MACRM Chapter 23

T/L: this is the last of the free chapters in JJWXC, if you have some spare money (esp in PayPal), you can buy the raw <here>! It’s around $2.50 for all VIP chapters. Although, you can only buy JJ points per $15. If you need a JJWXC sign-up guide, go <here> 

From now on, the chapters might get longer. Also, I’ll be switching the update schedule to every Monday and Thursday~

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……

When Lin Zhu woke up, the place around him was already in chaos.

The assistant director was fumbling with a phone call, the executive director was shouting orders to find someone, and a doctor who was invited from somewhere looked grim as he held a penlight, ready to pry open Lin Zhu’s eyelids.

Burrowed in the warm nest of blankets, Lin Zhu blinked in confusion for three seconds before suddenly springing up. His footing was unsteady, and he almost toppled out of bed, but a steady arm shot out from the side to catch him in time.

A cool, crisp cedar scent seeped through the fabric, quietly wrapping around him.

Relieved, Lin Zhu clung to the arm guarding his chest and looked up in lingering shock. “Zhong-laoshi, did someone try to assassinate—”

“Looks more like you’re assassinating me!”

Before he could finish, Director Wei’s knuckle rapped hard on his head. “What happened just now? You slept all afternoon, and no matter how we called you, you wouldn’t wake up—”

Zhong Yao raised a hand just in time, catching the blow and pushing it back gently but firmly. “Director Wei.”

Wei Geping hadn’t really intended to hit him. He was worried Lin Zhu might truly be unwell. But for some reason, he couldn’t stand how Zhong Yao always had to shield his manager, so his voice grew sharper. “Feeling sick? Why didn’t you say so earlier? You scared Zhong-laoshi half to death! He rushed over to pound on our door with your clothes half on, and when we wouldn’t get a doctor, insisted on driving you to the hospital himself. We couldn’t stop him no matter what…”

Zhong Yao: “…”

Zhong Yao: “Director Wei.”

Wei Geping stiffened his neck. “What, I wrongly accused you?!” 

Zhong Yao paused, didn’t argue, poured Lin Zhu a glass of water to soothe his throat, then lowered his head to ruffle his hair. “Do you feel unwell anywhere?”

Lin Zhu had only been awake for a moment, and his mind was still stuck on the “clothes half on” and “carrying you to the hospital” that Director Wei had just blurted out. His heart was beating just a little too fast for no reason, and blood rushed to his face. He shook his head hastily. “No, no…”

Since growing up, it was the first time he’d pushed his ability this far. Without meaning to, he’d failed to manage his physical limits.

Sleep after reading minds was not just about processing the subconscious content he’d received, but also about restoring the body’s tolerance to the pressure it put on him. Lin Zhu had assumed that, like usual, a one- or two-hour nap would be enough, but unexpectedly, he’d slept all the way until the entire crew wrapped for the day.

With everyone around him still looking concerned, Lin Zhu pulled himself together, used Zhong Yao’s arm for leverage, and bounced to his feet. “Really, I’m fine. I just haven’t been sleeping well lately, and I accidentally slept too deeply! Once I’m out, you could set off firecrackers and I still wouldn’t wake. You have to pour cold water on me for that to work…”

“You hear that?”

Director Wei, unknowingly brainwashed, concluded coldly, “Next time, Zhong-laoshi doesn’t need to panic. Just carry him to the bathroom, strip him, put him in the tub, and turn on the faucet—”

Lin Zhu choked on pure air and started coughing violently. 

Director Wei’s rare moment of clear, logical instruction was abruptly cut off, leaving him momentarily dazed. The screenwriter beside him suddenly looked up, shoved a pen into his hand with genuine admiration. “Here, you write it.”

After a morning of suffering from the fact that Zhong Yao didn’t have his manager with him, Wei Geping had nearly decided to set up a life-sized standee of Lin Zhu at the edge of the set. Already holding in a bellyful of frustration, he exploded. “Write what? You’re the screenwriter! You write it!”

The screenwriter whistled and bent down to jot notes at lightning speed.

The much-kinder assistant director stepped in to smooth things over. “Alright, alright, save the fight for later. Xiao Zhu’s been worn out these days. Let him rest a bit more…”

It wasn’t uncommon for someone to sleep so soundly they couldn’t be woken. Seeing that Lin Zhu was awake, most people relaxed considerably. They stayed while the doctor gave him a full check-up, and with all indicators normal, they finally let out a collective breath. After reminding him to rest well, they filed out one by one, tossing him teasing remarks as they left.

Lin Zhu’s imagination was too active. His mind kept looping Director Wei’s “summary” and “instructions,” until he had to rub his temples and take a deep breath.

Bathroom… stuff…

Surely the screenwriter wasn’t insane enough to actually write that into the script… was he?

Once calmer, Lin Zhu was startled by his own fleeting sense of regret, and instinctively wanted to bury his head into the pillow to shake it off, only to feel the arm around his chest gently tighten, making him realize he’d been leaning against Zhong Yao this whole time.

“Z-Zhong… Zhong-laoshi—”

His words trailed off.

