A wardrobe assistant followed behind Mr. Zhuang holding a robe around him, shepherding him from the makeup room to the shooting location.
The room’s decor was ominous and convincing. The crew had spent plenty of money on the set, sparing no expense. Bronze-covered wall patterns gleamed green and gold, the lighting was eerie, and an eagle in the corner sometimes let out a sharp cry.
This major scene was about two fugitives who had failed to escape the Eastern Depot’s traps and hidden mechanisms. Betrayed and captured, Hero Yun had continued protecting the burdensome young prince. The depot chief, burning with jealousy, was now about to have his hated rival cruelly flogged.
On the big screen, confrontations, torture, and bloody scenes like this were wonderfully intense, just the sort of thing audiences loved. Shooting them on set, though, was tedious and awkward.
The cameras had already captured countless close-ups of Zhuang Xiao from every angle. The reality of the shoot was almost comical. Zhuang Xiao lay on his back as a gravely wounded prisoner coughing blood, his expression showing a man at death’s door with a boot on his chest, while a huge camera furiously recorded every detail of the fake wounds on his shoulder, chest, and abdomen.
The director wanted realistic textures, so camera angles mattered enormously. Powerful lights shone onto Zhuang Xiao’s chest while the camera filmed from low and to the side. His well-built chest gleamed, every muscle sculptural beneath the lights, each wound and skin texture highlighting his masculine strength…
The foot grinding into Zhuang Xiao’s chest in its official boot ought, in theory, to have been Pei Yan’s foot. He was playing the depot chief, after all.
But at the moment, a stand-in used for positioning and odd jobs was doing the stepping. As a principal actor, Pei Yan couldn’t exactly demand the right to do it himself.
“Eunuch Cen’s” face wasn’t visible in this shot, only his boot. By unwritten industry custom, from blocking to the final take, there was no reason to trouble the lead actor. A stand-in always supplied that foot for a giant close-up of Zhuang Xiao.
Pei Yan could only bring over a stool, sit nearby, and watch. If he insisted on standing there like a post so he could personally press his boot against Zhuang Xiao, everyone would think he’d lost his mind.
“Hey, you there. Step more lightly on Mr. Zhuang! I can see a footprint already…” Pei Yan called to the stand-in, his voice sounding as though he had a mouthful of piping-hot eggplant.
“Don’t worry, Brother Pei. I’m not even putting my weight on him!” the stand-in replied with a grin.
“Really? Then why’s your foot shaking so much?” Pei Yan asked.
“Because I’m balancing on one leg the whole time! I don’t dare actually step on him!”
“At least you’ve got some sense,” Pei Yan muttered.
The crew kept chatting as they filmed close-ups of the injured man coughing blood. After each mouthful, Zhuang Xiao accepted another cup of stage blood from the prop assistant, held some in his mouth, filmed a few more takes, and lay back again. Holding the pose for so long was giving him cramps.
Between shots, Pei Yan came over and squatted beside him. “Hey, that blood tastes awful, doesn’t it?”
Zhuang Xiao blinked his agreement. Fucking awful.
“It’s sweet,” Pei Yan said. “I hate really sweet things. Every time I have to drink the blood it makes me sick.”
“It’s not even properly sweet,” Zhuang Xiao replied. “It’s got a strange taste.”
“Which tastes better, American stage blood or our domestic stuff?”
“Neither.” Pei Yan had made Zhuang Xiao smile again; these two could always find something to talk about. “Over there, they use ketchup. Maybe they think ketchup tastes wonderful. But when I’m shooting a scene where I cough blood, I can’t dip fries into it, and nobody gives me a hamburger. Would anybody enjoy drinking a bowl of ketchup straight?”
“Hehehe…” Pei Yan laughed softly at Zhuang Xiao’s complaints. That glimpse of the man’s true personality was what captivated him most.
When the bloody close-ups were done and the camera no longer needed to focus on his face, Pei Yan offered him a mint. Zhuang Xiao’s hands were covered in blood effects and couldn’t easily take it, so Pei Yan unwrapped the sweet and brought it to his lips…
In the next scene, Eunuch Cen still wouldn’t appear on camera. Another captured prisoner was due for his turn at being beaten and tortured: young Mr. Xing. The fresh-faced idol had to undress too.
