MACRM Chapter 32

Zhong Yao had spent years in front of cameras; every movement he made flowed with ease. One arm still firmly around Lin Zhu, warmth and laughter shimmered in his dark eyes.

…All for the sake of art.

He was still the arrogant, domineering young master. He absolutely could not allow himself to run laps around the hotel just because he’d been fed a green dumpling.

Lin Zhu steeled himself, let out a low hum, and bent down to bite fiercely into the green dumpling.

Zhong Yao didn’t dodge. He let the little young master take a bite, steady as ever. Taking advantage of his mouth being too full to protest, Zhong Yao turned his wrist lightly, tucked the remaining half of the dumpling into his palm, then used his knuckle to gently scrape the tip of Lin Zhu’s nose.

Lin Zhu: “!!”

Zhong Yao raised his brows, smiling.

The boiling rush of elation swelled in his chest, nearly lifting him right off the ground. Lin Zhu’s heart raced, and he barely managed to stop himself from thrashing about in restless energy. He chewed the dumpling and forced down his breathing, working hard to swallow the whole mouthful.

Unmoved by the gentle warmth shining in the other’s eyes, Lin Zhu pressed his lips together tightly and turned his face away coldly.

…

At last, the little young master condescended to have his bristling “fur” soothed. Bit by bit, under the inescapable softness of that gaze, he yielded, leaning back slowly into the warmth of those arms.

Zhong Yao’s lips curved upwards. He leaned forward to lift the medicine bowl, and spoon-fed him, coaxing him gently with a soft voice.

The fireworks from the community opera were beautiful; the flowers in Baicao Garden were nearly in bloom; ten miles of bustling streets were now enamored with horse-racing, and several fine thoroughbreds were kept at Ji Garden. They could go run a few races sometime…

His tone was patient and careful. Under the glow of the warm lights, the sharp, hostile shell around the young master was peeled away layer by layer with tenderness.

The pain from his wounds suddenly felt unbearable, yet along with it came the stubborn longing to surrender. Lin Zhu kept his face cold, held within Zhong Yao’s embrace, being gently soothed. At last, his fingers cautiously hooked onto the edge of Zhong Yao’s sleeve.

Zhong Yao lowered his head, a faint shadow of sorrow dimming the warmth in his eyes.

…

“Cut!”

The second act was finally finished. Lin Zhu let out a long breath of relief, jumping energetically off the bed to watch the playback with Zhong Yao.

Wei Geping stood by the monitor for a while, then frowned. “Something’s missing…”

Zhong Yao didn’t deny it. One hand came down to rest on Lin Zhu’s shoulder, palm settling with quiet reassurance on the agent’s thin frame.

“Was it me? Did I not hit the right feeling?”

Lin Zhu had always had few scenes, but he understood the director’s demands well. It was his first time failing to pass in one take. Hearing that, his heart gave a little jolt. “Tell me. I’ll think it through again.”

“Everything else is fine. But you’re still not arrogant enough. The shift when you softened was controlled well, but it made your earlier anger look too weak in comparison.”

Wei Geping nodded, reluctant to scold him. Instead, he turned his frustrations toward the screenwriter across the ocean, grinding his teeth. “Not your fault. Some people call themselves head writer, yet for such a long stretch of script, they only wrote two lousy sentences…”

Zhong Yao couldn’t hold back a quiet laugh.

Lin Zhu felt guilty, rubbing his nose. “Thank you… I’ll remember.”

“The rest was good. Just be careful at the start. Your presence has to match Zhong-laoshi’s. You can’t let him overshadow you.”

Wei Geping had always trusted him. He didn’t say more, just waved for the makeup team to come and touch him up, and for everyone else to reset. “One more take, no problem?”

Lin Zhu, of course, could do it as many times as needed. He instinctively looked up. Zhong Yao smiled, lifting a hand to knead the back of his neck. “No problem.”

It was his first time causing a retake, and Lin Zhu had felt uneasy. But with that single touch, his face flushed, heart pounding. So much that even after his makeup was fixed, he was still dazed as they restarted.

Zhong Yao steadied him onto the bed again, gave the camera a nod.

“‘No Bridge,’ Scene 72, Act 2, Take 2. Action!” 

…

His fundamentals weren’t bad, but he’d never had experience reshooting the same scene over and over. Lin Zhu worried that he wouldn’t be able to recreate the same reaction as before, but Zhong Yao had already improvised, changing the entire sequence in real time.

By the end, Lin Zhu’s complexion fits perfectly with the character’s feverish state.

This time, he gave his all to unleashing anger, even flinging the isatis root decoction to the floor without spilling a drop. His whole bearing braced, refusing to yield, not crushed under Zhong Yao’s overwhelming aura.

The assistant director’s eyes grew damp as he applauded them both. But Wei Geping still wasn’t satisfied, a cigarette dangling unlit from his lips, brow furrowed. “Still not right…”

He thought for a while, then stood. “Can you be even fiercer with him?”

Lin Zhu had sweated cold down his back after that take. Startled, his eyes widened. “Even… fiercer?”

“Fiercer! Your emotions were too weak overall. Not expressive enough.”

