Zhuang Xiao found a quiet spot outside beside the street, leaned against a wall, and smoked.
Pei Yan came strolling over too, gathering up his ridiculous collection of costume skirts, cloak, and long robes. He stood against the wall beside him. “Why come all this way? Hiding from me?”
Zhuang Xiao: “No. Why would I hide from you?”
Zhuang Xiao had never liked crowded places. Even the large makeup room made his eyes swim, especially after Xing Rong arrived with at least three assistants, like a tour group big enough to set up its own mahjong table.
“Another fight scene today, heh,” Pei Yan said.
“Indoors,” Zhuang Xiao said. “Easier to film. At least we won’t be cold.”
“We fight on top of a table, with Rong-Rong underneath.”
“When we go under the table, he’ll be on top.”
“Either way, it’s us doing the fighting. He’s got nothing to do except crouch there like a decorative vase and look pretty. Hahaha!”
Pei Yan’s voice sounded heavily nasal. He sniffed a few times.
“Got a cold?” Zhuang Xiao asked. “Have your assistant boil a pot of ginger water with brown sugar. Drink the whole thing.”
“I’m not a woman. Why would I drink brown-sugar ginger tea?” Pei Yan grumbled.
They stood about a meter apart, one facing left and the other right, neither looking at the other. Their lips barely moved when they spoke. From a distance they seemed to be ignoring each other, simply standing by a wall.
“In a few days we’ll be doing location shooting on the grasslands,” Zhuang Xiao said. “It’ll be tough. Autumn there is bitterly cold. Bring more clothes, and tell your assistant to stock up on food.”
“Stock up on what?”
“You probably won’t be used to the food out there. Tell your people to bring extra snacks for a big squirrel like you.”
Pei Yan grinned, but the smile slowly faded. He lowered his eyes and murmured, “Don’t look after me so carefully. You know I take it seriously.”
Zhuang Xiao lowered his voice too. “Don’t act crazy on set.”
Pei Yan pouted. He was already very sick indeed, with a terrible case of lovesick obsession.
He knew Zhuang Xiao was right. There were too many eyes on set. No causing scenes. Anything they wanted to say could wait until they were back in Beijing and alone.
Meanwhile, young Mr. Xing had put on his wig, makeup, and splendid prince’s costume. He looked genuinely beautiful.
He had a handsome, refined face, delicate features, a fresh and attractive air, eyes naturally shadowed at their outer corners, and thick black lashes.
Under a reflector, his face seemed to glow white, making Hero Zhuang beside him look like dark, polished metal.
One soft, one hard. One like a little dough figurine, the other forged from iron. An oddly endearing contrast… Pei Yan quietly withdrew his gaze.
Before the roadside inn, horses whinnied and men shouted amid flying sand and dust. The wooden doors broke into pieces beneath blades and axes. A scarlet cloak spread dramatically in the wind machine’s blast. The monstrous superintendent of the Eastern Depot had arrived to seize the wanted fugitive.
Black-and-gold eyeliner lent Pei Yan’s eyes a dark, seductive gleam, full of menace and killing intent. He did not draw his blade, approaching in measured official steps… The ambush inside the inn sprang, furniture shattered, and Pei Yan shook out his robes and rose to the rafters, ripping his blade through the air. He watched Zhuang Xiao sweep the handsome little dough figurine past him…
Even without direction, Pei Yan’s sword work carried natural ferocity. He very much wanted to chop apart the hands Xing Rong had wrapped around Zhuang Xiao as they fled and kick him away.
He and Zhuang Xiao took opposite ends of a huge round table, eyes full of murderous intent.
Pei Yan stomped, then jerked upward with force. The round tabletop flipped!
“Aaah!”
At exactly the right moment, someone beneath it cried out, just as the script required.
