FIG CHAPTER 21

Lately, aside from performing on music shows, Acemon had also been receiving plenty of variety show invitations. One of them only invited Zhu Lianzhen and Tan Qing. Pei Qiao initially wanted to decline the blatantly CP-centered setup, but in the end, she agreed.

There was no helping it—the program offered way too much money.

The director sent the script to the artists’ teams in advance. Staff made their revisions before handing it over to the guests. Zhu Lianzhen was in the car, listening to music while reading it. The more he read, the more his brows furrowed. Several game segments involved a lot of physical contact between him and Tan Qing. Clearly, the producers were set on using CP gimmicks to boost attention.

Zhu Lianzhen wasn’t surprised that he and Tan Qing had once again become a fan focus. During their last livestream, their interaction had been a bit intimate, which naturally attracted attention. But that had happened organically. Now they were being asked to fabricate ambiguity according to a script, and that kind of fake fanservice made him uncomfortable.

Without saying anything, he sent an emoji to the coordination group chat to express his dissatisfaction with the plan.

A staff member responded instantly: “Do you think the segments are too exhausting? We can ask them to change it right away.”

“No.” Zhu Lianzhen held his phone with both hands, carefully considering his wording for a few seconds before giving up on explaining. “Forget it. I’ll talk to the director myself when we get there.”

The staff didn’t agree with his decision. “There’s still time. Feel free to give feedback, and we’ll handle it.”

The layered communication process between artist teams often frustrated Zhu Lianzhen. But being at the center of it, he had no choice but to deal with the complicated rules.

He took off his headphones and typed a reply: “Okay, I’ll be blunt. The script feels too forced, especially the one where the two of us have to pop a water balloon using our bodies. That game’s outdated and ineffective.”

The group chat went silent for a few minutes. Then the staff followed up: “Got it. We’ve passed it along. Anything else you’d like to change?”

“A bunch of people fighting over a donut hanging on a string, trying to see who bites it first? What if someone accidentally licks it? Who’d want to go next? The guests don’t even know each other well; it’d be super awkward.”

Zhu Lianzhen was at his most focused when nitpicking, his fingers flying across the keyboard: “And that Pocky game—two people biting from either end of a biscuit and trying not to break it…”

Just imagining the scene made him cringe. He had no idea where the scriptwriter got their inspiration—maybe from watching a bride and groom slurp a single noodle at a rural wedding twenty years ago.

Staff: “OK, got it.”

After that round of criticism, there were hardly any highlights left in the script. The directors didn’t dare push back too much either, afraid the artists might get annoyed and bail entirely.

But that concern was really just their own bias against Acemon. In practice, Zhu Lianzhen had never slacked off, and Tan Qing was even more meticulous, accepting every requirement without complaint.

When they arrived at the recording site, they discovered that other idols had also been invited as guests. As soon as Zhu Lianzhen and Tan Qing entered the dressing room, everyone inside stood up in unison and greeted them respectfully.

Overly polite juniors who fussed over manners always made Zhu Lianzhen a little socially anxious. He wasn’t much older than them and felt awkward acting like a senior. Tan Qing, on the other hand, was much more at ease. He returned the gesture with a smile and a nod, then sat down.

Through the mirror, Zhu Lianzhen recognized two of the juniors as members of Lock-M. He’d seen them before on Music Class. According to Ah-Xu, they hadn’t performed well that day, and that was about the extent of the impression they left.

One of them, a blond-haired boy, kept grumbling under his breath. His teammate responded indifferently, occasionally offering a few words. The blond one muttered resentfully, “How is it my fault? Am I not careful enough already? I cover my face every time we go on a date. Who would’ve thought he’d rat me out? Living under the same roof and he does this to me?”

“If you’d broken up with your girlfriend earlier and cut things off cleanly, you wouldn’t be dealing with all this now.”

“Why should I break up? Our relationship’s just fine. Just because of those fans who daydream all day? Ridiculous.”

Zhu Lianzhen realized their conversation had veered into private matters, so he coughed deliberately to remind them to keep it down. Fortunately, the blond guy was quick on the uptake and headed out for some air after finishing his makeup, bringing the topic to an end.

The dressing room fell quiet for a while. Zhu Lianzhen felt the atmosphere growing dull, and since he didn’t have anything to say to Tan Qing at the moment, he decided to strike up a conversation with one of the younger idols. “You’re Xue Chun, right?”

