Ding Chenhai’s lips brushed against his nose, slowly descending, carrying his voice into Qin Sizheng’s mouth. “I want you, A-Jing.”
Recently, everyone on set had been calling him A-Jing, and for a fleeting moment, Qin Sizheng almost felt this wasn’t a line—this was really Lu Xianqing speaking, telling him he wanted him.
How he wished it were true. But he knew it couldn’t be. Between them lay the insurmountable gap of the original story, and Qin Sizheng’s eyes prickled with unshed tears.
Seeing him lost in thought, Lu Xianqing lowered his voice, a teasing hiss by his ear: “Thinking about Jiang Zhen again? Focus on the scene, collect yourself.”
Qin Sizheng hurriedly pulled himself together, slipping back into the shell of Chu Jing, content, for a few days, to fully inhabit him.
He reached out, grabbed Lu Xianqing’s collar, raised an eyebrow, and said, “I’m a violent person. If you want me, fine. But you can’t throw me off. Unless you’re dead, you won’t get rid of me—or I’ll kill you.”
“Alright.” Ding Chenhai lowered his head to find his lips again. The creaking upstairs and faint chatter drifting in from below mingled around them.
“The one who just came for A-Jing—that’s Ding Chenhai, right? What’s he doing here? That cold-blooded person who wouldn’t even spare his brother… is he here to cause trouble for A-Jing?”
“How does A-Jing even know someone like him? They seem… familiar. Xiao Yu, you’re always with him, tell me.”
“I don’t know. Don’t ask me, go ask A-Jing yourself.”
Biting Chu Jing’s lips, Ding Chenhai laughed softly. “They say I’m cold and ruthless, that I’m causing you trouble. Want me to show them if that’s true?”
Chu Jing’s face burned. “Close the window! Don’t randomly kiss me, or I’ll hit you!”
“They care about you. Want me to show everyone who’s watched you grow how I tease you, A-Jing?” Ding Chenhai lowered his gaze to his flushed cheeks and the faintly reddened corners of his eyes, brushing his lips softly across them.
Qin Sizheng had never been kissed before, and had no idea there could be so many variations. His fingers tingled, his most delicate eye corners were assaulted, and involuntary tears of sensation formed.
He instinctively shifted his legs; being held was uncomfortable. His hands, constrained by Ding Chenhai, felt tense. His whole body was on edge.
Heavy breaths in his ears, the upstairs intimacy, the concern from below—three layers of sound converged, almost driving him mad. The pride of a boy untouched by the world softened into bashfulness.
“Fourth brother.”
“Cut!”
Zhou Changjiang clapped his thighs, exasperated. “What’s going on, A-Jing? That shot was perfect! Why ‘Fourth brother’? That ruined it.”
Lu Xianqing frowned. “Your first time acting? Is an NG worth getting this worked up? Let’s just reshoot. Will yelling help? Won’t make the next one better.”
Zhou Changjiang swallowed his words, still muttering. “Again.”
Qin Sizheng readied himself, swallowed, took a deep breath, and centered himself. Lu Xianqing’s finger grazed the moving part of the set like a tiny pearl.
“Why did you just say ‘Fourth brother’?”
Qin Sizheng glanced at Zhou Changjiang by the camera, whispering, “Don’t mess around. Director’s watching. Let go.”
“If you keep dodging me, I’ll—” Lu Xianqing pressed his hand against his neck with a gentle weight, murmuring in his ear: “I’ll kill you.”
Qin Sizheng’s lashes fluttered. “I didn’t dodge.”
Zhou Changjiang’s face darkened. “Done chatting?!”
He quickly pulled Lu Xianqing’s hand away and whispered to Zhou Changjiang, “Director, ready? Let’s shoot.”
Chu Jing forced himself to listen to the distant chatter outside, his eyes still slightly reddened from the earlier take. He forced himself into character, imagining the scene, feeling the emotions, merging fully with the role.
Ding Chenhai’s voice was low. “They’re your elders. Don’t you usually talk to them every day? Why not today?”
“Different. It’s not like this usually. Close the window,” Chu Jing said, reaching to pull it shut, only for Ding Chenhai to stop him. “Don’t.”
