Lin Zhu hopped into the room and, as subtly as he could, confirmed the bed’s type and number.
“Why didn’t you go downstairs to look for me?” Zhong Yao opened a window for ventilation, moved aside the massive bouquet of roses, and let the thick fragrance drift out. “Tired? How long were you waiting?”
“Just a bit. It wasn’t urgent anyway…” Lin Zhu then slid onto the bed, stretched lazily, and worked out the stiffness in his legs from crouching. “Too many people downstairs, it’s quieter up here.”
Zhong Yao had long noticed he didn’t like crowds. He brushed flower petals off the quilt and sat down at the edge of the bed. “Next time just text me. I’ll say I’ve got a stomachache and come back early.”
In the dim light, Zhong Yao’s figure seemed hazy and warm.
Having his hair ruffled left Lin Zhu content and at ease. He dutifully reported on work: “The PR staff all were coaxed down from the rooftop. I promised them holiday bonuses for Mid-Autumn, and we’ll just stay home and not go anywhere. Tianxing agreed to everything we asked, with the condition that we cooperate with two in-show promotions. I have checked them both, they’re reputable brands…”
When Zhong Yao had been cornered by reporters, he and the old station head had been watching the livestream. The station head, embarrassed and furious, rushed to get rid of him for the sake of saving face, so the negotiations wrapped unusually fast.
Within ten minutes, Lin Zhu and the signed contract were practically thrown out of the station building. None of the concessions he’d prepared even got used.
Afterward, he’d sped through the PR staff’s “the rooftop is so cold I’m scared” wails, barely managing to pick up Zhong Yao and drag him back to the set. Only then had the situation stopped from spiraling further.
Everything had gone smoothly, except for the poor ice-cream mooncakes. Nearly melted, still uneaten, and now sealed away in the fridge of the locked room next door.
Lin Zhu sighed softly, a little regretful.
But there were still two days until the Mid-Autumn Festival. There’s no need to rush the mooncakes. He perked up and was about to get up to tidy things, when Zhong Yao fished around in his coat pocket and pulled out a delicate little mooncake, holding it out.
An old-fashioned one, embossed with the classic “good fortune” design, small enough to swallow in two bites.
It didn’t match that sleek, high-class coat at all.
“Lotus seed paste with salted egg yolk. This flavor’s good too. Try it…”
Zhong Yao smiled as he tore open the wrapper for him. “There are only a dozen or so kinds of mooncakes total. I was worried there wouldn’t be enough to buy. Otherwise, I’d have picked up more today.”
His words were vague, but Lin Zhu couldn’t help recalling what Zhong Yao had said during the livestream.
Buying them for ten or so years, and so on…
Lin Zhu pressed his lips together, then accepted the mooncake and nibbled at it, the fragrance of salted yolk and lotus paste spreading across his tongue.
It had been years since he’d eaten mooncakes like this. His eyes blinked, then bent into a smile. “It’s delicious.”
A smile glimmered in Zhong Yao’s eyes too. He ruffled Lin Zhu’s hair again, not letting him run around tidying. Instead, he deftly cleared away the scattered petals himself, then ordered room service since Lin Zhu hadn’t eaten dinner.
Lin Zhu, unlike the effortlessly slim Film Emperor Zhong, couldn’t eat without gaining weight. Having already eaten a mooncake, he meant to skip dinner as penance. But under Zhong Yao’s top-level mukbang temptation, he gave in once more, postponing his weight-control plan until after the festival.
Full and content, they looked out at the moon rising high outside.
“All right. Tomorrow we really do wrap together.”
The young master’s last scenes were scheduled for tomorrow. With Zhong Yao’s shoot delayed, they would finish on the same day.
Zhong Yao called for the trays to be taken away, closed the window, turned on the air conditioner. “Sleep early and rest up. Go wash—”
His words stalled suddenly, his gaze drawn, once again, to the glass-walled bathroom.
Zhong Yao: “…”
Lin Zhu: “…”
Lin Zhu, from the moment they’d entered, had kept his eyes glued to the bed. He hadn’t noticed the bathroom at all. Now he saw it clearly: gleaming transparent glass, not a trace of frosting, deliberately built with echoing acoustics, no curtain, and situated right beside the enormous, pillowy king-size bed.
He froze like a statue.
Zhong Yao, however, needed no explanation. One look and he understood exactly what the hotel’s owner had in mind — decidedly indecent. He rubbed his temple, sighed in disbelief, and reached out to soothe the burning-red ear of his agent.
“I’m a little tired too. I’ll shower for around ten minutes and then head straight to bed. After that, you can wash, all right?”
Lin Zhu hadn’t yet recovered from the shock. He jerkily nodded like a machine, eyes wide, watching as Zhong Yao stepped into the bathroom. Only when the door shut did he jolt back to life, heat rushing from the top of his head down inside his collar.
With a sudden leap, he snatched up Zhong Yao’s phone, unlocked it, and opened Candy Crush with practiced ease. Sitting ramrod straight, back to the bathroom, phone lifted before him, he played with deadly earnest, properly and respectfully.
Inside, Zhong Yao glanced through the glass, stifled a chuckle, and turned on the shower.
Lin Zhu was still aimlessly swiping little cartoon candies on the phone screen when Zhong Yao came out, hair damp, changed into a bathrobe.