Carried by wire rigs, the two fighters ascended, trading punches and kicks before dropping back down, four booted feet pounding onto the tabletop. Zhuang Xiao kicked Pei Yan away, then stamped the nearly overturned table level again! Pei Yan pushed off a pillar beside the wall, twisted back, swept his cape around magnificently, and landed lightly atop the table like an immortal descending from the sky.
There was a special beauty to martial-arts costume dramas: every movement looked spectacular. Of course, one needed actual martial training to make it look that way.
“Ugh…”
“Oww…”
Two more pained sounds came from underneath the table.
The director called a stop and looked below. Xing Rong had actually been struck on the head, his handsome face contorted into an indescribably complicated expression.
Pei Yan didn’t even get down. He knelt on the table, patted the boards, and peered underneath. “Oh? Knock you on the head?”
Xing Rong’s assistant was anxiously dabbing his face with tissues while gently negotiating with the director. Since the person under the table wasn’t fighting, couldn’t they let Rong-Rong’s double crouch there instead?
“No fighting, of course,” Pei Yan grunted beside them. “Even if there were fighting, you couldn’t use him.”
Still crouched on the table, Zhuang Xiao lightly tapped Pei Yan’s boot with the toe of his own.
Pei Yan shot him a glare. Yes, he was saying it because he wasn’t happy.
The two squatted on the big table like construction workers on a break, each propping his chin on one hand, exchanging looks while they waited. Zhuang Xiao mouthed, You just can’t keep that mouth of yours shut.
If there was no fighting and barely any action for the man below, why not put a plaster dummy there and shake it a bit? A living person and a dummy wouldn’t have much difference in facial expression anyway… Pei Yan still had plenty of barbed commentary stored up in his head. He hadn’t even said it aloud.
Zhuang Xiao mouthed again, from close enough that only Pei Yan could read his lips: Could you stop blurting out the truth?
So skilled, and such a rotten mouth. How many people was he planning to offend?
Pei Yan burst out laughing, looking inordinately pleased with himself and showing a full row of straight white teeth.
Xing Rong exchanged glances with his assistant and shook his head. Who would want to be embarrassed in public? He nodded to the director. “It’s nothing. I didn’t really get hurt. No double needed. Let’s continue.”
In the next shot, the two ferocious monsters wrestling above him rolled across the table.
Fists and kicks turned into full-body grappling. “Eunuch Cen” smashed the boards with a palm and reached down, his fierce fingers clawing toward “Zhu Yixuan’s” head, making the young prince cry out. “Yun Zhong” instantly caught Cen’s wrist and wrenched hard, sending the beautifully sinister depot chief sprawling so badly that his official hat came off. The two rolled around on the table…
Costume skirts and ribbons flew, silk rustled against silk, and their muscles collided with solid thuds.
The wrestling grew more and more realistic. Ground fighting was Pei Yan’s specialty, and he had finally found a familiar routine, only shifted from the ground onto a tabletop. He attacked Zhuang Xiao’s joints, trapping and controlling him, delighted to gain the upper hand for once. His blood boiled.
Zhuang Xiao was beneath him, pinned down. That genuinely masculine, irresistibly attractive body had made Pei Yan hard too…
Xing Rong was already regretting his decision. He should have let his double take over.
Or they could just stand a plaster mannequin underneath. Who wanted to listen to people carrying on on the other side of a wall?
Except he wasn’t listening through a wall but through a tabletop, and the two men above had become completely absorbed and unrestrained in their fighting. The boards creaked just like a bed.
The table seemed unable to survive their energetic moves. It wobbled on the verge of collapsing.
Then it really collapsed.
Zhuang Xiao tried to turn over, but Pei Yan held him tightly, refusing to release him. These movements weren’t in the storyboard at all; they were improvising. The director and crew were enjoying the spectacle so much that nobody called cut. As in the final seconds of a wrestling match, they fought with total conviction. Both applied too much strength at once, and suddenly the tabletop lost its balance with a crash.
Over it went.
“Aaah!”
