“I’ve taken the blame for popular idols! I’ve been slandered for starlets!”
The head of the PR team had originally thought that once the two of them finished their interaction, he could finally get a good night’s sleep. He never expected it would turn into the entire team pulling an all-nighter, grief-stricken enough to nearly lose his mind. In despair, he dialed Lin Zhu’s number. “We fully support all kinds of romances, we provide the full package of cover-ups, hype, and white-washings, but you can’t do this to me!”
A PR team member chimed, sobbing uncontrollably, “If you’re going to come out with Zhong-laoshi, you have to at least let us know five hours in advance!”
Lin Zhu: “…”
“We’re not going public. That sentence meant exactly what it said…”
Lin Zhu crouched in the stairwell, rubbing his forehead. “No, I don’t mean we should keep hiding it. It’s just that we’re not what you think. Calm down first— I didn’t use my phone, Zhong-laoshi posted that Weibo himself. Strictly speaking, there’s nothing wrong with the wording…”
“The wording isn’t the problem. The atmosphere has already been blown out of proportion!”
On the other end came a long sigh, struggling to stay rational. “Is it still in time to delete the post? But fans are already in full-blown celebration. If we delete it now, it’ll look too fake, and the fans won’t want to let it go…?”
Since the livestream, there had been no further updates. Anxious fans had been camped under Zhong Yao’s Weibo, and the comments section had turned into a giant prairie dog[mfn]if you’ve seen Nezha 2, you’ll understand this meme thoroughly. Simply put, the fans are all screaming uncontrollably.[/mfn] colony. CP fans were setting off fireworks in celebration, fanart on Lofter was shooting up like crazy.
The PR team didn’t even dare to boost the hype. They kept trying to tamp it down, terrified that tomorrow’s headline would be: #Famous Best Actor Winner Suspected of Coming Out#.
“It’s too late.”
Lin Zhu was silent for a moment, running through possible options: “I’ll go ask Zhong-laoshi — if it really doesn’t work, I’ll talk to the screenwriter and see if he can help us out. Maybe he can say he was the one using Zhong-laoshi’s phone… it could work as an explanation.”
Lin Zhu: “For now, just try to steer the narrative back on track. I’ll send everyone red envelopes[mfn]红包, hongbao. Bonus money in this context[/mfn] later. Thank you for your hard work.”
His calm attitude seemed to steady the PR team as well, and they gradually calmed down.
They worked out various contingency PR plans one by one. With little time to spare, the PR head reminded him to take care of his health before hanging up in a rush.
Lin Zhu put down his phone, immediately sent out red envelopes, then leaned back against the wall, exhausted.
He opened Weibo again and reread Zhong Yao’s repost word by word.
Lin Zhu’s fingers slowly brushed over that one line.
…
They’re doing well.
Of course he knew that Zhong Yao’s words had no hidden meaning, no extra thoughts. It was simply the most objective conclusion about their recent cooperation and current state.
But the moment he saw that post, when his vision went dark, his heartbeat spiked, and he grabbed his buzzing phone and rushed into the stairwell. He couldn’t deny it.
He couldn’t deny that, in some unnoticed corner of his heart, he too had silently set off a grand, blazing firework show.
He couldn’t bear to delete that Weibo more than the fans couldn’t.
Lin Zhu read the post again, rubbed his face, let out a long breath, and stood up, planning to return to the room and let Zhong Yao choose a response plan.
He hadn’t noticed it while crouching, but once he stood up, he realized he’d been squatting in the stairwell too long. His legs were half-numb.
Lin Zhu cursed inwardly, staggered a couple of steps with a hiss of pain, only to fall right into a chest that caught him firmly.
“Dizzy? Do you feel unwell anywhere?”
Unable to sit still inside, Zhong Yao had come looking for him. Before he could even speak, Lin Zhu had bumped into his chest. Alarmed, he touched Lin Zhu’s forehead. “If you’re not feeling well, tell me. Leave everything else aside for now, we’ll go see a doctor…”
“No-nothing.”
The numbness overwhelmed him, his legs didn’t feel like his own, he didn’t dare move, and he sucked in a breath between clenched teeth. “Just… legs went numb…”
Zhong Yao: “…”
Relieved, Zhong Yao steadied him against himself, watching the usually composed young manager grimace with exaggerated expression. After a moment, he chuckled softly.
