FIG CHAPTER 11

After resting for two days, Zhu Lianzhen was once again jolted awake by his alarm and got up to get his hair done. While washing up, he absentmindedly opened WeChat and noticed that the red notification dot on his Moments had piled up to over three hundred.

He tapped on it just to clear the red dot, but the message list that unfolded caught him completely off guard.

The most recent dozens of notifications were all likes from Tan Qing!

It looked like he had gone to Zhu Lianzhen’s profile and systematically liked every single post he had ever made on Moments.

Zhu Lianzhen was baffled. Even if the block had been lifted, this still felt like overkill… He wanted to message Tan Qing to ask what he was doing, but then noticed that Tan Qing’s chat window was pinned at the top of his list.

When had that been pinned? Zhu Lianzhen had no memory of doing it. After thinking carefully, he vaguely recalled that the last time they went drinking together, Tan Qing had tapped a few times on his phone screen.

Zhu Lianzhen had never paid much attention to his chat interface, so he hadn’t even noticed until days later.

On the way to rehearsal, red dot notifications on his Moments kept popping up one after another. As soon as he walked through the door, he stopped Tan Qing. “Are you clocking in on my profile? One like a minute?”

Without even flinching, Tan Qing looked up from his phone. “You complained I never liked your posts, so I’m making up for it now.”

“Lame excuse.” Zhu Lianzhen sat down next to him. “I don’t recall ever saying that. You’re imagining things.”

“You’re denying it so confidently—did it not occur to you I might’ve recorded it that night?”

That offhand remark immediately rendered Zhu Lianzhen speechless.

He began frantically replaying the scene in his mind, trying to remember whether he’d said anything incriminating.

His worry and guilt were written all over his face. Tan Qing tilted his head and observed him for a few seconds before suddenly laughing and adding, “Relax. I didn’t record anything.”

With that, he continued scrolling through Zhu Lianzhen’s Moments.

“Really didn’t record?” Zhu Lianzhen leaned in closer, staring into Tan Qing’s eyes to confirm. “You didn’t even take out your phone that night, right?”

“Mm. Recording someone’s drunken behavior—wouldn’t that be taking advantage of them? I couldn’t possibly do something like that.” Tan Qing remained composed, but as he finished the sentence, the corners of his mouth twitched upward ever so slightly.

That tiny motion didn’t escape Zhu Lianzhen’s notice, and the trust he’d just rebuilt began wavering again. “Was that a guilty laugh just now?”

Also, he didn’t think he’d lost control that night—at most, he’d just talked a bit too much.

“No, I just saw something funny,” Tan Qing replied smoothly, turning his phone screen toward him.

Zhu Lianzhen looked down and saw a post he had made on his Moments sometime last year: “Rewatching Harry Potter. Voldemort came from such a background, and yet he’s so civilized and polite. Doesn’t even swear once!”

Below that was a reply from Koty: “If Voldemort yelled ‘You little bastard, drop dead!’ before casting Avada Kedavra—that’s not Voldemort. That’s Fu Rong.”

Soon after, a friend saved in his contacts as [Fudemort] commented on both of them: “Little bastard.”

Zhu Lianzhen couldn’t help but laugh, but then immediately realized Tan Qing was just trying to change the subject. His expression snapped back to serious. “I wasn’t done talking just now.”

Tan Qing simply handed him the phone. “You can check it yourself.”

“Don’t give me that.” Zhu Lianzhen didn’t take it, but carefully studied Tan Qing’s expression to confirm his sincerity. “I’ll reluctantly believe you.”

“But the way you’re looking at me still has a lot of doubt in it.” Tan Qing didn’t pull his hand back, and the two of them remained locked like that. Their subtle standoff was starting to draw attention from the people around them.

Luckily, the stylist arrived at that moment, and everyone immediately shifted into work mode.

“You can’t just cancel pre-recording like that. We already prepared all the props on our side.” Pei Qiao had spent the whole morning arguing with the person in charge of the music show Music Class. “Your higher-ups are just trying to cut corners. Is this how you treat your guests?”

Her voice carried clearly down the hallway, and the group members all heard the phone call. Koty, who had already finished getting his hair done, quietly asked the others what was going on.

Ji Yunting looked up and told him, “Recently, a new set of guidelines came out for audiovisual programs. From on-screen personnel to stage design, there are all kinds of rules. They’re also requiring live shows not to rely too heavily on pre-recorded material, and singers aren’t allowed to lip-sync using studio tracks. Music Class is probably just trying to align with those official guidelines.”

After listening to the explanation, Koty was dumbfounded. “They’re even controlling the stage setup? Are they gonna change our outfits next?”

Ji Yunting: “What do you think? That neck tattoo of yours will definitely have to be blurred. And if the director wants to save trouble, he might just cut your shots altogether.”

Koty started to feel nervous. “That won’t do. I’ll cover it myself, or can makeup hide it?”

Fu Rong suddenly laughed and quietly interjected, “It can’t be covered. The only way is to cut your head off.”

