdity? The more he did, the more despicable and pitiful he felt. He had deliberately provoked Zhou Ziheng’s jealousy more than once, stripping him of his usual composure. Zhou Ziheng merely wanted to know his true feelings, yet he had tormented him like this.
He bent down, wrapping his arms around Zhou Ziheng’s back. This was a compromise—to Zhou Ziheng, and to himself. Zhou Ziheng’s arms wrapped tightly around his thighs, lifting him securely.
Xia Xiqing buried his face in Zhou Ziheng’s neck.
That song was indeed sung for him.
He couldn’t let himself be spoiled by him, couldn’t become dependent on him.
Easier said than done. Xia Xiqing had never received so much love from anyone before. So much that even before it began, he’d wondered: What if one day, what if Zhou Ziheng no longer wanted him? What then?
In the past, he could have carried on as if nothing had happened, living freely, because he had never been loved.
But now? He had been loved. How could he pretend he’d never received it?
How could he lose it calmly?
“I’m sorry. I didn’t take good care of you when you were sick,” Zhou Ziheng said, carrying him into the elevator. “I really…”
“In our kind of relationship, you never had to take care of me.”
“Not entitled” might be more accurate. Zhou Ziheng lowered his head and smiled. “Who says it wasn’t necessary? Even as friends, looking after someone when they’re sick is the right thing to do. At the very least, we’re colleagues now…”
Xia Xiqing felt pricked all over. He knew he’d forced these words out of Zhou Ziheng, yet he couldn’t explain why it hurt him so much.
He carried Xia Xiqing downstairs the entire way. They had driven here in an ordinary sedan. Zhou Ziheng retrieved the keys himself, placed Xia Xiqing in the passenger seat, fastened his seatbelt, then fetched a thermos from the backseat. Unscrewing the lid, he handed it to him. “Drink some hot water.” Zhou Ziheng settled into the driver’s seat, then reached back to touch Xia Xiqing’s forehead. “You’re sweating cold.” He fetched a small blanket from the backseat, draped it over Xia Xiqing, and rolled up the window for him.
The blanket looked familiar. Xia Xiqing sipped the hot water, and memories surfaced through the rising steam.
It was Zhou Ziheng who had covered him with this blanket when he dozed off in the dressing room that afternoon.
The hotel wasn’t far from the KTV—just a ten-minute drive. On the way, Zhou Ziheng called Director Kun to inform them he was taking Xia Xiqing back to rest. As the call ended, the traffic light turned red. The car slowed to a stop, waiting at the intersection.
“I’m sorry.”
Xia Xiqing suddenly apologized, startling Zhou Ziheng, who whipped his head around to look at him.
“I…” Xia Xiqing’s hand gripped the cup rim tightly as he pressed his lips together. “I know how hurtful what I did was.”
Zhou Ziheng had never imagined Xia Xiqing would feel guilty toward him. “No, it’s fine. I said I could handle it, so I will. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have said it.” The traffic light changed, and he pressed the accelerator. “Besides, I started this. In the end, I brought this on myself.”
Xia Xiqing lowered his gaze. If they’d torn ties today, he might have felt better. But Zhou Ziheng’s concession only made him ache.
The fever had left him dazed and disoriented throughout the journey, his senses blurred until Zhou Ziheng placed him on the bed. Only then did he begin to clear up. He watched as Zhou Ziheng tucked him in, securing each corner of the quilt tightly, leaving no gap.
“You drank alcohol, so you can’t take medicine lightly now.” He retrieved a thermometer from his medical kit, gave it a sharp shake twice, and slipped it under the covers. “It might feel a bit cold.” Watching Xia Xiqing’s brow furrow at the thermometer’s chill, Zhou Ziheng’s heart suddenly melted into a puddle of water. All he wanted was to hold him tight and never let go.
While taking the temperature, he fetched a basin of cool water, soaked his own towel, wrung it out, and folded it neatly onto Xia Xiqing’s forehead.
“Should be better now.” Xia Xiqing retrieved the thermometer himself. Zhou Ziheng took it and glanced at the reading, his heart sinking a little. “Thank goodness, thank goodness. 37.7 degrees Celsius. A low-grade fever, just a low-grade fever.” He muttered to himself as he placed the thermometer on the table. “Still, we can’t skip the medicine.”
Watching him flit about like a headless fly only made Xia Xiqing feel worse.
“I was sick a lot as a child.” After uttering this opening line, Xia Xiqing couldn’t help but inwardly mock himself. Could catching colds and running fevers truly serve as an excuse for weakness?
“Once, my fever was so high I couldn’t even speak, but I was still dragged to an art gala because my mother had promised someone she’d bring me.” Whenever Xia Xiqing spoke of the past, his eyes would involuntarily lower, as if shutting a door, afraid of revealing what lay hidden within. “I was in terrible pain. When you have a fever, doesn’t every bone in your body ache? I cried. At first, my mom would comfort me, promising to take me to the doctor as soon as it was over. But I kept crying, crying until everyone was staring at me. She felt I was embarrassing her, that I was shaming her.”