This man could still laugh!
Whatever melancholy Lin Zhu had felt a moment ago vanished like smoke. Bristling with indignation, he looked up, straight into Zhong Yao’s smiling eyes.
Lin Zhu froze, looked away, and shrank his neck slightly.
Perhaps emboldened by that Weibo post, he carefully shifted his weight to his other leg, wincing. “It really hurts, and you’re still laughing…”
Lin Zhu: “…!”
Before he could finish, Zhong Yao had already taken hold of his arm and bent down.
“No cameras here. If you’re shy, just cover your face.”
Zhong Yao whispered at his ear, spread his arms, and lifted him up entirely.
Lying on Zhong Yao’s shoulder, Lin Zhu remembered the script Zhong Yao had given him earlier that day. His heart began to race inexplicably, but his manager instincts yanked him back to rationality. Flustered, he tried to pull away. “Zho, Zhong-laoshi…”
The next second, Lin Zhu was carried off the ground.
Lin Zhu: “…”
Actor Zhong has been exercising regularly and has exceptional strength. Carrying his agent with numbed legs, his steps were steady and unhurried all the way back to the room.
“I thought it was something serious… this is nothing.”
Listening to Lin Zhu’s emergency PR plans, Zhong Yao chuckled, patiently sitting at the bedside and pressing the right acupoints to restore circulation. “I posted that Weibo myself. Why drag the screenwriter into it? He’s full of bad ideas. If we owe him one this time, who knows how he’ll torment us later…”
Laid flat on the bed, Lin Zhu felt his chest heat up strangely at that one word— us.
Still, his professional instincts held. Lin Zhu dutifully lowered his voice. “I’m just worried about the fans making wild guesses… nowadays, fans like to speculate.”
On the scales of Zhong Yao’s future, that outweighed his own tiny selfishness a hundredfold.
“Then let them guess.”
Zhong Yao had already made peace with it. He smiled. “It’s not like we’re doing anything illegal. What’s the worst they can guess? From what I see, they’re happy, and no one’s saying anything outrageous…”
Lin Zhu thought, “that’s because you never go on fan forums or doujin sites”. He pushed himself upright, wanting to argue again, but Zhong Yao gently pressed his shoulder down.
That familiar warmth pressed down on him. Lin Zhu froze, instinctively looking up.
“What I said on the livestream was the truth. That Weibo was the truth, too.”
Lin Zhu hadn’t slept well last night, a tuft of hair stuck up no matter how he tried to smooth it. Zhong Yao pressed it down for him, but as soon as he let go, it sprang right back up stubbornly.
Zhong Yao found it amusing and ruffled his hair with a laugh. “I know you’re thinking about my career… but if my career and my happiness clash, which comes first?”
“Of course, happiness!”
Never expected that Zhong Yao would ask this. Lin Zhu’s heart tightened, and he quickly blurted out an answer, his face turning slightly pale as well. “Zhong-laoshi, I didn’t— I don’t care about your career or your future development… I’m— I want you to do well because I want you to be happy, I… I just want you to be happy…”
Lin Zhu faltered, not knowing how to go on. His throat constricted, and a chill quickly spread over his body.
He had always been able to easily sense what others wanted from him; making people satisfied had always been effortless, and explanations were never necessary… He had long forgotten how to explain his own feelings to anyone.
For the first time since he was five years old, Lin Zhu found himself unable to properly defend himself, and a wave of panic and helpless anxiety surged through him.
No… it can’t be like this…
Lin Zhu closed his eyes, took a deep breath to steady his trembling, and was just about to speak again when suddenly he was wrapped in a warm, firm embrace.
A familiar, steady palm pressed gently against his back, stroking slowly, soothingly, again and again.
“All right, all right… it’s okay, it’s okay.”
Zhong Yao’s soft voice carried the gentle tone of someone coaxing, yet was filled with sincere apology, “I spoke too harshly. I’m sorry. That was my fault…”
The warmth gradually returned to Lin Zhu’s body, and he looked up blankly.
Just now… had Zhong Yao also been nervous, like him?
It was the first time Zhong Yao had seen him so frightened, and he felt even more regretful, blaming himself again, then pulling him closer into his arms, speaking softly into Lin Zhu’s ear, “I wasn’t— what I meant was… when I posted that Weibo, I was really happy.”