“I actually thought about getting all my tattoos removed before. I asked a friend about it, and they said it hurts like hell—like having several layers of skin peeled off.” Koty thought for a moment. “Even after removal, there’ll still be traces left. There’s also the risk of infection and scarring. I gave up.”

Zhu Lianzhen sat in his chair, eyes closed as he tried to rest, clearly bored and not really listening to the others.

Tan Qing spoke from the side. “It’s probably because the area you tattooed is too big. Don’t use chemical burning—try picosecond laser treatment. It reduces heat damage and doesn’t leave much scarring.”

Zhu Lianzhen opened his eyes and looked at the mirror.

A question instantly surfaced: how did Tan Qing know which tattoo removal methods were good or bad? Was it hearsay or personal experience? Judging from his unhurried tone, it sounded more like the latter.

So it confirmed what he had suspected before… He had it removed?

Why did he do it first?

The others finished getting their hair done and returned to the hotel. Zhu Lianzhen needed every strand bleached, so his took the longest. He sat motionless for several hours until it was finally done: an ivory-white base overlaid with a metallic sheen of light pearl blue. It was subtle, but under the lights, it shimmered with a dreamlike glow.

“It’s like candy wrapping—really suits you.” Even the stylist couldn’t help but admire it for a few extra minutes. This was one of his most satisfying works since entering the industry. He had drawn up the design sketch a long time ago, but no one in the entire entertainment industry aside from Zhu Lianzhen could pull it off. Finally, this year, he got the chance to collaborate with him.

Zhu Lianzhen thanked him, adjusted his outfit, and went back to dance practice.

When he walked into the practice room, he saw Tan Qing was already there.

“Xiao Zhu,” the other greeted him immediately.

Zhu Lianzhen didn’t respond. He stood still, looked at Tan Qing for a few seconds, and suddenly asked, “Did you have that tattoo removed?”

Tan Qing answered calmly, “No. I kept it, like you.”

If he hadn’t added that second half, Zhu Lianzhen might have let the suspicion go.

“Don’t believe me?” Tan Qing raised his eyelids.

He really didn’t.

Tan Qing let out a soft sigh while holding his phone, and with his other hand, he reached down, slipping his fingers under the hem of his shirt.

Zhu Lianzhen heard the faint clink of metal. He immediately realized that Tan Qing had unhooked his belt buckle.

Zhu Lianzhen froze. “What are you doing?”

“Since there’s a chance I might be lying, you can confirm for yourself,” Tan Qing offered.

Zhu Lianzhen quickly grabbed his arm and turned his face away. “No need. I was just asking casually—who cares if you kept it or had it removed.”

That was what he said, but when the corner of his eye caught sight of the black tattoo on Tan Qing’s abdomen, he couldn’t help but feel a wave of relief.

—Provehito in altum.

It still remained intact on Tan Qing’s body. At the end of that phrase, “Launch forth into the deep,” was the corner of a crescent-shaped bow and arrow.

Zhu Lianzhen stared at that symbol, which represented himself. The warmth of his blood surged upward from his fingertips, as if he had just come through a silent battle where neither side had won.

Taking the opportunity, Zhu Lianzhen decided it was time to discuss future fanservice strategies with Tan Qing properly. He cleared his throat and said, “I forgot to go over this in detail before, but sooner or later, we’re going to have to do some you know what, for work. Pei-jie mentioned it last time, too. But this kind of thing needs cooperation from both of us. If one of us doesn’t… Are you listening?”

He paused, frowning seriously. Tan Qing wasn’t even looking at his face—he was staring at Zhu Lianzhen’s freshly done hair and didn’t seem to be paying attention at all.

“Mm.” Tan Qing’s gaze finally returned to him. “Keep going.”

“Where was I?”

“Cooperation from both of us,” Tan Qing said. “Should we lay down some ground rules?”

That was exactly what Zhu Lianzhen had been thinking. He quickly listed the rules he’d already come up with. “First, any fanservice we do in front of the cameras can’t carry over offstage. That’s simple enough, yeah?”

“Mm.”

“Second, if there’s going to be physical contact or some kind of bombshell reveal, it has to be discussed beforehand. Both people have to agree. No improvising that puts the other in a tough spot. Understand?”

Tan Qing blinked.

Zhu Lianzhen slowed his speech. “The third will be added later. I haven’t figured it out yet. I’ll let you know when I do.”

“Third,” Tan Qing continued smoothly, “don’t use fanservice onstage as an excuse to say things we want to say in private, or to do things we really want to do in private. Let’s add that one.”

Zhu Lianzhen silently repeated the rule Tan Qing had proposed. It did make sense, and it could prevent either of them from bringing personal grudges into public view if something happened offstage. But even without that rule, neither of them was the type to be that petty.

Zhu Lianzhen agreed. “Alright. Those are the three.”

Tan Qing asked, “Then what about another situation?”

“What?”

“What if one of us wants to get back together?”

Under Tan Qing’s unwavering gaze, Zhu Lianzhen’s heart suddenly skipped a beat.