Lu Xianqing’s lips traced from his forehead to his ear, every stroke like a painting, making Qin Sizheng feel every contour of his ear attended to.
A kitten-like whimper escaped, filling the cramped attic, fragile and fleeting.
Ding Chenhai lowered his voice. “I’ve thought a long time. Since the day you jumped into my home, up to this moment, I’ve found the missing part of my soul. Will you come home with me?”
The children’s play outside faded, leaving only Ding Chenhai’s voice. Chu Jing whispered softly, “Mm.”
“I didn’t hear. Say it again, A-Jing.”
He buried his head. “I will.”
Ding Chenhai’s voice, low and rich with a hint of laughter, said, “I knew it.”
“You know nothing.” Chu Jing looked at him, each movement reverent, holding back a racing heart. He whispered, “I like you. I’ve liked you for a long time. You didn’t know, and you tease me.”
Zhou Changjiang watched more closely this time, their whispered exchange adding subtle allure to the camera. Qin Sizheng’s slight grievance on his face perfectly embodied Chu Jing.
The camera up close couldn’t cheat angles. Qin Sizheng, nervous, wanted to look at it, but Lu Xianqing pinched his chin, whispering: “Don’t look. Haven’t you had enough scolding from Zhou Changjiang? Focus on me, not the lens.”
Qin Sizheng immediately averted his gaze, fixing it on Lu Xianqing. He didn’t want to redo that awkward moment where he had blurted “Fourth brother” again.
“Click.”
A faint sound of the door opening, followed by the elderly lady’s sharp voice: “A-Jing! That little brat—you left the pot lid off again! How long are you going to leave a mess like this? What am I going to do when I’m gone, huh?”
Her footsteps drew nearer, and Chu Jing’s whole body tensed, panicking at the thought she might discover a man—Ding Chenhai, no less—hiding in his home, and worse, doing this kind of thing!
The old lady would have a stroke on the spot!
“A-Jing, what do you want for dinner tonight? I bought some tomatoes and eggs; how about I make you tomato and egg noodles?” she asked while tidying up.
Chu Jing’s voice trembled. “G-Grandma… I won’t eat tonight. You go ahead and eat yourself!”
“You won’t eat? How will you grow strong? I’ll make you egg noodles, and did you change your sheets? If not, they’re filthy!”
Ding Chenhai, still with his head down, clearly heard her, yet took the opportunity to tease even more.
Chu Jing panicked. “Mr. Ding, get up!”
The old lady’s footsteps clattered up the stairs. “What’s that noise? You scared me! Are you causing trouble again? I heard from Xiao Li downstairs you broke her sign.”
“I wasn’t causing trouble… please go cook… I’ll come down later. I’m so hungry, Grandma,” Chu Jing tried to sound calm.
Qin Sizheng, lost in the moment, felt as if he truly were Chu Jing, cornered by Lu Xianqing, with a cliff behind him and him in front.
“What’s that noise? You little rascal, are you hurt?”
The footsteps and voice grew closer. Chu Jing shook his head at him in silent pleading. Ding Chenhai whispered, “Want me to spare you?”
Resigned, Chu Jing took a deep breath, hooked a hand around his nape, and softly, like a kitten lapping milk, murmured, “Uncle Ding… be good.”
Ding Chenhai froze. Lu Xianqing also paused.
The soft “be good” seemed to plant a burning pin in his heart, making a tiny wound—not painful, but impossible to resist.
The old lady stopped at the doorway. “Hungry? I’ll start cooking. Don’t fall asleep, okay?”
“I won’t, please go ahead,” Chu Jing said quickly. Hearing her footsteps descend again, he finally exhaled and kicked the man off him with all his strength. “You bastard!”
Ding Chenhai lowered his eyes, smiling. “Mm, I’m the old bastard; you’re the little bastard.”
Chu Jing huffed, and only after a moment did he realize, glaring wide-eyed: “You took advantage of me! I won’t forgive—” but all words were blocked.
Qin Sizheng had never experienced such directness. Clumsily following, he responded tentatively, careful with each movement, his breathing uneven, more constrained than active.
