MACRM Chapter 33

Lin Zhu gave a faint shiver.

Zhong Yao half-knelt in front of him.

To suit the scene, before the shoot began Zhong Yao had already taken off that bloodstained trench coat, wearing only a pale blue shirt with a small, delicately embroidered flower on the breast pocket.

Under the lights, it looked as gentle as a dreamlike, tranquil sea.

He knelt in front of Lin Zhu, holding the agent’s cold, trembling hands, his voice sincere and tender: “I want him.”

Zhong Yao said nothing more, yet deep within Lin Zhu, some tightly locked shell suddenly cracked wide open, leaving a raw gap. His chest felt as though wind rushed straight through, aching so much he had to suck in a sharp breath.

“I’m ready…”

Lin Zhu heard his own voice, hoarse, though hopefully not enough to affect the take.

He closed his eyes briefly, but his gaze still sought out Zhong Yao: “Can we… start?”

It had been so long since he remembered how to let himself cry freely. To tear open those old, tightly-woven cocoons of pain. He wasn’t ready. But with this scene — here, where Zhong Yao was, thoroughly, just once let out a hearty cry…

Perhaps he could do it.

Zhong Yao looked at him for a moment, then smiled gently. “Of course.”

Pressing down lightly on Lin Zhu’s knee so he wouldn’t move, Zhong Yao rose and, bracing himself, scooped his young master up in his arms and gently laid him on the bed.

The clapperboard snapped, no one called out the scene, and the filming began in silence.

This time Zhong Yao was unusually quiet. He didn’t tease him with the green dumplings, nor chat idly about the bustling scenery of the city. Before Lin Zhu even had a chance to put on the bratty airs of his character, Zhong Yao had already gathered him tightly into his embrace.

Lin Zhu struggled faintly in his arms, then went still.

Zhong Yao lowered his head to study his expression, a gentle smile returning to his brows. He pressed the back of his hand to Lin Zhu’s cheek and moved to feed him medicine.

Lin Zhu shut his eyes, turning away, but Zhong Yao was in no hurry. Holding him, he soothed with light pats, lifting a spoonful, blowing it cool, and bringing it to his lips.

That inescapable tenderness could almost drown a man alive. Lin Zhu sat stiffly, the thought of forcing himself through the scene’s beats quietly eroded, his chest rising and falling faintly.

This was nothing like what had been planned. Wei Geping’s brows drew tighter and tighter; he stood, about to call cut — only for several hands to reach in, cover his mouth, and drag him out in perfect coordination.

The door was pulled just enough ajar, and one by one the script supervisor, assistant director, lighting, and sound crew were quietly whisked from the set.

The cameraman diligently adjusted the last fixed shot, then glanced up in confusion. A chill ran down his back before he, too, was silently taken away.

…

Zhong Yao set the bowl down softly.

The medicine hadn’t gone down smoothly. The bowl had cooled by half. Supporting the man in his arms against a soft pillow, Zhong Yao started to rise, clearly intending to prepare another, only for his sleeve to be seized in a desperate grip.

“Don’t go.”

Thin fingers clutched the fabric tight. Lin Zhu kept his head bowed, his narrow shoulders trembling, his voice faint, yielding, almost pleading: “Laoshi… Zhan Yuan, don’t go…”

Zhong Yao stopped, closing his eyes lightly.

A flicker of regret touched him.

If only there weren’t the constraints of the script, if they could cast aside the roles entirely. If only, right now, he could forget everything else, he would hold Lin Zhu properly, listen to him call him whatever he wished, say whatever he wanted, not missing a single word.

But… if he did, Lin Zhu might only lower his head in silence again, and when he finally looked up, force a bright smile.

There was no time for hesitation, no room for fear or loss. Zhong Yao steadied himself, sat back down, and said softly, “Laoshi won’t go.”

Lin Zhu trembled harder, his breaths coming harsh and uneven.

Zhong Yao listened in silence, his expression calm and gentle, though the back of his throat tasted faintly of blood.

He leaned down, brushed aside Lin Zhu’s fringe, and pressed a bent finger lightly at the corner of his eye.

As if scalded awake by his touch, Lin Zhu jerked into frantic struggle, lurching fiercely to throw himself off the bed. Yet Zhong Yao only held him tighter.

The sharp edge long hidden under the merchant’s cultured veneer finally flared to life. Zhong Yao locked him against his chest with a strength that brooked no refusal.

Panting heavily, Lin Zhu clutched his collar in both hands.

Like a kitten trying to puff itself up, fierce in appearance yet soft and careful in force.