Zhong Yao was holding him close, both hands braced beside his head, thumbs pressing lightly at his temples in a slow, steady massage.

The man’s warmth and scent wrapped around him quietly. The patient, even pressure gradually eased the ache in his temples, and the lingering dizziness in his mind quietly faded.

Lin Zhu opened his mouth, his voice softening. “Zhong-laoshi…”

“Still feeling unwell?”

Zhong Yao’s voice was warm as he spoke, one hand coming up to shield Lin Zhu’s eyes, his dry, warm palm covering the faintly trembling lashes of the young manager.

Lin Zhu obediently closed his eyes, but his chest suddenly ached a little.

For a moment, he almost wanted to give in and tell Zhong Yao that yes, he was still dizzy; that the fatigue from overusing his mind and the inability to concentrate made him instinctively uncomfortable; that the more unwell he felt, the more anxious he got, and the more anxious he got, the worse it became.

No one else knew about this. No one could see it.

He squeezed his eyes shut, afraid the telltale dampness might escape and be noticed, and took two deep breaths, pushing away that fleeting fragility born from discomfort.

“Do you often get dizzy? Have you had it checked properly?”

Zhong Yao’s technique was professional. Switching to one hand, he pressed each acupoint in turn while gently chiding him, “I hear if your brain isn’t getting enough blood, it will be troubling. You must make sure you get to make sure you rest. I’ll brew you some goji berries later, and next time you’re not allowed to hide under the covers on your phone after lights-out. I let it slide last time, but from now on I’ll keep a closer eye…”

Lin Zhu choked, and the fragile sensitivity in his chest vanished instantly. “Zhong-laoshi.”

Zhong Yao didn’t really like Lin Zhu using “laoshi” to refer to him, but he didn’t press to correct it now. He bent down, picked up the stamp that had been wrapped in the blanket, and tucked it into Lin Zhu’s pocket. “Hm?”

Zhong Yao’s voice was so beautiful that no director ever wanted to use VA to dub over him. Without the cold aloofness he showed outsiders, the rich, magnetic bass rumbling beside Lin Zhu’s ear made his breath quicken slightly.

“Brain… brain not getting enough blood.”

The young agent, breathing hard, struggled to get up. Forcing himself to peel away the “fan filter,” he began earnestly explaining to this veteran actor whose WeChat moments were filled with notifications from health-related accounts: “It mostly occurs in men over sixty…”

Zhong Yao: “…”

Lin Zhu pushed himself up, gathering his spirit. “You know, you can block those posts on your feed… Do you know how to do that? I can help you. Seeing too many of those worrying articles isn’t good for your mental health. It’s a good thing you don’t share it, otherwise, how would you ever socialize with those young actors…”

Zhong Yao coughed lightly, cutting him off in time. “I know how.”

“That’s good then, that’s good.”

Lin Zhu breathed a sigh of relief, slipped a hand into his pocket, and fondly touched the seal in there, only to suddenly remember something important. “Oh no! I already signed preliminary contracts with those people, and I was going to have them talk to you!”

“I know. You already sent me their profiles and contracts.”

Zhong Yao steadied him, pressing down just enough to ease the overworked agent back onto the pillow. “I’ve already talked with them. Everything’s fine. They’re all good.”

He had rushed back after filming at noon, and only felt relieved when he saw Lin Zhu asleep. He hadn’t the heart to wake him, so he handled the remaining matters himself. When he returned and saw Lin Zhu still sleeping, his complexion pale, he lost his composure a little.

Zhong Yao paused, glancing at Lin Zhu’s still-pale lips. His palm landed gently on the crown of Lin Zhu’s head, rubbing softly.

The “disheveled clothing” Director Wei mentioned actually had a reason.

When Zhong Yao had come back, he saw Lin Zhu still clutching the seal. Afraid it might scratch him, he tried to take it and set it on the table. Sitting at the bedside, he coaxed him for a long time until Lin Zhu finally loosened his grip. But then his fingers latched tightly onto Zhong Yao’s coat hem instead.

Zhong Yao had wanted to move, but couldn’t bring himself to disturb him.

When he noticed something was wrong with Lin Zhu’s condition, he hurried to call for help. He’d thought of just taking off his coat, but worried that such an unthinking action could give people more gossip to twist, which might hurt Lin Zhu’s reputation. In the end, he barely managed to slip his coat free and rushed out without even changing into another one.

“Don’t worry anymore…”

Lin Zhu liked it when he touched his hair, so he nuzzled into Zhong Yao’s palm, his eyes curling in satisfaction. “I’m fine now. Just a little tired. I don’t feel unwell anymore, I swear.” 

Zhong Yao lowered his head, giving him a small smile.

When he had pulled his coat free earlier, Lin Zhu hadn’t actually resisted much.

His grip was firm, but once the coat was gone, he didn’t try to reach for it again. He just curled up tighter, kept his eyes shut, and silently let tears fall.

Zhong Yao had been right there, yet hadn’t heard a single sob.

He was reminded of that day outside the bathroom, when he’d seen the young agent with his head submerged in water for a whole minute without moving.

