MACRM Chapter 60

Zhong Yao had noticed that wound long ago.

There were too many ways a child could get hurt, so at first Zhong Yao hadn’t thought in that direction. But after seeing Lin Zhu fight, that thought grew clearer and clearer by the day.

He had no idea what Lin Zhu’s childhood had been like, or how many injuries his body had carried, or how many hidden ailments still hadn’t fully healed even now, or how many things he had buried in his heart, or how many unresolved shadows he hadn’t climbed out of yet.

But he wanted to know them all.

Since Lin Zhu couldn’t say it himself, Zhong Yao would teach him, little by little.

The body in his arms gradually tensed, his clothes folding into sharp, silent lines. He kept his head lowered, saying nothing.

Zhong Yao wasn’t in any rush. His gaze fell softly over him, and he continued gently, “When it gets cloudy, I can feel it. Sometimes it aches a bit. I’m not really sure what it is… and I’ve never really taken care of it properly…”

Lin Zhu slowly sat up, his palms a little cold. He gave a faint squeeze.

With the bandages around his wrist, the dull ache rose again. It wasn’t anything like that cold-sweat pain he felt earlier when he’d tried to use the chopsticks.

Zhong Yao lowered his head, voice soft. “Can you teach me how to take care of it?”

Lin Zhu lifted his head blankly.

He understood now why Zhong Yao had suddenly brought all this up. He understood the intention behind it. Zhong Yao truly cared about him, and was genuinely worried about him.

But he still couldn’t say it.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t show weakness in front of Zhong Yao… he couldn’t do it in front of anyone.

When he was young, it was because survival came first. Lin Zhu had never yielded. At first he lost fights, but later he learned to read minds during a fight, predicting his opponent’s moves. After that, he never lost again, and he intimidated every other child in that orphanage, whether older or younger.

If he wanted others to listen to him, if he didn’t want to be bullied, he had to be stronger than everyone else. Even if he was injured, sick, and could barely stand, he had to grit his teeth and get up, because lying down for three days might mean losing hot meals, sleeping in the draftiest corner, covered with the thinnest, most ragged sheet.

He had to show all his thorns, making sure everyone knew that they would get stabbed if they wronged him. Otherwise he wouldn’t survive.

Later, he returned home, had his own room, could roll around on his bed however he wanted. He didn’t have to worry about what he’d eat tomorrow, didn’t have to worry about losing fights anymore.

Yet he still couldn’t hide away that bristling, defensive version of himself.

Those childhood instincts had taken root too deeply. Some things simply couldn’t be undone. Even though he knew the kindness and concern around him were genuine; even though he’d told himself countless times that the past was over, that if he felt bad he ought to lie down properly and let someone take care of him, instead of making others worry…

Lin Zhu couldn’t go on. He shut his eyes briefly, lifted his head slightly.

Why wasn’t Zhong Yao scolding him?

Why wasn’t he yelling at him in frustration, asking why he didn’t know how to take care of himself, demanding to know what had happened?

He had already been so uncooperative…

Why wasn’t Zhong Yao angry?

Lin Zhu’s chest rose faintly, his eyes burning. Instinctively, he wanted to clench his fist again, but Zhong Yao stopped him and held his trembling right hand in his palm.

Zhong Yao wrapped a hand around his wrist, his gaze gentle. “I really don’t know anything about those healing methods,” he said softly. “But there’s one thing I do know. It’s easy for an injury to recover… but for it to leave no trace at all, that takes years and years. You can’t rush it. You have to take it slowly…”

He paused, looking at the still-rigid Lin Zhu in his arms, then smiled lightly. “Suddenly I remembered something.”

Holding him close, he continued lightly, “Three years ago, when I first went abroad, a bunch of my friends messaged and called me… lamenting my misfortune, scolding me for making such a rash decision to retire so quickly. They lectured me nonstop, saying I should’ve gone to them for help.”

Lin Zhu blinked.

Zhong Yao continued gently massaging his wrist, the pressure light, seeping through the bandages into joints worn down by old injuries.

“Later,” Zhong Yao said, “I added them all into one group chat, scolded them together, and made each of them write a 500-word self-critique.”

Lin Zhu choked, coughing uncontrollably.

He suddenly understood why, when arranging resources for Zhong Yao, the ones who complained the most were ironically the people closest to him back then. Rubbing his eyes, he said helplessly, “They meant well…”

“Meant well but made things harder for me?”

Zhong Yao raised a brow. “I already posted that I wanted some time alone, but they refused to listen? They just had to chase me endlessly?”

“Yeah, I know they cared,” he said. “But did they have to pick the one method that would upset me the most?”

A soft tremor passed through Lin Zhu’s chest. He looked up.

Zhong Yao didn’t look at him, continuing to rub his wrist. “The mess landed on me. I endured it, got through it. It wasn’t easy, but I managed. They didn’t praise me. They came to scold me.”

“Did they want to force me to explain why I didn’t trust the people around me? Make me dig my scars open so they could feel better?”