“Eunuch Cen” above and “Prince Zhu” below both cried out, though they sounded different. Only Hero Zhuang kept his composure and made no noise. All three fell into a crooked human pile, stacked across one another…
“Hahahaha!”
Pei Yan exploded into laughter like a man courting disaster. He lay on top of Zhuang Xiao, long hair falling over the man’s chest, laughing recklessly. He even slapped Zhuang Xiao twice and laughed harder, as though mocking the chaotic failure of the shot. Beneath his wild expression, he concealed his feelings perfectly…
Zhuang Xiao had been scowling, furious and ready to kick him off. Then his expression broke without warning, exposing a warm dimple.
So close their gazes met, and they simply looked at each other.
It was as if a burst of red light flared at the focal point between their eyes…
All that talk of being unfeeling, unaware, coldhearted and distant was a lie. It wouldn’t fool a ghost. Zhuang Xiao turned his gaze away and got up from the wreckage.
Xing Rong had already rolled aside, his complexion terrible. He looked acutely embarrassed, the one person in the room who didn’t belong.
Behind-the-scenes publicity for Dragon Battles Heaven’s Pass, whether official or fan-made, had essentially split into two camps. One fervently promoted “Hero Yun and Prince Zhu’s deep devotion as they roam the world, Zhuang Xiao and Xing Rong in a perfectly matched debut collaboration.” The other celebrated “Zhuang and Pei Reunite for Epic Wuxia Spectacle, Fierce Rivals Spill Blood with Every Blade.”
As for what pairing truly existed on set, anyone with working eyes could see it.
After an entire morning of fighting above and below the table, the inn-combat footage was essentially finished.
Lunchtime was approaching and the logistics crew would soon distribute boxed meals.
The location was an inn along a street in the film base, its set built in fine detail. The building and furnishings were real, and when filming stopped, tourists and fans could buy tickets to visit.
The inn’s kitchen was an actual kitchen. Designed after an old northwestern farmhouse, it had a mud-brick wood-burning stove that could be lit for cooking.
Earlier, the props crew had lit a fire and placed a wok on the stove. Several local middle-aged women hired as extras had volunteered to mix and knead some dough for the scenery, leaving it to rest on the worktable.
Passing through the kitchen, Pei Yan casually gave the enormous lump of dough a slap. Smack!
Zhuang Xiao also walked past and slapped it, as though smacking Old Pei’s bald head.
After taking two steps out, Zhuang Xiao turned back and started kneading the dough.
As if he had eyes in the back of his head, Pei Yan made a complete about-face and returned too.
“The dough has rested long enough,” Zhuang Xiao said. “Want noodles?”
Pei Yan: “?”
Mr. Pei reacted immediately. He wasn’t stupid. “I do.”
Zhuang Xiao wiped his hands on his rough costume, kneaded the dough, and took a knife from the counter to cut and shape it. “What shape do you want?”
Pei Yan came grinning to his side. “That noodle shop’s menu had every shape imaginable. Can you make all of them?”
Zhuang Xiao scoffed. “How would I know how? I don’t run a restaurant.”
“Then what can you make?”
“Nothing properly,” Zhuang Xiao said with a dry laugh. “But whatever I make, I can boil it, and it’ll fill us up!”
Pei Yan studied his handsome profile. “I’ll eat whatever you make…”
Neither had any interest in joining the lunch line. They hid in the inn kitchen to make noodles by hand. Zhuang Xiao said casually, “Go see what’s in today’s lunch boxes. If there’s something you like, bring two portions in.”
Pei Yan went to the food truck and snatched two boxes of kung pao chicken.
After rolling out the dough, Zhuang Xiao cut it and started making cat-ear shapes.
First he rolled it into a large sheet, cut it into one-centimeter squares, then pressed each square with his thumb to curl it into the shape of a cat’s ear. The two were apparently so bored that they spent the entire lunch break poking and curling dough with their fingers, over and over, without noticing the time…
They boiled the cat-ears first, rinsed and drained them in cold water, then stir-fried them with the kung pao chicken in a huge wok. The aroma was magnificent.
