It had been raining for over two weeks straight, flooding most of the neighborhoods where filming was scheduled, completely disrupting the production team’s plans. Jiang Yin had flown to Wuhan specifically for a meeting. Fortunately, the original shooting schedule had been tightly packed, compressing two months of filming into one and a half, leaving ample room for unforeseen changes.
“So we’ll shoot the later scenes first?” Xia Xiqing couldn’t help but worry. “But what about Zhou Ziheng’s physique…”
“It’ll be fine.” Zhou Ziheng immediately took over the conversation. “I’ll work hard to lose weight these next few days. Combined with makeup, I don’t think it’ll be a major issue.”
“We have no choice. Otherwise, we’ll miss the Berlin Film Festival.” Kun Cheng stroked his chin and sighed.
Jiang Yin tapped the table lightly with her pen. “Forget the film festival—that’s all water under the bridge now. Our original release date was December 1st, World AIDS Day. It aligned with the theme and was well-timed—after Singles’ Day and before the Christmas holidays, avoiding major blockbusters. But post-production editing requires at least two months, plus the review process. Do the math.”
Zhou Ziheng frowned. “We absolutely must wrap filming by August at the latest.”
But now, with only a week left before July, the timeline was far too tight.
“We can wrap smoothly without reshoots,” Director Kun said, glancing at the schedule. “There aren’t many scenes left to shoot.”
During these rainy days, the crew wrapped all rain-dependent scenes. Even the assistant director joked, “This is the most budget-friendly set I’ve ever worked on—all our rain scenes used real rain.”
They had just moved to the convenience store where Jiang Tong worked in the film. The stagehands and props crew were setting up. Xia Xiqing and the assistant director stood waiting nearby. Hearing the assistant director’s joke, Xia Xiqing added, “That’s Wuhan for you. It’s actually been better these past couple of years.”
Just then, Zhou Ziheng, freshly made up, walked over and stood beside Xia Xiqing. He continued, “Back when I was in high school, it flooded constantly. The sports field was low-lying and turned into a lake. Driving on the streets felt like piloting a boat. I even found a fish on the road once.”
Zhou Ziheng laughed first. “How deep did it get?”
“I was a bit shorter back then, maybe just under 1.8 meters. At its worst, it came up to my knees.” Xia Xiqing leaned against the doorway, reminiscing. “Back then, so many boys carried girls out of the school, setting them down at bus stops and such.” He suddenly chuckled. “Chenchen almost got carried home once. He thought it was embarrassing and refused outright. The two of them nearly got into a fight.”
The assistant director roared with laughter. “Xiqing, didn’t you jump at the chance to carry any of the girls in class?”
Zhou Ziheng pictured the scene, turned his head to look at Xia Xiqing, and teased with a playful grin, “Yeah, what about you?”
“Me?” Xia Xiqing gave a roguish grin. “I couldn’t even manage myself. Who’d have time to carry them? I was the one wishing someone would carry me. Every time it rained, I ruined several pairs of sneakers.”
No sooner had he finished than Zhou Ziheng started chuckling like an idiot, leaving even the assistant director puzzled.
Was it really that funny?
Only after the assistant director left to attend to other matters did Zhou Ziheng nudge Xia Xiqing with his shoulder. “I’ll carry you.”
Xia Xiqing glanced at Zhou Ziheng just as the production assistant called his name. He responded, shoved his half-finished coffee into Zhou Ziheng’s hands, and headed toward the director.
“You didn’t even wait for me to say yes, did you?”
With those light words and a smile, Zhou Ziheng took Xia Xiqing away under his umbrella, leaving Zhou Ziheng standing there alone, grinning foolishly.
Standing beside Director Kun was another actor who had recently joined the crew—Guo Yang, a dashing man in his forties. Paired with his sharp suit in the film, he easily commanded a favorable impression. Xia Xiqing had already met him the night of the meeting, and the two had rehearsed their scenes beforehand.