The boy was startled for a second, then quickly leaned forward to introduce himself. Zhu Lianzhen waved a hand. “No need to be so formal.”

He recalled seeing one of Xue Chun’s fancams before. Although the way he mimicked Tan Qing was obvious, it didn’t stop Zhu Lianzhen from maintaining a positive impression. At the very least, it was clear he worked hard on his performance.

Zhu Lianzhen had no dislike for people who respected the stage.

Xue Chun said, “I watched you guys from the audience during the last live broadcast. You were amazing. Fully live vocals, and still that stable.”

When Zhu Lianzhen turned his head, he noticed a bruise on Xue Chun’s jaw. Under the white lighting, it was especially noticeable. He pointed at it from a distance and told the makeup artist, “Here… needs a bit more coverage.”

Xue Chun instinctively covered it and gave a sheepish smile. Afraid of being misunderstood, he explained on his own, “We’re all kind of hot-tempered in private. Sometimes we fight, and maybe the way we deal with things isn’t the best. But honestly, we get along fine…”

Zhu Lianzhen thought: The more you explain, the more suspicious it sounds. That blond one had just been cursing his teammate. Still, out of kindness, he offered some advice in a senior-like tone, “If a teammate really crosses a line, it’s better to set clear boundaries sooner rather than later.”

Xue Chun nodded. “I still trust his character. It’s just that everyone has their own goals.”

Tan Qing, who had been silent for a while, looked up and said leisurely, “Is being in a relationship considered a goal?”

The question instantly chilled the atmosphere. The experienced makeup artists pretended not to hear and continued working.

Zhu Lianzhen glanced at Tan Qing and saw that gentle smile still on his face. He said to Xue Chun, “Whatever it is you’re all chasing, at the very least your team should be on the same page. That teammate of yours clearly isn’t, is he?”

Xue Chun was stunned and didn’t know how to defend his teammate. It was true that the guy’s relationship had affected his work, and the advice from these two experienced seniors was exactly what Lock-M needed.

“Mm… but he’s partly angry because the manager contacted his girlfriend in private and said some harsh things,” Xue Chun said, still trying to cover for him. “She’s the one being pursued, yet our manager blamed her for holding back an artist’s future. Anyone would feel bad about that.”

Zhu Lianzhen showed some sympathy. “That’s pretty blunt.”

“So now they still haven’t broken up. Maybe it’s a kind of rebellious mindset, like they want to prove something by holding on,” Xue Chun said.

Zhu Lianzhen had just opened his mouth to say, “That’s probably unnecessary,” when Tan Qing, sitting beside him, beat him to it with a counter-question, “Is that necessary?”

His voice remained gentle, calm, and sincere. “For ordinary people, being brave might lead to love. But you’re artists, idols. If you fixate on this kind of thing, you might end up losing everything.”

Xue Chun stayed silent. He knew Tan Qing was right. Young people often acted without thinking about the consequences, and if they got caught dating by paparazzi, it could negatively impact a group still on the rise.

Zhu Lianzhen glanced at Tan Qing through the mirror and almost laughed. This guy is truly shameless. Whether it was advising Ji Yunting to return to the group before, or now counseling juniors to prioritize their careers, Tan Qing always spoke with that detached calmness, like he himself had never gone through anything similar.

He kept up that perfect idol image so effortlessly. Zhu Lianzhen couldn’t help but wonder if Tan Qing ever felt even a hint of guilt.

The recording began. This show was well-known for creating buzz by hyping up CP moments, even going so far as to skip rehearsals. The idols were only given a rough outline of the segments, and the rest relied on spontaneity and post-production editing.

After a few rounds of games, the atmosphere on set had grown lively. At that moment, the host walked to the center of the stage carrying a tray. Zhu Lianzhen glanced at the item in the middle—it was filled with thin, transparent popsicles.

The host introduced the prop as “Popsicle Pocky,” an upgraded version of the classic biscuit game. The name alone made it obvious what kind of game it was. Cheers and screams from the fans below never seemed to stop.

Zhu Lianzhen’s eyes showed a hint of despair, and he instinctively exchanged a glance with Tan Qing.