Zhong Yao looked down at him. And suddenly, gently smiled.

“My young master…”

Zhong Yao leaned down, his low, gentle voice falling softly at Lin Zhu’s ear: “With me here, where are you going?” 

Lin Zhu’s chest gave a faint tremor.

“That’s enough.”

Zhong Yao drew him fully into his embrace, turning his back to block the window.

“Cry.”

…

The view from outside was extremely limited, all the more with a dozen people jostling, refusing to give way. From the gaps between the camera setups, one could only just make out Zhong Yao holding his trembling, weeping agent, his palm falling again and again in quiet pats on his back.

No one knew how much time had passed when the body in his arms gradually stilled.

Zhong Yao rose, gently laying Lin Zhu back on the bed. Just as he moved to stand, he realized his sleeve was still clutched tight.

He stood at the bedside for a long, silent moment, a quiet radiance of gentleness flowing through his eyes. Leaning down, he pressed his forehead lightly against Lin Zhu’s.

Then he sat back down again, not moving away.

When the horizon finally began to pale with dawn, No Bridge, Scene 72, Act 2, was at last formally completed.

According to numerous reliable eyewitnesses, the actor playing Zhan Yuan, about to meet his end, carried his little young master out of the set in his arms, went straight upstairs to their rooms, and did not appear again for the entire day.

“…I told you my acting’s improved. The people in my crew don’t believe it, and neither do you lot!”

In a private box at an exclusive club open only to industry insiders, Wei Geping slammed the table, red with irritation, and craned around the room:

“Lin Zhu, come and tell them. Wasn’t it true back then— Lin Zhu? Lin Zhu, Lin Zhu!”

“Alright, alright. That kid’s not cut out for us old chain-smokers’ gatherings. He went out for air ages ago. You were too busy bragging to Lao Qi about how your character interpretation improved, pestering him until you forced a scene out for him. I told you then, you didn’t hear.”

Beside him sat another well-known director, smiling as he patted Wei Geping’s shoulder, speaking up to smooth things over:

“Film Emperor Zhong went out too. Just look at them. Artist and agent, not scheming against each other, just taking care, supporting each other. So much easier that way…”

Wei Geping liked hearing praise for his people. At that, his expression softened into a grin.

They had just wrapped a night shoot yesterday, and the schedule wasn’t too tight, so the entire crew had been given the day off.

As it happened, several famous directors and producers had dropped by the Sichuan Film Crew set for a visit. Wei Geping, always eager to flaunt his treasures, dragged along the still jetlagged Zhong Yao and Lin Zhu. Claiming it was to let them relax, he was determined instead to have Lin Zhu testify to his own sudden leap in directing skill.

But Lin Zhu, unable to stand the smoke, excused himself halfway to step out for air. Zhong Yao lasted barely three minutes more before following. The two hadn’t returned since.

Wei Geping, thwarted in his chance to boast, recovered quickly and turned to bragging about his glorious ten-win streak at mahjong.

In the lounge, Lin Zhu leaned by the window, breathing fresh air for a long while until his throat finally felt better. With a long, easy sigh, he felt relief at last.

Zhong Yao stayed with him, watching as his agent perked back up, even bouncing a little with renewed energy. He smiled faintly and lifted a hand to rub his hair:

“Better now?”

“All better. I just choked a little earlier.”

Lin Zhu nodded, his eyes curving bright and clear again. “Shall we head back? They’re all renowned directors, after all. Even if there aren’t resources to be gained, it’s still good to learn a little more…”

“No rush.”

Zhong Yao’s palm still rested atop his head. He paused briefly, then added softly:

“Director Wei is too dull, nerves thicker than his arm. He never notices anything. He’s not dragging it out on purpose.”

If he’d known beforehand that Wei Geping brought Lin Zhu just for this, he would’ve much rather taken him out for hotpot.

Lin Zhu froze, then smiled gently and nodded. “I know… I’m fine.”

After crying his heart out yesterday, he actually felt better than any day before. Lin Zhu had never been the self-pitying type. Allowing himself to cry to sleep in Zhong Yao’s arms was indulgent enough. He wasn’t about to get overly sensitive about a few words.

Still, even if he didn’t mind, facing Zhong Yao’s earnest expression sent a sudden heat rushing to his chest.

Zhong Yao… had accompanied him out just for this.

Warmth spread, filling his heart with a buoyant joy. Satisfied, Lin Zhu was about to tug Zhong Yao back toward the private room when his gaze caught and he froze in place.

The manager of Canxing’s resources department was hurrying past them head-on. At the sight of the two, shock and panic flickered instantly in his eyes.