“Lucky I’m tall too,” Guo Yang, standing at 6’3“, chuckled. ”Otherwise, Jiang Tong’s tall stature would make it hard to portray vulnerability in front of ordinary people.”
Kun Cheng burst into laughter. “This is the tallest cast of male actors I’ve ever worked with. Every day feels like I’m falling into a pit.”
Guo Yang had been grinding it out in the entertainment industry for years. Though he hadn’t achieved massive stardom in his early days, his refined demeanor and masterful acting skills had won him a devoted following among younger female fans as he entered middle age.
In this drama, he played Cheng Qiming, an executive who first noticed Jiang Tong while buying cigarettes at a convenience store. Seeing Jiang Tong reminded him of his own younger brother, prompting him to treat Jiang Tong exceptionally well. He frequently visited under the pretense of shopping and brought gifts whenever he traveled for work.
Jiang Tong was initially resistant, but gradually came to accept his kindness. Later, while accompanying Gao Kun to his lab tests, she learned from the doctor that the virus in his body had developed drug resistance. It was highly likely that the person who infected him had already taken medication and developed resistance themselves. Since Gao Kun started treatment late, his immunity was nearly gone. To continue treatment, relying solely on the government’s free first-line drugs was far from sufficient, yet they lacked the funds to purchase medication privately.
Watching Gao Kun hospitalized with a high fever due to complications, Jiang Tong worked frantically but still couldn’t help him. She had no choice but to borrow money from Cheng Qiming. Coincidentally, while Gao Kun was hanging out with Lingling, they had seen an interview with Cheng Qiming in a magazine.
Back then, Lingling had gossiped, “A friend who works at a high-end club told me this guy doesn’t like young girls. He only picks up club hostesses for drinking companions.”
This led Gao Kun to misunderstand Jiang Tong, and the two had a huge fight.
This was the scene they needed to shoot today—the final rain scene for the entire film.
“Jiang Tong’s here. Perfect. Let’s run through this together—it’s two dialogue scenes plus a conflict sequence.” An assistant held an umbrella for Director Kun as he stepped outside the glass doors. “We’ll shoot from several angles, including one outside these doors. So pay attention to your positioning—make sure this camera gets a clear shot.”
After a few brief explanations, Kun returned to the monitor.
“Ready for take one.”
“The Stalker, Scene 74, Take 1, Action!”
At midnight, Jiang Tong had been on shift for two hours, having already moved over a dozen boxes to fill the gaps on the shelves. He was shy around strangers, which made working as a cashier impossible. He could only take on the harder, more physically demanding jobs.
His cashier colleague, Aqi, suddenly came over clutching his stomach. Patting Jiang Tong’s shoulder, he deliberately spoke loudly, “Jiang Tong, I gotta hit the bathroom. My stomach’s killing me. Can you cover the register for me? Thanks.”
Jiang Tong, head slightly bowed, slipped his gloves into his pocket and walked to the register. Fortunately, the early hours were usually quiet, so he didn’t have to worry too much.
But just as he thought that, the convenience store’s automated welcome message sounded at the entrance. Jiang Tong slowly lifted his head, then quickly lowered it again. All he could see were a pair of legs clad in an expensive suit.
The customer took a cup of coffee and stood at the counter, speaking kindly, “Hello, could I get a pack of Huanghelou Full Sky Star, please?” ”
Blue.”
Jiang Tong realized his mistake, crouched down again, found the blue Huanghelou pack, and handed it to the customer with both hands, stammering a quiet apology.
The hands that took the cigarettes were clean, with neatly trimmed nails.
“Thank you. How much is that?”
Jiang Tong scanned the price, cautiously glancing upward at the screen. He strained to read the number and reported it to the customer standing before him.
The man pulled a hundred-yuan bill from his wallet and handed it to Jiang Tong. He waited patiently for the change, then said thank you before pushing open the door and leaving.