Ding Chenhai had come with a clear purpose: he wanted this boy, urgently, and today confirmed his intent.
The first bedroom scene unfolded in this cramped, worn attic. Below, the smell of Grandma’s cooking floated up; above, unrestrained passion raged. This small world contained Chu Jing’s nervousness, trepidation, and wholehearted surrender.
He’d never acted before, let alone in an intimate scene. Before filming, Zhou Changjiang told him not to worry: the tension was enough; no excess, no exposure. Just follow the rhythm, he said. Lu Xianqing was an experienced actor.
Trusting him, he went with the flow. Zhou Changjiang nodded repeatedly, satisfied, preparing for the final shot.
Perfect!
Zhou Changjiang held the script, eyes fixed on the camera as it slowly descended, five… four… three…
“Cut!”
He nearly wanted to lift the camera and smash it on Lu Xianqing’s head, slapping his own for frustration. “Hurry up and tidy this mess!”
Chu Jing, red-faced, threw the clothes over his bed to cover himself, eyes still lingering on the vivid memory of Lu Xianqing peeling off the tape and their encounter.
He had expected the possibility, but not that it would happen before him. Embarrassingly, his first thought was: I can’t believe it’s this big.
He was doomed.
The assistant director whispered, “Zhou, outside they’re saying Fourth Brother… and you’ve worked with him before. Has this ever happened?”
Zhou Changjiang froze. “No. He’s done so many films, never reacted like this. Never needed protection; who would’ve thought a simple shot could end up like this? Getting worse! I think if he waits a few more days, he might just quit the industry.”
Crew pulled curtains to give Lu Xianqing privacy to tidy up. Everyone exchanged glances, whispering: “Looks like Fourth Brother’s reacting for the first time… and it’s with A-Jing. Could those rumors on Weibo be true?”
“Can’t be false, not after that.”
“But this is insane—only reacts to one person. No worries about cheating, because he simply feels nothing for anyone else. If their fans knew, they’d go wild.”
Zhou Changjiang cleared his throat. “Don’t spread it!”
“Got it, got it.”
After repeated ‘accidents,’ the scene took over four hours to finish. Qin Sizheng felt on fire; once Zhou Changjiang called it, he bolted, not even daring to watch the playback.
Lu Xianqing, however, watched with relish, pointing out minor details: “The lighting here is off, doesn’t flatter his face. And here, my hand moved too fast—should be slower by 0.1 seconds. And here…”
Zhou Changjiang listened seriously at first, expecting a long critique, but it was nonsense, the only sentence being: I haven’t filmed enough; let’s do it again.
Suppressing his frustration, Zhou Changjiang snapped the script shut and glared: “How about a reshoot?”
Lu Xianqing nodded approvingly at him. “As expected of you, Director Zhou. The whole art world should learn from your dedication. No wonder I enjoy working with you—you have that earnestness I like.”
Zhou Changjiang wanted to kick him. “Get lost.”
Lu Xianqing didn’t mind, turning with a smile and waving. “Send me the outtakes later. I’ll have An Ning pick them up. Thanks for your hard work, Director Zhou.”
Zhou Changjiang shouted after him, “No way! Outtakes aren’t trash! Just because you say so doesn’t mean I’ll give them to you! Even if the King himself came, I wouldn’t hand them over—forget it!”
Qin Sizheng hurried back to the car. Shen Changfeng, noticing his almost panicked rush, frowned and looked around, seeing no one, then back at him. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing… just… needed to use the restroom,” Qin Sizheng replied, trying to sound casual.
“Oh,” Shen Changfeng said, about to walk, but then saw Lu Xianqing approaching, waving along with An Ning, as if inviting them to share the ride.
“Shall we wait?”
Qin Sizheng hesitated. He truly didn’t know how to be around him after just witnessing what had happened upstairs. Couldn’t he have a calm night to himself first? Closing his eyes, all he could picture was the subtle intertwining of Lu Xianqing’s body—size, shape, every detail vivid in his mind.
Shen Changfeng said, “Fourth Brother even spoke up for you at lunch. You should thank him.”
“What?” Qin Sizheng asked, puzzled.
“On Weibo. Didn’t you see?”