Whether a rookie or a seasoned veteran, idols could never really escape the fate of CP fanservice. When handled tastefully, it could be a great opportunity to gain popularity, but if overdone, it could easily backfire. Zhu Lianzhen still remembered when the “QingZhen” CP exploded in popularity. Fans had even photoshopped fake wedding posters of him and Tan Qing and brought them as support banners. It had been so awkward that he couldn’t talk to Tan Qing normally for a while.

“Have you all decided your order?” the host asked the guests. In addition to “QingZhen” and the members of Lock-M, there was also a male-female CP from a popular idol drama. Everyone wore stiff smiles, glancing at one another.

In the end, they had no choice but to draw lots.

When Zhu Lianzhen and Tan Qing ended up as the last group, he wanted to sigh even more. In variety shows, being placed last meant they were expected to deliver the most impressive performance. Which meant he and Tan Qing would have to get their lips as close as possible during the Pocky game to meet audience expectations.

Zhu Lianzhen hated these cliché couple games. But the audience never seemed to tire of them. Even after all these years, they still had a place in variety programming.

“Three, two, one, go!” the host gave the cue.

The idol drama guests went first. Each bit one end of the ice pop, trying to shorten its length as quickly as possible within five seconds without breaking it. Since it was a male-female pairing, both were very cautious about boundaries and stopped when their lips were still five centimeters apart.

When it was Lock-M’s turn, even from two meters away, Zhu Lianzhen could tell they were nervous. But the popsicle visibly shortened at a fast pace, and the audience’s excitement grew with every second. When the countdown ended, even the host couldn’t help but exclaim, “How could anyone beat this?”

The remaining length of the popsicle was measured—only seven millimeters. Even without watching the footage, it was obvious their lips had made contact.

Zhu Lianzhen sighed repeatedly. These people were going all out, and it was making him feel more and more pressure.

“All right, last up is Acemon—” The host held out the tray. “How about it? You two are seniors here. You should be better at games than Lock-M, right?”

Zhu Lianzhen gave his mic a shake. “What was their score again?”

“Seven millimeters.”

“Oh.” Zhu Lianzhen picked up a Popsicle Pocky. “Then Tan Qing and I should at least be able to cut that in half.”

His dismissive tone instantly stirred up excitement from the fans. Tan Qing didn’t respond aloud, only smiled and slightly lowered his height so their lips were aligned.

Zhu Lianzhen knew the essence of the Pocky game lay in the rapid closing of distance between the lips. Just before they touch, that tiny sliver of space would drive the audience’s tension and anticipation to its peak. But variety shows also thrived on unexpected twists and comedic beats.

Having just put on a confident act and made such a bold claim, the audience naturally expected them to beat the previous team’s score. Unfortunately, that wasn’t part of Zhu Lianzhen’s plan. He intended to snap the popsicle within the first second of the countdown, catching everyone off guard.

He gently bit down on one end and looked up at Tan Qing.

So cold!

The ice pop hadn’t seemed like much in his hand, but the moment it touched the inside of his lips, Zhu Lianzhen shivered reflexively.

Their noses were nearly touching, each individual eyelash clearly visible. Just as the host gave the signal, Zhu Lianzhen couldn’t wait and tilted his chin upward.

Crack—

With a crisp snap, the thin popsicle broke cleanly in half under the watchful eyes of the entire venue.

Laughter erupted from the host and audience, but Zhu Lianzhen stood there with half the popsicle in his mouth, stunned—he hadn’t even applied any pressure yet.

“Wait, that was a mistake.” Tan Qing smiled and shook his head. “Guess we picked the wrong one. Give us another chance.”

So Tan Qing had planned to bite the popsicle early too, ending the round with a deliberate fumble. Zhu Lianzhen caught on immediately and followed up, “Yeah, that one must’ve had a crack in it already.”

He’d already prepared himself mentally: if the popsicle didn’t break right away, he’d follow the rules and play along properly. At worst, it meant brushing lips with Tan Qing. What he hadn’t expected was that Tan Qing had the same plan, and was even more eager to cut the scene short.

Suddenly, Zhu Lianzhen felt unwilling to accept it. If anyone was going to resist fanservice first, it should’ve been him.

The chill of the popsicle still pressed against his lips, and Zhu Lianzhen couldn’t help but suck in a breath.