Zhuang Xiao also took onions and chilies that had been left as kitchen props. The crew had bought the vegetables from local villagers, so they were fresh and plump. Knowing how Pei Yan loved spicy food, he chopped them all and tossed them in.
The sharp, spicy fragrance filled the set.
Drawn by the smell, a whole pack of hungry wolves descended. The director shouted, “Kung pao cat-ears! Would you look at you two? Sneaking away to eat all the good stuff again!”
Sensing disaster, Pei Yan hurriedly filled a huge bowl for himself, piled high, and carried it away to eat.
He turned back after a few bites and the entire wok had been emptied! Everyone had abandoned their boxed meals to fight for Zhuang Xiao’s stir-fried cat-ears.
Xing Rong came over too and asked Mr. Zhuang with characteristic courtesy, “You’re such a great cook. That’s incredible. Brother, may I have a bowl?”
“Sure, eat,” Zhuang Xiao said.
Xing Rong managed to get only half a bowl. He nevertheless ate with apparent delight and praised it endlessly.
The man who had cooked it scraped a couple of bites from the wok, then couldn’t find a bowl. The wolves had taken them all.
Zhuang Xiao wiped his hands. Suddenly, a pair of hands reached forward from under his arms, extending a bowl and chopsticks right beneath his eyes.
Only about three mouthfuls remained in the bowl. Someone had certainly eaten his share with enthusiasm.
From behind came Pei Yan’s slightly husky, enticing voice. “That’s all that’s left. Mind eating my leftovers?”
His secret love had already become open pursuit. He now had just one path ahead. If he didn’t take the next step, he’d have to retreat and give up.
And he had no intention of giving up. To hell with caution.
Zhuang Xiao said nothing. He simply took the bowl and chopsticks and ate. He was hungry.
Three bites became one, and the rest was gone in an instant.
Behind him, Pei Yan murmured, “They only got to eat because of me, right? Rong-Rong benefited from me too, right?”
Zhuang Xiao grunted. “Mm.”
“Don’t be so nice to other people from now on. I’m terribly jealous, you know,” Pei Yan said.
Who was he to Zhuang Xiao, anyway?
Who cared? He’d just keep clinging on.
“When you’re warm to somebody else, when you smile at them, it hurts me,” he said.
Zhuang Xiao certainly hadn’t intended to hurt Mr. Pei. This man’s fussy, possessive streak was becoming impossible to hide. Such a handful.
“You’re a pretty good cook. Did you cook often before?” Pei Yan asked with a smile.
“Not that often,” Zhuang Xiao replied. “When there was nothing to eat and nobody to cook for me, I cooked. Otherwise what was I supposed to eat?”
He lowered his gaze and added, “There wasn’t anybody at home when I was little either. If I didn’t cook, what would I eat? As long as I got it cooked, I could survive. I didn’t starve to death.”
Occasionally, Zhuang Xiao let slip a completely unnecessary complaint, and his face would suddenly turn cold.
Pei Yan tried to take his hand beneath the concealment of their cloaks and robes, but couldn’t find it. Fuck, there were so many layers of ridiculous clothes. He felt around blindly for ages without locating Zhuang Xiao’s hand and seemed to grab his thigh instead…
The two used every spare moment to whisper in the corner of the kitchen. Across the room, Xing Rong had just finished his half bowl of cat-ears when his assistant discreetly photographed him: beautifully costumed, bright-eyed, holding a bowl of noodles inside the set’s inn.
The moment Xing Rong came out, his manager saw him and complained, “Who told you to come out? Why so soon? Go back inside!”
“Go back for what? I’ve finished eating,” Xing Rong replied.
He actually didn’t like spicy food. The kung pao cat-ears contained masses of green chilies. They were so hot his nose and eyes streamed, yet he’d forced a smile and kept praising them. He had secretly downed a whole bottle of mineral water afterward to recover. Of course, they hadn’t cooked the dish for his tastes. It was made for Pei Yan.