Xing Rong took a long time in makeup before emerging, his assistants shielding him in a robe and holding an umbrella over him as they hurried across the street into the set, anxious that somebody might photograph him in a state not intended for public release.
The location was temporarily cleared, with all unrelated personnel sent outside to wait.
Xing Rong naturally undressed more modestly. His manager had negotiated in advance: no overly revealing body close-ups. Only his shoulders, chest, and back could show, with camera angles concealing his nipples.
Young Mr. Xing lay stretched across the chilly floor, his beautiful body partly covered by a robe like a shy beauty hiding behind a lute. He was thoroughly captivating, his fine features the very definition of delicacy. Lashes fluttered above two carefully applied streams of tears. Even wounded like this, he could look exquisitely alluring.
Beautiful indeed. Pei Yan had to admit he couldn’t compare on that score. Nobody ever described Young Baldy Pei as “beautiful.”
People called him “fierce,” “rough,” or “wild.”
The boot nudging Xing Rong still belonged to the stand-in. As the robe was slowly pushed aside, a great expanse of pale skin was exposed… Pei Yan rolled his eyes skyward. Really fucking white.
He was a genuine man, with all the usual equipment, but not Pei Yan’s type. Private fantasies and attraction were strange things. It wasn’t that Xing Rong wasn’t handsome; tastes simply differed.
Several partly open bloody gashes decorated Xing Rong’s shoulder. His robe slid down and was caught by his hand to reveal just the right amount of collarbone, shoulder, and chest while covering the nipples. Cameras filmed from left and right. At a glance he resembled a beautiful Tang-dynasty lady dressed in a chest-high gown, a figure anyone would want to protect…
Under the director’s instructions, with the camera crew clustered around them, the two “prisoners” shot more tender scenes, coughing blood and exchanging lingering lines like dying declarations. Why couldn’t they just die properly? They looked about to expire, then propped themselves up to say another line, looked about to expire again, coughed up blood, and said more dialogue. They were two cockroaches who simply couldn’t be killed. Pei Yan walked out and stopped watching.
He didn’t feel good. Didn’t want to watch. So he wouldn’t.
At lunch, he picked at his rice and opened his phone.
Zhuang Xiao’s body was still covered in injury makeup, making it difficult to move around, so he went into a room to eat sitting down. Pei Yan finished a box of sweet-and-sour pork ribs with his garlic chili sauce and went to throw the empty container into the bin. At the corner of the set street, he overheard a conversation.
“He’s in the wardrobe room. Go and check on him. Show him some concern, you know?” Xing Rong’s manager was saying.
“I just did. I told him he’d worked hard. What else, stand there staring and refuse to leave?” Xing Rong replied.
“That’s just the problem with your personality. You have no idea how to manage people.”
“What’s wrong with my personality?” Xing Rong asked, upset and uncomfortable.
“In this industry, personality determines the limits of your career. If you’re too introverted and no good with people, you won’t go far,” the manager said flatly.
Pei Yan kept walking, whistling quietly as he turned away.
Xing Rong’s face was probably not a pleasant sight. He bit his lip and held back for a long time. “What am I supposed to do? Who has such great prospects?”
“Look at Pei Yan. He can talk to anyone and stick close to anyone. He’s using Zhuang Xiao for publicity. Who doesn’t see it? Several veteran leading men who used to have established fan pairings have all married and had kids recently. That’s left a vacancy. Zhuang Xiao’s upright, old-school costume-drama image is appealing, because he really does have skill. He’s an experienced martial-arts leading man with a strong, righteous image, real acting ability, and star power. Audiences recognize him. Pei Yan’s clever!”
Xing Rong grunted. “How can I compare with Pei Yan? Look who he is.”
The manager replied mercilessly. “Coming from a little backwater like you, of course you can’t compare.”
Xing Rong’s face turned greenish. He was so upset he couldn’t manage lunch, and when he later passed Pei Yan, he didn’t even greet him.
Earlier in the morning, when Xing Rong got thirsty on set, he had taken out a canned drink and thoughtfully offered Mr. Zhuang one too. Zhuang Xiao thanked him politely, but declined with unmistakable distance. He never accepted the drink, carrying off his own thermos of hot tea instead.
And then Xing Rong saw Young Master Pei humming with a thermos of some kind of brewed tea as he squatted beside Zhuang Xiao, drinking and chatting…
He really had come from a small place. He couldn’t compete with Pei Yan’s background, couldn’t put on that swaggering, untouchable rich-young-master image. He could only behave politely and honestly, so obedient that his manager and company directors freely mocked him for lacking ability while he didn’t dare answer back. To him, the company was almost his parents.