His lashes trembled slightly, a tremor that struck Zhou Ziheng’s heart. Zhou Ziheng gently kissed the back of Xia Xiqing’s hand, then softly rubbed it with his thumb. “How old were you then?”
Xia Xiqing sniffed. “I don’t remember exactly. Maybe kindergarten? Elementary school? Anyway, I was pretty young.” He tilted his face toward the ceiling and chuckled softly. “After that, I never told anyone when I got sick. I didn’t want to trouble others. As long as it wasn’t life-threatening, it was fine.”
The way he said it mirrored Jiang Tong’s exact mannerisms in the script.
Zhou Ziheng sat down on the edge of the bed. Xia Xiqing immediately turned his face away. Zhou didn’t mind; he simply tightened his grip on Xia’s hand.
“When you’re sick, you should be taken care of.” He removed the towel from Xia Xiqing’s forehead, dipped it in cool water, wrung it out, and gently placed it back on his brow. “You’re not the one who’s wrong. It’s your parents.”
Xia Xiqing remained silent, feeling his own stubbornness had gone too far. The sharpest thorn had pierced into a soft flesh, encountering no resistance. Instead, he endured the pain, wrapping his tenderness around the thorn.
In the end, the thorn and the soft flesh grew together, impossible to pull out or cut away.
His eyelids felt too heavy to lift. He only sensed a pair of hands clasping his tightly, never letting go, until he sank into the warm pool of dreams.
In the middle of the night, Xia Xiqing woke up from the heat. Opening his eyes, he found Zhou Ziheng holding him tightly through the quilt, probably afraid he’d kick off the covers and catch a chill again.
When Xia Xiqing shifted slightly, Zhou Ziheng didn’t even open his eyes. His hand already fumbled its way to Xia Xiqing’s forehead, then pressed his own forehead against it. His mouth mumbled sleepily, “It’s gone down… it’s gone down…”
His hand gently patted Xia Xiqing’s back, as if it were a habitual motion.
“Good girl…”
Soon, his hand’s movements gradually slowed, finally settling into stillness.
Only when he finally drifted into sleep did Xia Xiqing dare to boldly look at his face. Without warning, tears streamed down his cheeks. He clung tightly to Zhou Ziheng, weeping silently in his embrace.
Why did he have to let himself taste the sweetness of being loved?
This prescription Zhou Ziheng had given him was no different from poison.
At five in the morning, Zhou Ziheng was jolted awake by the alarm. He’d only managed two or three hours of fitful sleep, but he had a shoot early that morning—there was no way around it.
Xia Xiqing, his fever broken, slept soundly. Zhou Ziheng sat by the bedside, gazing at him for a long while before finally pressing a quiet kiss to his nose. Only then could he bring himself to leave.
When Xia Xiqing awoke, his body felt much more comfortable. The hazy sensation of recovering from a major illness lingered as he watched Xiaoxiao bustling about the room, lifting the lid off his preserved egg and lean pork congee. “This is still a bit hot. Let it cool a while before eating, or you’ll burn your throat.” Xiao Xiao scolded him gently. “I was afraid you’d get sick, and now you have. Ziheng said he’d take you to the doctor as soon as you woke up to get medicine.”
“…He left?”
“He had a shoot at five in the morning.” Xiao Xiao opened the suitcase from Xia Xiqing’s room. “What do you want to wear? I’ll get it out for you.”
“Anything is fine.” Xia Xiqing sat up on the bed, his heart feeling hollow. He knew Zhou Ziheng had to go to the shoot, but waking up to find him gone still made him sad.
When had he become like this?
So anxious and insecure.
For the next week, their relationship remained unchanged. Song Nian still came to see Zhou Ziheng enthusiastically, but he turned her down every time. Her role wasn’t substantial anyway—at best, she was Gao Kun’s unrequited first love.
The day she wrapped up filming coincided with Zhou Ziheng’s crying scene—his only emotional moment in the entire script.
That was the scene where Gao Kun confessed to Lingling that he had contracted an illness.
The director used handheld close-ups for this segment, capturing the expressions on Gao Kun’s face.
“What… what exactly did you get? Just tell me!” Lingling’s expression showed impatience. “What’s with all this beating around the bush?”
Gao Kun’s eyes darted around nervously. He licked his dry lower lip and spoke in a hoarse voice, “I…” He seemed to despise his own cowardice. Clenching his teeth, he finally blurted it out, each word crisp and decisive, as if awaiting a heroic sacrifice.
“AIDS. I have AIDS.”