Tan Qing bit the other end and murmured softly, “Don’t move.”

The countdown began again. Zhu Lianzhen stood completely still. He heard the crisp sound of Tan Qing biting through the ice pop bit by bit. Their gazes grew slightly unfocused. Just as their noses were about to touch, Tan Qing tilted his head slightly to the side, keeping the tension on the popsicle balanced.

The piece between their lips grew shorter and shorter, their breaths tinged with a faint chill. Zhu Lianzhen’s heart started racing, though he wasn’t sure exactly when. Maybe it was the cold against his lips reminding him of winter, or maybe it was Tan Qing’s face so close to his—

Either way, the memory of losing his first kiss on a snowy night crashed into his mind at the worst possible moment.

Just as the sound of Tan Qing’s final bite rang out, Zhu Lianzhen abruptly leaned back, stopping their lips just short of contact.

He didn’t look at Tan Qing’s expression. Instead, he quickly caught the falling chunk of ice and held it up to the host. “How’s that? Is it short enough?”

His breathing was a little uneven, but no one else seemed to notice.

The host measured it with a ruler. “This one’s over a centimeter!”

Zhu Lianzhen feigned a look of disappointment.

The troublesome segment was finally over. He exhaled in relief and turned to glance at Tan Qing. The other was already looking at him, still chewing on the ice.

After the show wrapped up, they rode back in the same car without exchanging a word. Metal rock blasted through Zhu Lianzhen’s earphones. The louder the music, the easier it was for him to stay calm.

His nose itched suddenly, and he covered his mouth to sneeze. But when his teeth clacked together, it hit a sensitive nerve, making him yelp in pain.

“What’s wrong?” Tan Qing leaned toward him.

“It’s nothing, just a flash of tooth pain.” Zhu Lianzhen clenched his jaw a few times, trying to pinpoint the source. “Might’ve been from the ice earlier.”

“Want some water?” Tan Qing asked. Zhu Lianzhen shook his head—drinking water in a moving car was a great way to choke.

Tan Qing rummaged through his bag for a minute, then handed him a box of watermelon frost lozenges.

He probably kept them on hand from filming, since he used his voice so much. Zhu Lianzhen popped one into his mouth. The coolness came with a subtle sweetness that masked the bitterness of the medicine.

By the time they got back to the dorm, it was already evening. The other three had gone out for a late-night snack, leaving just the two of them inside.

Zhu Lianzhen felt like playing a game. He rummaged through the cartridges Ah-Xu had brought from home and realized they were all co-op titles. He turned to Tan Qing and asked, “Wanna play?”

Without waiting for a reply, he tossed over a controller. He already knew Tan Qing wouldn’t say no. “One of those no-skill ones. I know you suck.”

Tan Qing didn’t mind the provocation. He took out his contact lenses and sat down. Zhu Lianzhen browsed for a bit and found that most of what Ah-Xu had brought were fighting or shooting games. The only one that matched Tan Qing’s skill level was Overcooked 2—better known by some as “Breakup Kitchen.”

It was the kind of game that easily sparked fights and blame-shifting between couples or close friends. But since they’d already broken up, there wasn’t much further their relationship could fall.

Zhu Lianzhen leaned back on the couch and patiently explained the basic controls. Tan Qing’s reaction: “This is hard.”

“There are only a few buttons. You’ll get the hang of it as you play,” Zhu Lianzhen said, trying to reassure him, though he couldn’t help the little surge of smug satisfaction he felt.

It had taken him a long period of trial and error to discover one of Tan Qing’s few weaknesses: he was terrible at video games. Couldn’t aim in FPS games, didn’t know how to move in MOBAs, and when it came to fighting games, it looked like he was battling thin air. Every time Zhu Lianzhen invited him to play, it wasn’t for the company. He just liked messing with him.

“Xiao Zhu, I fell off,” Tan Qing said. A while later, another mishap. “The kitchen’s on fire. Where’s the extinguisher?”

“Xiao Zhu, let’s switch roles.”
“And switch controllers too.”

“Alright, what’s next? Want to switch seats too?” Zhu Lianzhen laughed, watching Tan Qing’s slow moves. “These aren’t even the real challenges, okay?”

Tan Qing admitted frankly, “I just don’t have talent for this kind of thing.”