His online biography always said he came from Beijing. He didn’t. His family lived in a county town in a neighboring province, over a hundred kilometers from the provincial capital. It took more than an hour on a high-speed train to get into Beijing. In the industry, everyone changed their birthplace and school histories. Weifang became Qingdao, Benxi became Dalian, and someone from northern Jiangsu would dare claim to be from Shanghai’s Jing’an district.
How could he compete with Pei Yan? They had been born on entirely different starting lines. Pei Yan had the luxury of not flattering anybody, of being casual about fame and exactly how famous he was. Xing Rong didn’t. He was a child who had climbed into the big city and seen its glittering world, with nowhere left to retreat. Without success he couldn’t even afford to buy his parents a home. His parents had no money or connections, ordinary small-town people who couldn’t provide resources or opportunities.
* * *
As afternoon filming approached, Pei Yan headed for the makeup room to have his face touched up, walking with his head down, absorbed in his phone.
He stopped abruptly. Yet another online sensation had appeared in the space of a few hours. Yesterday’s noodle-eating topic was still trending, and now a new image was circulating: Prince Rong on set, half-covered by fabric, one shoulder bare.
Xing Rong had never undressed onscreen before. With that lovely face and body, now that he’d finally bared a shoulder, they couldn’t let it go to waste.
Hadn’t the location been cleared? There were no outsiders in the studio, only leading actors, senior crew, Xing Rong’s manager and his assistants.
Heh.
Pei Yan scrolled down without expression to the photographs he had expected. Prince Zhu lay weakened on the floor while Hero Yun held the beauty from behind, tenderly checking his injuries and playing the perfect protector.
In reality the shot had been a fleeting movement with nothing romantic about it. But the close-up still had caught an exquisitely chosen angle. No Photoshop was needed. Zhuang Xiao’s solid chest framed Prince Rong’s delicate beauty, making them look like a flawless couple.
A flock of fans erupted into cheers, declaring it “gorgeous” and “perfectly matched,” praising it as “the proper way to do a CP, without that freak in drag getting involved.”
Another half of the fans objected with great solemnity: “Don’t use our Rong for hype,” “Please don’t interfere with Rong-Rong focusing on his acting,” “Thank you for following Prince Rong. Please discuss his work and talent only. His eight productions this year are…” and “We’re taking Rong-Rong away, not interested.” The arguments sent the topic soaring.
Pei Yan stared coldly at the screen as a raw, chili-hot anger climbed his chest. Perhaps he had eaten too many peppers. He silently let loose a string of curses. Who the fuck wanted to pair up with you? Fuck off. You’re the fucking freak in drag, and so is your whole family.
Couldn’t everybody just concentrate on making the film?
Had they all forgotten what acting was?
Well, his own mind hadn’t been on acting lately either. If they wanted to play games, he’d play along.
That afternoon, the vicious, ruthless “Eunuch Cen” finally stepped into the frame.
Chains hung around him, a whip was in his hand, and an eagle was held behind him.
Love that could find no joy, yearning that could never be fulfilled, grief that couldn’t be cried aloud: his fury brought a dark flush to his face. Veins stood out on his whip hand, his temples throbbed, and bloodshot redness swelled in his eyes…
“Eunuch Cen” used a steel whip to lash his victim until his flesh appeared torn open, stroke after stroke.
Before the beating, the two actors sat facing each other and talked for a long time. Pei Yan crossed his legs in front of Zhuang Xiao. “Hey, I’ll go easy.”
“It’s fine. Hit me. Let’s finish in one take,” Zhuang Xiao said.
Pei Yan mouthed, “If I hit you too hard, it’ll hurt me.”
Zhuang Xiao replied calmly, “If you hit too lightly, the director won’t pass the take, and we’ll have to shoot it over and over. That’s a bigger nuisance.”
“Don’t worry. I have experience. I know how to do it.”
Zhuang Xiao asked casually, “What sort of experience?”
Moving his lips as little as possible, Pei Yan mouthed: Experience in loving you gently…
Firelight suddenly flared against the bronze-green walls. The lit torches revealed the prisoner’s rugged face, blood running through his black hair.