Another camera focused on Lingling. Her brows furrowed. First disbelief, then laughter. “No way. Are you kidding? How could you possibly…”
“During the blood draw… the syringe… cross-contamination.” Gao Kun lowered his head. “May lightning strike me down if I’m lying about a single word.”
Lingling remained silent. She fumbled for a cigarette, her hand trembling as she pressed the lighter repeatedly, unable to get it to ignite. Gao Kun tried to step closer, but she recoiled sharply.
“Don’t come near me.” She flung the lighter to the ground, the cigarette slipping from her fingers. “When did you find out? This week? Last week?” She wrapped her arms around herself. “You didn’t give it to me, did you? We never slept together, just shared a kiss. It shouldn’t be contagious… it definitely can’t be…”
She spoke to herself as if no one stood before her, yet her gaze shifted to Gao Kun, complex emotions flickering in her eyes.
“You… you’ll have to…”
The rest of the sentence died on her lips. She simply stopped speaking, turning away on her high heels. The click of her heels against the concrete was sharp and cruel.
Truthfully, Gao Kun had anticipated this outcome from the start, but he still didn’t want to lie to her.
In the frame, Gao Kun kept his head down, his foot pressing against the lighter on the ground. The cheap plastic casing scraped against the rough concrete, producing a shrill sound.
His brow threatened to furrow, but he forced it back. Hands stuffed in his pockets, he stubbornly curled the corners of his mouth upward.
The close-up slowly pulled back, revealing his entire figure. Gao Kun lifted his foot, sparing the small lighter. He crouched down to pick it up, then retrieved the cigarette she had discarded there earlier. He brought it to his lips and pressed it down repeatedly, just as she had done before, until finally, a flame ignited.
The faint flame flickered in the wind, slowly consuming the cigarette. A wisp of smoke finally found its chance to escape into the sky.
Gao Kun took a deep drag, coughing violently until his face flushed red. The coughing grew more intense, forcing him to cover his mouth. The smoke before the camera gradually dispersed, and tears suddenly welled up, falling in large drops onto the ground. The light gray surface darkened where the liquid pooled, like stubborn stains on old clothes that refuse to fade.
His shoulders shook uncontrollably as tears streamed down his face. Wiping them away, he took another drag, exhaling smoke like a sigh before lowering his head, letting the tears fall freely.
“…So I’ve learned to smoke, haven’t I?” His voice was hoarse as he smiled down, a laugh filled with sorrow and despair.
“Pretty simple.”
He pinched the cigarette between his fingers, plopped down onto the ground, and buried his head in his knees, his whole body trembling.
Ash fell like tears.
Everyone on set watched silently, no one speaking.
“Cut.” The director yelled, but Zhou Ziheng wasn’t like before. No matter how intense the scene, he could usually snap out of it instantly. But now, even after it ended, he remained seated there, shoulders still shaking.
Kuncheng noticed something was wrong. Xia Xiqing was right beside him, so he naturally asked first, “What’s been going on with Ziheng lately?”
Xia Xiqing shook his head and lied, “I don’t know.”
“Heartbroken? But he’s never been in love.” Kuncheng’s tone grew heavy. “I thought this scene would take him ages to get right. I’ve seen his past work—he’s talented, but clearly has no experience with romance.” He chuckled. “Whenever he faced romantic scenes before, he’d zone out—completely disengaged from the situation. For those typical, innocent feelings, his acting could compensate. But when it came to truly emotional, heart-wrenching scenes, he couldn’t deliver. He didn’t have that gut-wrenching emotion to draw from.”
Kuncheng stared at the screen. “That’s why I always said actors need to experience love themselves. Otherwise, asking them to portray something they’ve never felt is asking too much.”
“His sudden breakthrough? I never saw that coming.”
Xia Xiqing didn’t wait to hear the rest, nor could he bear to listen. “I’ll go check on him.” With that, he headed toward Zhou Ziheng, who remained seated on the floor. Song Nian, his scene partner, reached him first.
“Ziheng, are you okay?” Song Nian asked, his voice thick with concern. Xia Xiqing slowed his pace.
Zhou Ziheng kept his head down, waving his hand dismissively as if refusing help. Just as Song Nian hesitated over whether to pull him up, a long, slender hand reached out. It snatched the cigarette still clamped between Zhou Ziheng’s fingers and seized his hand.
Almost instantly, Zhou Ziheng lifted his head.
He knew better than anyone whose hand it was, and he couldn’t believe it more than anyone else.
Xia Xiqing crouched down in front of Zhou Ziheng, crushed the cigarette butt into the ground, then reached out to pat Zhou Ziheng’s back. “Why are you acting like a child, crying endlessly?” After speaking, he ruffled Zhou Ziheng’s hair. “So heartbroken, huh?”
Rarely receiving such comfort from him, Zhou Ziheng felt tears well up uncontrollably once more. It was utterly humiliating.
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