“I already used everything I had just to get through it without hurting anyone and without crumbling. I couldn’t tear myself open again just to make others feel at ease…”

His voice was calm, each word striking right into Lin Zhu’s heart. “If I can’t do it, then I can’t. It’s not on purpose.”

Lin Zhu couldn’t hold it anymore. He sucked in a deep breath, tipping his head back, forcing the tears down, his whole body trembling.

Zhong Yao gathered him close, a hand cupping the back of his head, guiding him to meet his gaze.

Lin Zhu’s vision blurred with tears; he inhaled sharply, trembling.

Zhong Yao kissed the corner of his eye softly. “It’s not on purpose, right?”

Lin Zhu couldn’t hold back anymore. He shut his eyes tightly, voice hoarse and shaking: “Right…”

The words he hadn’t dared to say for over ten years. Things he couldn’t even bear to think about, they were all spoken clearly now, drawn out one word at a time through Zhong Yao’s own story.

Zhong Yao gave him an encouraging kiss on his closed eyes. “Can you say it yourself?”

The warmth beside him was too gentle. The thorns that had pricked at his back for so many years were suddenly forgiven. Lin Zhu’s chest ached with the force of it; he clutched at Zhong Yao’s clothes. “I didn’t mean to, Ge… I’m sorry… I just can’t do it, I didn’t mean to…”

He didn’t mean to refuse to talk about the past. He didn’t mean to refuse to show weakness or accept others’ touch. He didn’t mean to make people worry.

He didn’t mean… to be ungrateful.

He simply couldn’t do it. It wasn’t on purpose.

Zhong Yao wiped the tears from his eye. “So there’s no rush… We’re going to be together for seventy or so years. If we finish saying everything now, what would we have left to talk about later? Wouldn’t that be boring?”

He held him close and gently patted his back. “Aren’t things already so much better than before? When you feel bad, you can let it out now. You know what you don’t like. That’s progress. Next time, maybe you’ll run to me when someone bullies you. And the time after that… maybe you’ll even tell me what happened. Won’t you?”

Lin Zhu couldn’t speak. He held back his tears and nodded hard.

Zhong Yao’s eyes curved with a smile as he coaxed softly, “Come on. Let’s high-five for how far we’ve come.”

Lin Zhu blinked. He lifted his head, looking at the solemnly extended hand in front of him. After holding it in for a while, he finally let out a quiet puff of laughter.

He nodded hard, lifted his hand, and slapped Zhong Yao’s palm. The corners of his pale lips tugged up uncontrollably as he burrowed back into Zhong Yao’s arms.

He already knew that once his agent was in a good mood, he liked to grab someone and nuzzle around like a happy puppy. Zhong Yao allowed him to roll around in his embrace, smiling as he wrapped his arms tightly around him. He lowered his head just as he was about to speak when the sound of a keycard suddenly beeped at the door.

Both froze, instinctively straightening and looking over.

“Zhong-laoshi! Are you all right!?”

The planning manager had been knocking outside forever with no response. Terrified that they had both been poisoned by a gas leak or something, he’d swiped the backup keycard and rushed in, panicked. “Lin-laoshi just sent a bunch of red envelopes to PR! It scared PR so bad they crawled on the floor, and then he stopped responding—”

Planning manager: “…”

Zhong Yao’s shirt had two buttons undone, collar tugged slightly crooked, hem lifted.

Lin Zhu was halfway burrowing into the sofa, but even in that instant it was clear his eyes and nose were red, and his wrist was wrapped in something.

Planning manager: “—hic.”

Zhong Yao coughed lightly and hurriedly hid the thoroughly flustered agent behind him.

The planning manager stiffly retraced his steps back to the doorway and gently closed the door from the outside.

Only after hearing the little thudding sounds fading in the corridor did Zhong Yao realize he must have mistaken the knocking for renovation noises earlier. He rubbed his forehead and pulled Lin Zhu out from behind him. “I wasn’t paying attention… It’s fine, he’s in our own team. He won’t tell anyone.”

Lin Zhu didn’t understand what was wrong with his clothes being messy. He wasn’t worried about the planning manager gossiping either. He was only mortified he’d cried in front of someone else. He scrubbed at his eyes and mumbled, “Ge, I’m not usually this… crybaby…”

Zhong Yao smiled and nodded. “I know.”

Lin Zhu’s face was still hot. He tried to sit up and explain further, but Zhong Yao pulled him right back into his arms, patting his back. “A person only has so many tears to shed. Once you cry them all out, the rest of your life is just happiness.”

Lin Zhu blinked in surprise, eyes widening. “Really?”

“Really.” Zhong Yao nodded with absolute superstition, smiling warmly. “A kid like you… obviously didn’t cry when you were little. You saved them all until now.”

Lin Zhu: “!!”

Fresh out of an emotional dead-end thanks to Zhong Yao, he heard this, and it was so spot-on that he sat up straight with a start. “That’s true!”