Wei Geping’s tone was absolute. He grabbed the controller and scrubbed forward on the playback. “And here… the final outburst. The effect was fine, but the impact was too soft. The shot is a long take. You have to project strong enough that it registers clear as day. Got it?”

Of course Lin Zhu understood, but it was still hard for him to fully align himself with the character’s state.

Zhong Yao had just fed him medicine, fed him green dumplings, and held him close while talking. The fact that he hadn’t already exploded into a firework on set was thanks to sheer professional restraint. Now he was supposed to weep in agonized struggle on top of that?

The agent, who hadn’t cried in front of anyone since he was grown, flushed red in the face and murmured softly, “Understood…”

“Sigh… Come, I’ll walk you through the scene.”

Wei Geping hadn’t imagined he’d one day be giving Lin Zhu acting direction. He raked a hand anxiously through his hair and pulled him aside to sit down.

Director Wei was practically born incompatible with giving direction. Every time he tried to forcibly interpret a script, he only managed to push actors further out of state, so much so that over time he’d lost faith in himself.

Knowing his temper wasn’t good, afraid of scaring Lin Zhu, he kept his voice low. “He’s your teacher, your role model. You respect him, admire him, like him… but you have a secret you absolutely cannot let him know. Deep down, you’re clear about it. No matter how well he treats you now, once he knows, he’ll never want you again.”

Lin Zhu’s chest gave a sudden, faint tremor.

Wei Geping himself felt his words were jumbled. Biting down on his cigarette, he muttered, “Anyway, just try to feel it out.”

“Now your secret’s been found out. You fear he’ll grow cold to you because of it, but you also fear that the tenderness he’s showing now is fake. That he’s only pretending to be kind, but in his heart, he’s already far from you…”

Lin Zhu lowered his head, hands trembling faintly.

Wei Geping noticed nothing, still going on and on. “So what do you do? You have no choice. You can only raise your thorns, stab at him with every touch. And then—”

He jolted in surprise. “Wha—what? You’re already in tears?! No, no, don’t cry yet! If you let it out now, the whole emotion will be wasted before the scene!”

Zhong Yao strode forward, gathering Lin Zhu away from everyone’s eyes, shielding him gently in his arms.

Director Wei had never seen anyone break down just from his directions. He floated for a moment in disbelief. “I… am I really that good at explaining a role?”

Lin Zhu’s chest ached fiercely, his breathing uneven as he fought to hold back tears.

His mind blurred, his body sagging against Zhong Yao as he screwed his eyes shut, forcing down the images that had been dragged from his subconscious—

—A young Lin Zhu, just realizing he could read minds, ran excitedly to show off to his parents. Instead of the praise and delight he had expected, he received nothing.

At that age, he hadn’t known some things must never be revealed, nor had he tried to conceal his ability. Other than his elder brother away at boarding school, everyone at home gradually learned of it through different means. And then, everything began to change.

The once-gentle nanny started avoiding him, her manner turning more distant, reverent.

The private tutor added more and more solitary practice time to the schedule, speaking less and less to him.

The servants kept close to the walls, fleeing at the sight of him, terrified that his “brainwaves” would pry into their secrets.

Until the little Lin Zhu realized the whole world around him was closing him in behind invisible glass. In panic, he went to his parents — only to meet their evasive, avoiding eyes.

He shut himself in his room for three days, then ran away from home. But outside, the world was even worse. So many people, so many faces, so many eyes, countless voices and memories exploding in his head. Overwhelmed, he fainted in agony.

He slept for three days straight. When he woke, he was already on the road to being trafficked, destination unknown.

People feared having their innermost thoughts exposed. It wasn’t anyone’s fault…

No one’s fault.

Not the nanny, not the tutor, not his parents either. They simply didn’t want him anymore…

But things were fine now.

His parents were abroad, contacting him only by phone and internet, spoiling him more than when he was small. After he came home, he realized the servants, tutors, and nannies from before had all been dismissed, replaced with newcomers who knew nothing. His elder brother remained the only one at his side, still unaware.

As long as he kept it a secret, everything would be fine.

As long as he kept it a secret…

In Zhong Yao’s arms, Lin Zhu tilted his head back, eyes closed, swallowing back his tears one by one.

“All right, all right, it’s fine now, don’t cry, hold it in. Wait, are you really taking this so seriously?”

Wei Geping, convinced his vivid direction was to blame, felt guilty to the core. “Look at some people, can’t even bear to be apart from you, keeping you close like pocket change… How could he ever not want you? Even if you really did something. Look at him—”

In his desperation, Wei Geping lashed out at Zhong Yao while tugging at him to play along. “Do you want your agent? No matter rich or poor, sick or healthy, burning hot or fading out— do you still want him? Hurry, hurry! Tell the truth from your heart—”

Lin Zhu’s ears still rang, but he forced the betraying tears back down, lifted his head, and gave a pale smile. “I’m fine, Uncle Wei. Let’s keep filming…”

A hand steadied his shoulder.

Zhong Yao’s voice came, soft and distant as though across seas and clouds, falling gently against Lin Zhu’s ear.

“I want him.”

---

T/L:

“I want him” = “I do” 😉