Only after the automated voice at the entrance finished did Jiang Tong exhale in relief. When he looked up, he could only see half a figure beneath a black umbrella, pulling open a car door and slipping inside.
“Cut!”
Though Kuncheng had a good temperament, he was extremely meticulous on set. This single scene of buying cigarettes took a full twenty-one takes. In truth, he found it puzzling himself. Xia Xiqing and Zhou Ziheng had such palpable tension whenever they acted together, yet with others, it always felt like something was missing. It invariably took a long while to find that right feeling.
“For the upcoming scenes where Jiang Tong and Cheng Qiming gradually get to know each other, you need to convey a sense of attachment akin to that for a father. But be careful not to overdo it—you have to get the balance just right.”
Hearing Kun Cheng’s direction, Xia Xiqing felt it grow even harder.
Children deprived of paternal love often develop one of two personality tendencies as adults: an extreme craving for fatherly affection, constantly seeking substitutes in others; or a deep aversion to such affection.
Xia Xiqing clearly belonged to the latter group. Asking him to portray the former was a chasm-like leap.
After several forced attempts, Director Kun remained unsatisfied. “Your eyes show only softness, not that kind of dependence that comes from opening up to him.”
After a lengthy discussion, Zhou Ziheng, who had been standing nearby, joined in. “Director, do you really think Jiang Tong opened up to Cheng Qiming? While I’m viewing this from Gao Kun’s perspective, I believe Jiang Tong truly only depends on Gao Kun. He wouldn’t have sought Cheng Qiming’s help unless absolutely necessary.”
The two nearly argued over their interpretations, though such clashes were commonplace on set. Everyone focused on their own tasks without interference. As their debate reached a fever pitch, Xia Xiqing finally voiced his perspective.
“If she truly depended on Cheng Qiming, she would have told him about Gao Kun’s illness from the start. Keeping it hidden all this time is itself a sign of distrust.” He paused again before continuing, “Besides, growing up in Jiang Tong’s environment—watching his mother bring home all sorts of adult men, screaming and cursing at the slightest annoyance—it’s unrealistic for him to develop dependence on a middle-aged man.”
Zhou Ziheng shot him a worried glance before reiterating his perspective to Kuncheng. Even Guo Yang, who’d been observing the exchange, sided with them. “Honestly, their analysis makes more sense to me too. If I were playing Jiang Tong, I’d portray him as fearful and withdrawn.” He chuckled, adding playfully, “Though I could only play the middle-aged Jiang Tong, haha.”
Only then did Kun Cheng concede, realizing his own approach had been somewhat skewed. But he had always been a director open to actors’ suggestions—filming was inherently a collaborative effort, and sometimes the director didn’t necessarily understand a character’s nuances better than the actor.
“Then let’s try it again following this approach.”
After three or four more takes, Zhou Ziheng watched intently beside the monitor, observing the emotions in Xia Xiqing’s eyes. For Xia Xiqing, feigning vulnerability was effortless. Combined with his features, it felt entirely natural. What was truly impressive, however, was that beyond the fear and timidity in his gaze toward Cheng Qiming, there was also a complex emotion—the unease of accepting another’s kindness and a stubbornness ingrained in his very bones.
Those emotions belonged to Xia Xiqing.
“That’s it.” Director Kun glanced at his watch—it was already 3 a.m. “Let’s make the most of the time. We can’t shoot once daylight hits.”
The final scene was the conflict sequence featuring Gao Kun. The stylist led Guo Yang away to change, while the makeup artist came up to touch up Xia Xiqing’s makeup. Zhou Ziheng stood nearby, helping him rehearse his lines.
As they rehearsed lines, Xia Xiqing glanced at Zhou Ziheng. His complexion was dreadful—a cold sore on his right lip, some blisters already burst. His eye sockets were sunken, his skin an unhealthy yellow, lymph nodes swollen along his neck. Though Xia knew this was the makeup artist’s work, he couldn’t explain why, but just looking at Zhou made his heart ache.