Only after Zhong Yao had finished tidying up, reminded him to sleep early, and lain down on the bed with his eyes closed, did Lin Zhu finally gather his courage, spring to his feet, and dash into the bathroom.
The air conditioner outside was a little cold, so Zhong Yao had thoughtfully run the warm air for a while. The whole bathroom was still pleasantly warm, most of the steam already dried away.
Zhong Yao lay on the bed with his back to the bathroom. Lin Zhu let out a tiny sigh of relief, moving as quietly as he could while undressing and turning on the shower. Only after confirming the sound of the water could cover his own did he finally breathe out a soft, careful sigh.
The hotel service was thorough. It provided bathrobes and towels, shampoo and body wash, all inside so nothing needed to be brought in. And Zhong Yao didn’t have the habit of drinking alcohol, smoking, or sitting down for a game of mahjong in the middle of a shower…
Lin Zhu thought hard for ten whole minutes, yet still couldn’t come up with a single excuse that would let him sneak a glance back.
The shoot was nearly wrapped. This was probably the last chance to stay in this room. A little crestfallen, Lin Zhu turned under the shower twice, scooped up water to splash on his face, and was just about to rally himself again when his gaze caught the bathroom mirror.
The glass partition that had been mostly dried was fogged again, faint traces appearing on the surface.
As though… someone had once scribbled on it with steam.
The glass was wiped clean every day, and no one else had been in this room. Lin Zhu truly couldn’t imagine Zhong Yao doodling on the mirror while bathing. Curiosity surged, and he leaned in, trying to make it out. After a long while, his eyes suddenly widened.
Faintly, the character for “bamboo shoot” (Sun; 笋[mfn]remember? Lin Zhu’s original WeChat name is [Don’t call me Sun, call me Zhu-zi] [/mfn]) showed on the mirror, each stroke soft and gentle, written with meticulous care, nothing at all like Best Actor Zhong’s usual bold, sweeping signature.
From this angle, it was perfectly visible from the spot he sat on the bed.
Lin Zhu’s heartbeat quickened, heat flushing his face.
Zhong Yao… why would he—
Lin Zhu rubbed his cheeks hard, shook his head, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly.
It had to be just the long years of idol-chasing. His idol filter was too thick. Otherwise, why would every little thing Zhong Yao did make him blush so easily?
That little pang of disappointment was washed away completely. Humming under his breath, Lin Zhu plucked up his courage, and quickly scribbled something himself next to it. He stared at it for a while, lips curving in a secret smile.
Zhong Yao was already lying down. Once the steam cleared, it would all vanish. Tomorrow the glass would be wiped again, leaving no trace.
Truly a flawless plan.
Happily, Lin Zhu ducked back under the hot water, rubbed his face twice, and tilted his head back to let the shower wash over him, body finally unwinding after the day’s exhaustion.
Zhong Yao quietly turned over, glancing toward the glass partition.
From the outside, it wasn’t nearly as clear as one might imagine.
Mist blurred the glass, through which the faint outline of Lin Zhu’s still-slender frame was visible. Wrapped in the soft glow of water and steam, his figure seemed quiet and tender, yet brimming with vibrant life.
Like a fresh bamboo shoot, stubbornly thrusting upward the soil no matter how many heavy stones pressed down, scarred yet relentless.
Zhong Yao’s heart softened. He let out a quiet laugh, about to turn back for fear of embarrassing his thin-skinned agent, when his gaze caught new writing on the glass.
The bathroom light was much brighter than outside, a warm golden glow spilling through and gilding the strokes in soft edges, making them shine lively before his eyes.
Even written backward, they were easy to recognize. Somehow, the agent with forty-some of his signatures had learned to mimic his handwriting, scrawling a whole wall of “Zhong Yao.” Big, small, high, low, encircling the single bamboo-shoot character completely.
Zhong Yao rubbed his temple, laughter glimmering faintly in his eyes.
Before Lin Zhu came out, he deliberately closed his eyes, lying perfectly still with steady, even breathing.
Even an agent couldn’t tell apart acting at a Film Emperor’s level. Lin Zhu tried calling him softly twice. Seeing no response, he relaxed fully, changed quietly, and lay down on the bed.
The anticipation was real, and so was the nervousness.
Lin Zhu tossed and turned several times, unable to sleep to the rhythm of the calm breathing beside him. After ten restless minutes, he finally couldn’t stand it and sat up.
—The bed was plenty wide, more than enough for two grown men to lie without even brushing against each other. But right there beside him was Zhong Yao. What if he rolled over in his sleep and mistook Zhong Yao for his bolster at home…?
Startled by his own imagination, Lin Zhu braced himself, got up, and quietly shuffled about.
Zhong Yao, pretending to sleep deeply, let the rustling noises go on without reaction. Only when Lin Zhu’s breathing had grown long and steady did he finally give in to curiosity and turn over.
Lin Zhu was nowhere to be seen.
He must have shifted to the far side of the bed. Zhong Yao could hear the faintest trace of breathing.
And between them, placed squarely in front of the Film Emperor once cursed by a certain foreign documentary director for “losing all his charm,” was a neat row of seat cushions and pillows, stacked two by two into an indestructible fortress, dividing the bed clean in half.
Hahahahaha