A thin thread of blood slid along his brow and down the eyelid. The close-up caught one crimson bead on his eyelashes, then followed the trail past his strong jaw…
His chin was lifted by the hand holding the whip. Their cold gazes locked.
“Why must you do this?” Pei Yan recited his line. “Why can’t you submit and obey me? I’ve promised you the best of everything.”
“Impossible,” Zhuang Xiao answered.
Pei Yan lowered his eyes in sorrow, eyeliner gleaming in the firelight. Then he opened them and ordered his men, “Hang Yun Zhong up. I’ll tear him to pieces. If I can’t have him, nobody else will.”
Henchmen rushed in and hoisted him from a beam at the center of the hall, arms and legs spread wide like the Chinese character for “big.”
Now came the acting. It looked horrifyingly real. The steel whip cracked sharply through the air with a sound like tearing silk, striking as though to flay flesh. His aim was savage and exact: each lash landed where a fake wound had already been applied to Zhuang Xiao’s body.
A second stroke fell neatly across another painted wound. The visual effects could be added easily afterward.
Every strike was distinct and purposeful. Nothing was wasted.
“I’ll tear your flesh apart and feed it to my eagle. The blood I’ll keep to drink myself.”
Pei Yan spoke softly.
Zhuang Xiao’s face contorted in pain. His muscles trembled and red trails appeared under the merciless assault. The props assistant stayed crouched nearby, ready to brush more stage blood onto the injuries between camera angles.
Pei Yan watched Zhuang Xiao’s trembling Adam’s apple. He lashed again toward his collarbone and saw Zhuang Xiao arch backward with apparent pain, let out a low, suppressed groan, and slowly lower his head as his throat moved…
Pei Yan’s gaze slid to the soft, alluring hollow between Zhuang Xiao’s collarbones, then across his chest, the two dark-red points, the mesh of painted wounds… Zhuang Xiao’s torso was bare, his white silk undertrousers pulled low toward his hipbones. Blood stained the fabric, stirring a fierce urge to possess and damage what lay before him…
The line Pei Yan imagined saying was: Let me peel your flesh back. I want every piece of you.
He really wanted to fuck this man.
He had imagined such scenes countless times, indulging those private fantasies when alone beneath the covers at night, though he knew a man like Zhuang Xiao would never indulge his peculiar tastes in bed.
He hadn’t dared hope for much.
This was someone he loved so deeply, someone he treasured.
Pei Yan lashed out again and again. To spare Zhuang Xiao any pain, he swung fiercely through the air but secretly pulled the force back at the instant the whip reached the man’s skin, absorbing the momentum through his own arm.
His shoulder nearly cramped, the entire muscle knotted in pain. It was punishing work for his arm.
They shot take after take, three from the front and four from behind. The director was satisfied and applauded the finished scene.
The camera cut. Pei Yan turned away and shook his arm, trying to loosen his muscles. He really had cramped.
He swung his arm while pacing around the room, then returned to exchange a look with Zhuang Xiao. Both of them knew.
Zhuang Xiao gave him a look. “You were too gentle. It tickled.”
Pei Yan came storming over with the whip. “Where does it itch? What part? Show me where!”
“Get lost already,” Zhuang Xiao said.
“Where’s itchy? Shall I whip you there?”
“Go on, then.” Zhuang Xiao burst out laughing. “When you do it like that, it’s hard for me to act. I still have to pretend I’m in terrible pain.”
“It’s hard for me to act too, all right?” Pei Yan stood with hands on hips, holding the whip. “I have to pretend I’m enjoying beating you. You’re the one enjoying it, aren’t you? My shoulder’s cramped!”
“So now you want to compete with me in acting?” Zhuang Xiao asked.
Both broke into laughter, teasing each other in full view of the crew. Not far away, “Prince Zhu” seemed to dissolve into the scenery, pretending to be lost in his own thoughts…
Pei Yan was doing it partly on purpose. He was still nursing a resentful grudge. What did people mean by “perfectly matched”? Were they fucking blind?
He’d gotten hard while whipping Zhuang Xiao.
His voluminous official robes hid it from everyone else, so he let himself stay hard beneath them without restraint. It had been a very, very long time since he’d been so bewitched by anyone, like a fool discovering desire for the first time. His cock stood stiff beneath the robes, the silk of his undertrousers rubbing pleasantly against his thighs.