“Don’t look at me,” Zhou Ziheng said, shielding his face with the script.
“Stop staring at him,” the makeup artist gently lifted Xia Xiqing’s chin. “You’re so busy watching him I can’t even apply your makeup.”
“Who’s staring?” Xia Xiqing turned his head away, hearing Zhou Ziheng chuckle beside him.
He suddenly recalled how he’d originally auditioned just to sabotage things—to prevent other young heartthrobs from filming with Zhou Ziheng. Thinking back, his past self had been utterly foolish.
But if he hadn’t come, they might still be stuck in that unspoken, unspoken relationship.
“Take 1, Shot A, Scene 76 of Stalker. Action!”
A heavy rain fell relentlessly. After unloading the cargo, Jiang Tong slipped into the staff lounge, took off his jacket, dabbed it dry with a towel, and put it back on.
Closing his locker, he spotted the lunchbox inside, along with a small box of chocolates.
After getting through this night, he’d buy a steaming hot three-flavor bean curd skin dish tomorrow morning and bring it to the hospital to visit Gao Kun. Jiang Tong closed the locker door, pulled out his phone to check the time, and just as he was about to put it back, a text message arrived. He hurriedly stuffed the phone into his pants pocket, stepped out of the break room, and glanced around.
Outside the convenience store stood a man in a crisp suit, still holding that dark umbrella. He tilted the canopy back slightly, revealing his face as he flashed a smile at Jiang Tong.
Jiang Tong glanced at the cash register. Tonight, his partner on the night shift was a girl, her head down, engrossed in binge-watching a show. He made an excuse to step outside and saw Cheng Qiming, immediately bowing repeatedly.
Cheng Qiming walked under the convenience store’s eaves, closed his umbrella, and smiled kindly. “Everyone else gets shifts rotated. Why do you always work the overnight shift?”
The rain was loud, but fortunately his voice carried well. Jiang Tong barely made out the words. He lowered his head, wanting to explain but unable to find the words. “I… I…”
“Just asking. No need to get nervous.” He casually reached out and patted Jiang Tong’s slender shoulder. Jiang Tong, however, flinched away sensitively, keeping his head down.
“Oh, right,” Cheng Qiming quickly changed the subject. “You said you had something to tell me. What is it?” A distinct scent of antiseptic lingered on Jiang Tong. “Is it about your sick friend?”
Jiang Tong understood this perfectly. He nodded immediately, instinctively reaching to sign, but his hand dropped back down. With great effort, he explained, “Illness… very… serious… needs… a lot… of money… you… you…” His urgency made him choke, coughing several times. Cheng Qiming stepped closer and patted his back. “Slow down, slow down.” He glanced around the convenience store. “This isn’t a good place to talk. Why don’t you come with me to the car?”
Jiang Tong looked at the car and shook his head. “I… I want… borrow a little… money…“ The last syllable was barely audible. Deep-seated humility and a lifetime of hardship made it impossible for him to ask for money openly. Yet he feared Cheng Qiming might think he was a con artist. Wanting to explain clearly, he pulled his work notebook and pen from his uniform pocket. ”You… please… wait… for me…”
He crouched down swiftly, frantically trying to jot down everything he needed to say—what illness Gao Kun had contracted, why it happened, why private treatment was necessary. He wrote out the entire story, stroke by stroke, but grew increasingly anxious as he wrote, his whole body trembling.
“Don’t rush. Come on, let’s stand up and talk.” Cheng Qiming pulled Jiang Tong to his feet. “Let’s go to the car. You can sit down. It’s so inconvenient standing here.”
Jiang Tong shook his head at first, but after a moment, he nodded. He let Cheng Qiming open the umbrella and half-support him by the shoulder as they walked to the expensive sedan. Cheng Qiming gallantly pulled the door open for him.
“Get in.”