Zhong Yao raised a brow, watching the little stars practically sparkling in his eyes. He steadied himself with his lifetime’s worth of acting skills and ruffled Lin Zhu’s hair. “Crying helps detox. When things pile up in your heart, you need to let them out. For us actors, we can vent through acting. You don’t act, so you’ll have to take chances in daily life…”

Lin Zhu believed every word, nodding earnestly.

Satisfied, Zhong Yao kissed him lightly, then stood to gather their things. “Come on. Let’s go home. Just leave the essentials here. We probably won’t be staying again…”

Lin Zhu tried to get up to help, but Zhong Yao pushed him gently back onto the sofa.

“I’ll pack. You rest.”

He rubbed his head. “It rained last night. Does your wrist hurt? Are you still uncomfortable now?”

His movements were quick and efficient, leaving no room for Lin Zhu to help. Lin Zhu followed him around once and found no chance to intervene, so he sat down obediently. “It hurt last night, but once I fell asleep I didn’t feel it. It’s much better now…”

Zhong Yao relaxed a little and nodded. He picked up the last soup dumpling and popped it into Lin Zhu’s mouth before washing the dishes clean.

Zhong Yao had his share of injuries from filming, though since he always got treated promptly, most didn’t leave problems. But a few more serious old wounds still acted up on rainy days, sometimes badly enough that action scenes had to be postponed.

Lin Zhu had never properly cared for his injuries. He made it sound light, but who knew how much worse it must be for him.

To have so many injuries at his age… he definitely needed proper treatment. Zhong Yao made a mental note to contact some veteran action stars’ doctors back home. He packed the last of their luggage, grabbed the suitcase, and headed out with Lin Zhu.

By the time they reached the hotel, it was nearly noon.

Lin Zhu had grown completely accustomed to taking afternoon naps under Zhong Yao’s watch. The moment he lay on the bed, his eyelids began drooping. Zhong Yao was happy to let him rest, tucking him into the blankets. “If you’re sleepy, take a nap. Want to do anything later? I know this area well. If you get bored, I’ll take you out to wander. We’ll still have time to go over the script tonight…”

Lin Zhu nudged close, head tilted slightly. “Ge… will you lie with me for a bit?”

Zhong Yao paused for a moment before smiling. “Give me a moment.”

The hotel was definitely more comfortable than the crew dorms, warm and perfectly dry.

Zhong Yao changed into something comfortable and lay down beside him, pulling him into his arms, patting his back through the blanket. “Can’t sleep?”

Lin Zhu squirmed around inside the covers, then shared half the blanket with him, wrapping them together. Resting against his shoulder, he whispered, “Ge… it’s not that I wanted to hide things from you. I just didn’t know how to say them…”

“Didn’t we agree? No rushing.”

Zhong Yao smiled and touched his forehead lightly. “I want to know about your past because… if I know, I can be even better to you.”

His gaze grew serious. “But if me wanting to know hurts you… then it’s not worth it.”

Lin Zhu’s eyes reddened. “This is more than good enough already…”

Zhong Yao laughed quietly, ruffling his hair. “We’re only just getting started. You’re satisfied, but I’m not.”

The actor’s voice softened. “This is my first time liking someone. You have to take responsibility… and let me like you properly.”

Hearing such a definition of “responsibility,” Lin Zhu couldn’t help smiling. After a moment of silence, he suddenly asked, “Ge, your friends, the ones who wrote the self-criticism… did they ever make up with you?”

Zhong Yao went silent. “I think so. But every time they see me, they’re still grumpy.”

Guessing Lin Zhu had crossed paths with them, Zhong Yao felt rare regret. “I was too young then… too impulsive. Honestly, a 200-word self-criticism would’ve been enough.”

Lin Zhu: “…”

He buried his face against Zhong Yao’s chest, laughing helplessly, then sighed sincerely. “They should’ve prepared gifts for you.”

“No.” Zhong Yao said immediately. “I ran off abroad already. Did they really need to call overseas just to scold me? It shows they’re way too idle…”

It was the first time Lin Zhu saw Zhong Yao being this petty so openly. He couldn’t hold it in. He laughed freely in his arms for a while before finally relaxing, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “Then I’m relieved…”

Zhong Yao lowered his head, looking at the still-red rims of his eyes, gently rubbing his hair.

Lin Zhu leaned into his palm. “There are some things I can say now. Ge… I’ll tell you bit by bit. Don’t mind if I’m slow. Don’t rush me… And if you ever don’t want to hear it anymore, tell me, and I’ll stop. I can go back to how I was before. Just please don’t get tired of me…”

Something twisted sharply in Zhong Yao’s chest. He nodded. “Okay.”

Lin Zhu closed his eyes, clenching and unclenching his fist softly.

His wrist, massaged earlier by Zhong Yao, felt much better. That scar pressed against his palm, almost as if it still held the warmth of Zhong Yao’s touch, settling like heat in his chest.

Things were already different now… The past was over. He could feel warmth now. And he could respond to it.

After a long silence, Lin Zhu spoke quietly, “I… once had a wire harness come loose while filming on set. The safety line snapped.”