“Talk to Zhuang Xiao more,” his manager whispered. “Otherwise there’s no interaction to film for the behind-the-scenes footage.”
Xing Rong’s face darkened. “What am I supposed to interact about? He doesn’t want to interact with me. We barely know each other.”
“Then talk more and get to know him,” his manager said.
“Mr. Zhuang is pretty ‘busy,’” Xing Rong replied. “He doesn’t seem to want to chat with me. What am I supposed to say? Ask him how he does every fighting move? Ask what he trains at the gym every morning at five? Is that supposed to start a conversation?”
Could a conversation really get anywhere on topics like those?
Zhuang Xiao and Pei Yan could certainly talk. All afternoon during filming, they discussed footwork and kicks for hitting the heavy bag at the hotel gym, how to swing the bag, and which stuntman had kicked a bag apart. They chatted enthusiastically before the director called action, fell silent together the instant cameras rolled, then slipped out of their roles in half a second after cut and started talking again. They didn’t waste a single break between takes.
That evening, the trending Weibo topic was #PrinceRongEatsNoodles.
“Hero Zhuang Personally Cooks a Heartwarming Extra Meal; Prince Rong Enjoys a Special Bowl of Noodles on Set,” announced the post, accompanied by a charming photo of Xing Rong eating kung pao cat-ears with his bright eyes. Fans were beside themselves. “Our Rong is so adorably silly! Brother Xiao is such a versatile, warmhearted gentleman!” And so on.
* * *
The shoot was nearly halfway through. Xing Rong wouldn’t be staying on set very long, and afterward he might be heading to another production to film overlapping schedules. Scenes involving Prince Zhu had to be completed quickly, so they were shooting out of sequence.
That day they jumped back to an earlier part of the story for a tragic sequence of torture and corporal punishment in which several people would need to take off their clothes. Fortunately, it was an interior set: the Eastern Depot’s interrogation chamber. The production manager had several electric heaters brought into the studio in advance, blowing warm air so the leading actors wouldn’t catch cold.
Only Pei Yan would keep his clothes on.
He was the chief villain, carrying eighty-eight kinds of torture instruments to torment his enemies, leaving them covered in wounds and blood.
Zhuang Xiao would have to undress.
He spent ages in the makeup room having injury effects applied, because makeup had to cover his entire body, with different fake-blood paints brushed onto his skin. The makeup crew had scheduled Mr. Zhuang last today. Once it was done, he wouldn’t be able to put his clothes back on.
Throughout the process, Pei Yan kept wandering over to the makeup room. His hairpiece spilled a long lock of hair through the curtain every time he poked his head inside. Zhuang Xiao caught him from the corner of his eye and glared until he backed out.
Zhuang Xiao almost never showed much skin.
He was the sort of actor who rarely agreed to bedroom scenes. If you wanted a glimpse of his body, you practically needed a torture scene written into the script.
The special-effects makeup artist brought in from Hong Kong was extraordinarily skilled, creating countless small, realistic wounds across Zhuang Xiao’s shoulders and back. They looked horribly convincing, as though his skin had been torn open and there wasn’t a single intact patch left.
The muscles of his back were beautifully shaped, the shoulder blades spread like butterfly wings, and there wasn’t an ounce of spare fat at his waist. The injury makeup extended to just above the curve of his buttocks.
His long wig had a knot tied at the crown, with other strands falling loose in deliberate disorder. His beard had been shaved for the role. Small wounds crossed his brow ridge and the corners of his eyes, and his lips were painted pale, cracked and chapped. It looked so real that he appeared terribly vulnerable, extraordinarily attractive, and deeply pitiable.
Pei Yan would steal a couple of glances and then lower his head and walk away.
A while later, unable to help himself, he’d return and peek again.
How was he supposed to shoot the next scene? How could he bring himself to strike this man?