Just as Jiang Tong bent to enter, someone suddenly emerged, yanking him out with surprising force. Startled, Jiang Tong looked up to find it was Gao Kun!
“Gao… Gao…”
“You, come here!” Gao Kun’s umbrella had been knocked to the ground, rain pelting his face as his brows knitted tightly. He shoved Cheng Qiming aside. “What the hell are you doing?” He shoved again. “Where do you think you’re taking him?”
Cheng Qiming tried to explain, but before he could finish, Gao Kun lunged to strike him. Jiang Tong immediately stepped between them, too flustered to speak, only able to utter stammering cries as she grabbed Gao Kun’s arm. The small notebook she’d been holding earlier fell to the ground.
Gao Kun suddenly remembered the needle mark on his arm from his recent injection. He quickly withdrew his hand, but the fire in his heart wouldn’t subside. “Let go of me! Let go!”
Jiang Tong, startled by his outburst, dumbly released his arm and stared into his eyes.
“Go home.” Seeing him frozen in place, Gao Kun bellowed again, “Didn’t you hear me? Go home!”
“Don’t be like this. He was just trying to help you…”
Gao Kun cut off Cheng Qiming’s explanation. “Did I ask you to speak? Keep your distance from him. If you want to cause trouble, go bother someone else! Don’t think having a few bucks means you can trample on others!”
Jiang Tong suddenly understood Gao Kun’s meaning.
Silently, he bent down, picked up his notebook—now soaked beyond recognition—and handed it to Gao Kun without a word. But Gao Kun was still fuming, still tangled in an argument with Cheng Qiming. He couldn’t spare a thought for Jiang Tong.
“Listen to me! I don’t care if you like men or women, but you stay away from Jiang Tong! He’s not like you. Stay away from him!” As Gao Kun spoke, he recalled the boy he’d seen at the epidemic prevention center earlier. That boy had been fair-skinned too, even younger than Jiang Tong. Yet after just one night out at a bar, he’d been drugged, raped, and infected with AIDS. Now he lived in constant fear, just like Gao Kun.
Gao Kun shoved Jiang Tong with his elbow. “Go home. Go home.”
Jiang Tong’s notebook was knocked away again. He hurriedly picked it up and stood, about to hand it back, when he saw Gao Kun collapse at his feet.
Terrified, he immediately knelt down. In the pouring rain, he frantically cradled Gao Kun’s head, then turned toward Cheng Qiming. He wanted to hand over the notebook he held, but couldn’t. Instead, he kept banging his head on the ground, his already disjointed words shattered by the downpour.
“Save… him… please… please… you…”
After several bows, Cheng Qiming couldn’t bear it any longer. He crouched down, and together they lifted Gao Kun into the car, closing the door.
“You take the passenger seat. We need to get your friend to the emergency room now.”
Jiang Tong climbed into the passenger seat, his entire body practically twisted sideways as he stared, trembling, at Gao Kun lying unconscious in the backseat.
Cheng Qiming glanced at him, sighed, and started the car, heading toward the hospital.
“Cut.”
This scene took fourteen takes to nail. The three actors wrestled in the rain for an hour and a half. The moment the director called “Cut,” several assistants immediately rushed forward with umbrellas, wrapping towels around them. Jiang Yin’s car for Xia Xiqing had encountered trouble en route, so Xiaoxiao temporarily brought him to Zhou Ziheng’s RV. At this hour, with the heavy rain, there were hardly any paparazzi lurking around.
“We finally wrapped before dawn. If we’d kept going, we’d have gotten sick.” Xiao Xiao brought clean clothes and hot tea she’d prepared earlier, carefully removing Zhou Ziheng’s makeup. “Xiqing only recovered from his illness half a month ago.”
Xiqing smiled and thanked her. Xiao Xiao then followed Xiao Luo to the front passenger seat, thoughtfully drawing the curtains for them. “You two can get some sleep. It’ll probably be daylight by the time we get back to the hotel.”