“Good that you know.” Zhu Lianzhen hadn’t stopped smiling for a while now. “You’re the reason I’m having fun tonight.”

By this point, the mood made Zhu Lianzhen feel relieved. This was probably the most laid-back day they’d spent together since reuniting in February—just like ordinary friends, no overthinking.

Truth be told, more than the breakup itself, what Zhu Lianzhen disliked even more was not being able to stay friends afterward. He was willing to keep things light, but awkwardness was always hard to avoid.

Partway through, Tan Qing got up to grab snacks from the basket. Zhu Lianzhen kept his eyes on the TV, reaching in blindly and pulling out a box. When he opened it, he saw it was Pocky.

He thought of how Tan Qing had bitten the popsicle first earlier that day and complimented him, “By the way, you did pretty well today.”

Tan Qing turned slightly, looking a little tired. “What?”

Zhu Lianzhen didn’t look at him. His eyes stayed on the screen as he said nonchalantly, “I thought you’d just obediently follow the director’s instructions. Didn’t think you’d actually learn to throw the game.”

Tan Qing quickly caught on and leaned back lazily. “I just didn’t want to make things hard for you. If we were really trying to beat the team before us, we probably would’ve had to touch lips.”

“What do you mean ‘make things hard for me’? You say it like you weren’t bothered by that kind of game.”

“Didn’t you dodge?”

Zhu Lianzhen blinked. “What?”

“Second round. You dodged.” Tan Qing looked at the TV, fingers casually moving the joystick. “I get it. You probably hate having any kind of physical contact with me now.”

Zhu Lianzhen didn’t deny it, but he found Tan Qing’s wording odd and ambiguous. Physical contact could mean both active and passive situations. Cooperating with the director’s CP-baiting on the show was passive, and that part he definitely didn’t enjoy.

But if he hated active physical contact, that would basically mean he hated the person. And with Tan Qing’s flat tone, the whole sentence had carried far more weight than it seemed at first.

Wouldn’t a more accurate way to put it be: “I figured you probably didn’t want to have any more physical contact with me”?

The thought passed quickly. Zhu Lianzhen didn’t want to get hung up on trivial semantics. He just muttered, “Same cheap tricks to pander to the crowd. After all these years, they still haven’t changed.”

“Games are supposed to be fun, so I don’t really mind them,” Tan Qing said as he skillfully controlled his character on the screen. “What I can’t handle is the atmosphere they create. When the crowd’s cheering and getting excited, it starts to feel like the ambiguity on stage is real—”

He let out a soft laugh, turned his head toward Zhu Lianzhen, and continued, “And if my heart starts racing in that moment, it’s hard not to misunderstand myself, right?”

Just when Zhu Lianzhen had silently felt relieved that things between them were finally starting to feel like ordinary friendship again, his ex went and brought up something this awkward.

Zhu Lianzhen shot him a discreet side-eye, grabbed a Pocky, bit into it, and grumbled, “Your heart races over that? What are you, a teenager discovering first love?”

But before the words were even cold, a shadow blocked half his vision.

Zhu Lianzhen felt the Pocky dip slightly, and before he could react, Tan Qing had already bitten the other end.

“Shit,” he cursed internally, the remaining piece slipping from his mouth in shock. He even heard the crunch of the biscuit as Tan Qing chewed it.

“Let’s start over,” Tan Qing said.

Those few simple words hit like a bolt of lightning, nearly blasting Zhu Lianzhen’s heart out of the Milky Way.

He hadn’t expected Tan Qing to so suddenly drag their biggest unspoken thing into the open, with zero emotional preparation.

Zhu Lianzhen froze, mind blank, and reflexively tossed the question back, “D-do you even know what you’re saying?”

“Why not?” Tan Qing asked in return, still holding the game controller. “I think I’ve figured out how to play now. If we restart, the score’ll be better, right?”

Zhu Lianzhen’s heart hadn’t even settled yet, and hearing that made his cheeks burn all over again.

“Start, start!” His fingers trembled as he fumbled back to the game’s main menu.

So he had been testing him… no, teasing him.

The lights in the room had been turned off. The darkness was perfect cover. Zhu Lianzhen was too busy feeling grateful that Tan Qing couldn’t see how red his face was—completely missing the gaze watching him from the shadows, laced with a faint, dispirited smile.