Lin Zhu never showed his pain to others.

And he never wanted anyone to know he was hurting.

Even when he was in real discomfort, he didn’t need someone to sit with him and comfort him. As long as he had a small space of his own, and maybe a piece of candy, he could quietly recover and then smile brightly again.

…

This was the same agent who faced down the company’s people with perfect poise, fighting tooth and nail to secure resources for him.

So sharp and dazzling, until it made his heart feel hot.

Zhong Yao was still sitting by the bed.

The blanket was a little rumpled. Lin Zhu, placed back onto the bed, now lay obediently still, blinking up at him, his amber eyes glowing warmly under the light.

Zhong Yao tucked the blanket in around him, then took a candy from his pocket. Carefully unwrapping it, he handed it over.

Lying in bed, Lin Zhu’s eyes widened at the sight, and today’s filming scene flashed quickly through his mind — Zhan Yuan meeting secretly with Wu Qiao, hiding his identity to attend a gathering, then using the afternoon tea break to make contact and get intel…

Lin Zhu, voice sounding feeble, “You… brought the prop back?”

Zhong Yao nodded, thinking he was worried the prop would spoil if kept too long. “It was just bought today. The wrapper was custom-made to fit the time period, but inside it’s all new candy.”

He wasn’t used to saying such things, so he paused briefly before adding, “Zheng Lingyang NG’d seven times, and the crew bought five kinds of candy… I tried them all. This one’s sweeter.”

Lin Zhu had been worrying about whether the crew leaking “Film Emperor Zhong stealing candy on set” would need PR control. Hearing this, he froze, then met Zhong Yao’s quiet, earnest gaze. His heart warmed sharply, and for a moment he was at a loss for words.

Seeing he didn’t take it, Zhong Yao moved his hand closer. “Try it.”

Lin Zhu, still lying back with his head on the pillow, squinted against the light, rubbed his eyes, and smiled as he propped himself up to take the candy.

The sweetness spread quickly across his tongue.

“Nothing urgent now. Rest a bit longer, be good.”

Zhong Yao tucked the blanket again, spoke softly, then straightened his clothes and got up. “I’ll go see if the new script is done, thank them, and order food for us.”

Lin Zhu obeyed, curling back into the blanket, the corners of his mouth still lifted from the lingering sweetness.

Zhong Yao chuckled, rubbed his hair once more, and headed for the door—

Only to run right into the screenwriter and assistant director loitering outside.

“See—everyone saw us!” 

The assistant director looked flustered, dragging the screenwriter back. “If you want to check the plot, fine, but what are you doing here gathering material? Go back. It’s rare for the two of them to spend some time together…”

Zhong Yao: “…”

He shut the door firmly behind him.

“What’s wrong with me coming for material? The script is long done. You guys are responsible for the filming and making this drama a classic. Let me give the audience some extra treats. If the male lead and he have no CP spark, do you think I’d be working this hard to sprinkle sugar on the secondary CP?”

The screenwriter felt no guilt at all, even as he was dragged toward the stairs. His pen stabbed a hole in the paper. “It’s already episode nine! Zhan Yan is about to sacrifice himself! And his little young master still calls him ‘laoshi’! Wouldn’t you be anxious too?!”

The assistant director, overwhelmed by this bombardment of self-justified shamelessness , could only mumble after a pause, “Still… maybe we should ask Zhong-laoshi first…”

The screenwriter turned around angrily. 

Zhong Yao met his gaze. “I have an immature request.”

He thought of Lin Zhu sleeping inside.

Overly well-behaved children are easily wronged. So well-behaved that they forget how to relax, how to let themselves be cared for, how to say they’re not feeling well.

They’ve already learned to keep bad news to themselves, already learned to get up on their own after falling down.

Lin Zhu looked like he’s almost numb to pain.

The screenwriter’s eyes lit up. “Say it!”

Zhong Yao: “If it won’t affect the shooting schedule, I want to add a scene.”

Zhong Yao: “Let the little young master get sick… just a mild cold. I’ll stay with him all night.”

Getting used to pain doesn’t mean it no longer hurts. 

He didn’t know exactly what Lin Zhu had been through, or why he had become the way he was — of course there was time to learn slowly. But before that, there were other things to do.

“Sick? Sure, sure. The little young master has always been a prideful character, and the audience loves that!”

The screenwriter’s eyes brightened, but then he hesitated. “It’s just the main plot—”

Zhong Yao already knew what he was going to say. “If it fits after filming, keep it. If not, cut it. Put it in as a trailer, a bonus scene, or leave it out entirely… it’s fine. I won’t take any pay for it, and I’ll treat the crew to a meal afterward.”

Zhong Yao: “I’ll be troubling you.”

“Not at all, not at all! Wait here! I’ll write it tonight… guaranteed to be great!”

The screenwriter, brimming with inspiration, waved vaguely as he walked off, scribbling furiously all the way.

Zhong Yao didn’t stop him, instead pulling out his phone to order food before heading back to the room.

Forgetting… isn’t a problem.

Because someone can teach you how to remember again.