By the time Xia Xiqing got in, Zhou Ziheng had already changed. Now only he remained.
“Turn around.”
Zhou Ziheng’s expression was half-smiling, half-mocking as he lowered his voice. “I’ve seen every inch of you, inside and out.”
Xia Xiqing couldn’t be bothered to argue. “Turn around if you want.” He swiftly stripped off his shirt. Zhou Ziheng obediently took the towel to dry his upper body, then gathered the short-sleeved shirt over his head.
His makeup had long been washed away by the downpour. Now dressed in a plain white short-sleeved shirt, Xia Xiqing looked every bit the student—simple and refreshing.
“Want me to help with your pants too?” Zhou Ziheng picked up the trousers from the table, gave them a shake, only to have them snatched away by Xia Xiqing the next second, who shot him a fierce glare.
Though they were joking, mindful of the assistant in the driver’s seat, Zhou Ziheng turned his face away. His mind was still filled with scenes from the earlier play, his emotions not yet fully detached.
After changing, Xia Xiqing collapsed onto the sofa bed in the RV, feeling utterly drained.
Zhou Ziheng lay down beside her, kissed his eyelids, and whispered, “They’re all puffy from crying.”
Hearing this, Xia Xiqing shielded his eyes with the back of his hand, his mind consumed by filming concerns. “If they stay this puffy, I won’t be able to film tomorrow.”
“Don’t cover them.” Zhou Ziheng kissed the palm of his hand. “You look beautiful when you cry. I like watching you.”
Xia Xiqing withdrew his hand and tapped Zhou Ziheng’s forehead. “Why do I feel like you have sadistic tendencies? You’re not secretly a yandere, are you?”
“Yandere? What’s a yandere?” Zhou Ziheng grabbed Xia Xiqing’s hand and kissed it again.
“It’s…” How to explain it? Xia Xiqing pondered, deciding it was too complicated. “Forget it. Look it up yourself later.” He looked at Zhou Ziheng, who had lost a lot of weight. Even his usual dominant aura seemed diminished, making him look like a genuine twenty-year-old kid now—a youthful energy his red hair couldn’t hide.
Xia Xiqing first stroked his cheek, then slid his hand down to pinch Zhou Ziheng’s waist. “You’ve lost a ton of weight. Must be at least fifteen pounds gone in this short time.”
“Close to twenty pounds,” Zhou Ziheng sighed. “Director Kun said I need to slim down even more. My abs and everything are gone.”
These days, Jiang Yin personally arranged all of Zhou Ziheng’s boxed meals. Sometimes he’d just have a bowl of boiled spinach, or at worst, nibble on diced apples between takes. Watching him waste away, his once-proud physique had turned into a skinny stick.
An actor’s physique naturally requires adjustments for roles—it’s part of the job. Zhou Ziheng had gone through this before on set and was quite willing to sacrifice for art. But now, filming alongside someone he liked, he still didn’t want him to see him looking so unattractive.
Xia Xiqing poked his sunken cheeks and sighed, “Just wrap up filming already.”
If he kept losing weight like this, his body would break down.
“Can’t you stand looking at me anymore?” Zhou Ziheng asked with a smile.
“Why would you say that?”
Zhou Ziheng lowered his head to embrace Xia Xiqing, his voice softening. “You said before that you only liked this face and this figure…”
Before he could finish, Xia Xiqing burst into laughter. Zhou Ziheng looked up at him. “What are you laughing at?”
“Laughing at how I ever fell for a fool like you.”
“You…”
“While I don’t mind a skinny chicken, you’d better get your body back in shape after filming wraps. Otherwise…” Xia Xiqing leaned close to Zhou Ziheng’s ear, taking the small silver stud piercing his earlobe between his lips. His tongue was warm and wet, tracing the cool metal and the skin growing hotter by the second.
Just like his voice, soft and gentle.
“Then we won’t be able to unlock a lot of positions.”
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