“They were all wishing us well in the comments, wishing us peace and smooth days… whether they meant it or not, I was happy to see it.”
Zhong Yao gently rubbed his hair, carefully explaining his own thoughts. He crouched down to meet Lin Zhu’s eyes. “I just want to keep that Weibo post, so I can look back at the comments whenever I like. Just let it stay. Don’t delete it, all right?”
Lin Zhu: “…”
He didn’t dare tell Zhong Yao that those wishes of “a good life together” might not just mean it in the literal sense. Taking advantage of the fact that his emotions still hadn’t steadied enough for his mind-reading to fully kick in, Lin Zhu drew a quiet breath and lifted his gaze to meet Zhong Yao’s warm and earnest eyes.
Actually… it wasn’t impossible.
The last option he had discussed with the PR team was simply to leave the matter alone for a while.
Zhong Yao didn’t appear in front of the public very often these days, and fans still weren’t used to his somewhat old-fashioned way of thinking. Once they grew accustomed to it, they would naturally understand what that Weibo post meant, and the misunderstanding would fade away.
This method would take longer, but it was the safest.
Lin Zhu breathed in softly, looked away before his emotions could settle, and nodded gently.
“It was my fault just now. I spoke without thinking. I’ll never say that again.”
Still crouched in front of him, Zhong Yao once more offered a solemn apology, squeezing his hand. “Don’t be angry with me.”
Lin Zhu hadn’t been angry at all. He couldn’t withstand such a gentle, sincere apology. He shook his head in a fluster. “No, no, I’m not!”
“I guess I’m being a bit shameless. Next time you want to do something, just tell me directly, I’ll definitely agree.”
Zhong Yao smiled lightly, and when he felt the warmth gradually return to Lin Zhu’s hand, he finally relaxed, sitting beside him on the bed. “Now that the matter’s settled and we’ve finished eating, how about I take a look at the script? Let’s see what the screenwriter wrote that’s giving our all-powerful agent such a headache…”
Lin Zhu: “!”
He quickly snatched the script and clutched it to his chest with lightning speed: “You… you haven’t read the script yet?”
“I read the first and second drafts. I don’t know if he revised it again.”
Zhong Yao was slightly surprised. “What’s wrong?”
Lin Zhu’s heartbeat sped up. He glanced up at him, steeled his resolve. “I—I want to study the script a bit more myself.”
Clenching his teeth, he added, “Think it over carefully, see if I can act it well enough to match you…”
Zhong Yao had just promised to let him do whatever he wanted, so he was struck silent for a moment, then chuckled helplessly and nodded. “All right, then you read it yourself. I’ll ask the screenwriter for another copy later.”
That particular scene for tomorrow was originally something Zhong Yao had his own ideas for — it might not even follow the script — so it didn’t matter much whether he read it or not. Seeing how protective Lin Zhu was of that mysterious script, Zhong Yao didn’t have the heart to tease him further. He ruffled his hair and went to clear the dishes.
The whole night, Lin Zhu never returned the script to him.
Zhong Yao had thought of messaging the screenwriter, but checking the time, he decided to meet in person the next day.
The following day, Lin Zhu still didn’t hand the script back.
The screenwriter wasn’t at the set; apparently, he had gone abroad for a seminar and wouldn’t return for a week.
Not until night fell, when preparations were made to shoot this extra added scene and Lin Zhu was taken away to change costumes, did Zhong Yao finally get hold of the script envelope for the first time.
The screenwriter had been very thorough, and in according to Zhong Yao’s request, he hadn’t written another “little young master trapped by the plot.”
Inside the envelope were two scripts.
One belonged to the young master’s role. It detailed psychological analysis and character traits, but gave no explicit demands about the plot.
The other belonged to Zhan Yuan’s role. From beginning to end, it laid everything out in painstaking detail — a step-by-step guide for carrying the young master home, changing clothes, bathing him, feeding medicine and candy, and even sleeping beside him.
Movie Emperor Zhong, who hadn’t had time to rehearse and had been planning to surprise Lin Zhu, now held the script in hand, took a deep breath, lifted his gaze over the crowd, and saw in one glance—
The red-faced little young master, dressed in tattered clothes and covered in wounds, standing there with the script’s description come to life.
They should of kissed! Why no kiss (● ˃̶͈̀ロ˂̶͈́)੭ꠥ⁾⁾