Chapter 51
[So I’m really curious, who’s actually playing Lin Shuheng in Frost? Chronicles of Spring and Autumn already announced Xu Shu, and knowing Lin Shengyun, there’s no way he’d let an actor work on both projects at once, right?]
[It’s definitely not Xu Shu. His name isn’t on the Frost cast list, so they must’ve replaced him. But why would he give up the role? Did he lose his mind?]
[LMAO, someone’s out of the loop. Anyone who plays Lin Shuheng is asking for trouble—the role is insanely difficult, and if the performance flops, they’ll get torn apart. Plus, he’s a gay character. Meanwhile, Chronicles of Spring and Autumn is a classic dual-male-lead detective blockbuster. Even if it’s not aiming for awards, it’ll still kill at the box office. And Xu Shu is the first lead there.]
[I have an idea… Cub’s military uniform looks amazing. Could it be that…]
[No way, right?? No way?! If I remember correctly, isn’t Lin Shuheng, uh, that? I heard the restrictions have tightened again recently.]
“……”
The news that Fang Huai would be playing Lin Shuheng in Frost had yet to be officially announced. The production team and Shi Feiran had a lot to consider, and with time being tight, the announcement kept getting delayed. As a result, even among Fang Huai’s fans, only a small number knew about it.
And just like that, Fang Huai quietly joined the set and began filming.
*
This was the morning of Fang Huai’s third day on set. The filming location was bustling with crew members moving back and forth, busy with their tasks.
Lin Shengyun sat behind the camera, pinching the bridge of his nose tiredly as he called out:
“Cut.”
The actor standing opposite Fang Huai instantly relaxed, stepping aside to grab some water.
But Fang Huai remained in place, frozen in his last posture—dressed in a white button-up shirt, seated in front of a canvas, gripping a paintbrush.
This scene depicted Lin Shuheng’s youth.
Lin Shuheng was the son of a prestigious family, but due to the turbulent times and his fragile health, he had never been sent to study abroad. Instead, he was taught at home by private tutors. He had a deep passion for painting, and many of his sketches and oil paintings had been preserved over the years.
Because of this, Frost included several scenes of him painting—such as this one.
Although Lin Shuheng wasn’t the protagonist of Frost, and his screen time was relatively limited, neither the director nor the scriptwriters treated his character lightly. They tried to restore his essence through meticulous details within the short time available—his family background, his hobbies, his growth, and the person he longed to love but never dared to.
The person Lin Shuheng loved was never recorded in history—not even a surname remained. While people knew much about Lin Shuheng, as he was even mentioned in history books, little was known about his romantic life.
He remained unmarried all his life. It wasn’t until many years after his death that his brother’s great-grandson discovered a stack of carefully preserved sketches and diaries while cleaning out the ancestral home. Only then did a faint outline of a past long buried begin to emerge.
In this scene, the character acting alongside Fang Huai was the person Lin Shuheng had secretly loved. Given the limited screen time for Lin Shuheng himself, the presence of this character was even more fleeting—so much so that his face would never even be shown on screen. While the actor playing this role was putting in effort, it was nowhere near the level of dedication Fang Huai had.
But then again, in the entire production, there weren’t many people who were more devoted to the role than Fang Huai.
This particular take had already been filmed seven times, yet it still hadn’t passed. Both the actors and the director needed a break to discuss the scene. Fang Huai remained seated for a while longer, gripping his paintbrush, silently reciting his lines twice and mentally walking through his blocking once more. Only then did he stand up and walk over to Lin Shengyun.
“Director Lin, I’m sorry.”
Facing Lin Shengyun, Fang Huai lowered his head and apologized.
By the seventh take, it was clear that the issue lay with him. Fang Huai felt frustrated with himself—more than anything, he felt guilty. They had started filming at 10:30 AM. At their normal pace, the team should have already been on their lunch break by now, but because of him, everyone was still stuck on set, filming on empty stomachs.
Lin Shengyun was already so frustrated that he couldn’t even find the words to speak. He was afraid that if he opened his mouth, he would start breathing fire, so he just waved his hand and said, “You… Forget it. It’s not your fault.”
Everything that needed to be explained had already been repeated multiple times in the previous takes, yet Fang Huai still wasn’t getting it. Lin Shengyun had noticed that Fang Huai was a textbook example of an experiential actor, sometimes referred to as a “natural talent”. In other words, he could easily and vividly express emotions that he had personally experienced or understood. However, he also had a fatal weakness.
First, he wasn’t good at conveying emotions directly to the camera. That wasn’t a huge issue—if he could genuinely feel the character’s emotions, his performance could compensate for it. In the past two days, the smaller scenes had been passable because he could relate to the character’s feelings and had put in the effort to interpret them. His performance had barely made the cut.
But this time, it just wasn’t working.
For things he hadn’t personally experienced or couldn’t comprehend, no matter how hard he tried, he simply couldn’t bring them to life. Even though he had stayed up until 2 AM last night reading the script and practicing his lines, memorizing every little movement, it still wasn’t enough.
Lin Shengyun watched the playback.
The first two seconds were quite good—a close-up of Fang Huai’s eyes as he held the paintbrush. The light brown irises, bathed in the warm afternoon sunlight, looked like amber—clean and beautiful, with the rich aesthetic of an oil painting.
But then, as the camera pulled back and the other character entered the frame, the problem became obvious. Once the dialogue began, Fang Huai’s performance could only be described as stiff and lifeless. His movements and delivery were technically correct—after all, he had practiced them extensively—but there was no emotion, no spark.
Even the actor opposite him was growing frustrated.
Since Fang Huai had joined the production, Shi Feiran had assigned him a personal assistant to make things more convenient. The assistant was a young woman named Li Yunyun.
The actor playing his scene partner was Liang Tao. At first, Liang Tao had been polite and easygoing. But after the fifth take, during a break, Li Yunyun overheard a conversation while fetching hot water for Fang Huai.
She had unintentionally caught a conversation between Liang Tao’s assistant and Liang Tao himself:
“Brother Liang, what’s the deal with that Fang Huai? How much of a backdoor connection did he use to get in? You’re clearly a much better actor than him.”
“Because he’s popular,” Liang Tao replied casually. “I used to think Director Lin was quite proud and principled, but I guess even he has to bow to market demands… Whatever, let’s not talk about it.”
Li Yunyun’s grip on the thermos tightened. But given Fang Huai’s performance that morning, it wasn’t surprising that people were starting to criticize him.
Still, this wasn’t something he could control.
“Let’s take a break for lunch,” Fang Huai said after the seventh take, still showing no sign of improvement. Though he was deeply frustrated and full of self-reproach, none of his emotions showed on his face. Instead, he turned to Lin Shengyun and said calmly, “I’ll reflect on it and try to adjust.”
“Alright,” Lin Shengyun agreed after a brief moment of thought. “Let’s wrap for now and eat.”
In his mind, he had already made a decision—after lunch, they would try again one more time. The schedule was incredibly tight. If Fang Huai still couldn’t get it right in the next take…
They would have no choice but to postpone filming.
“Frost” was aiming to be submitted for the Cannes Film Festival next May, but due to various delays—and with Lin Shengyun being a perfectionist—any shot that didn’t meet his standards would never be passed off as acceptable. For these non-essential scenes, ‘postponement’ often meant ‘deletion’—in other words, the scene would be cut entirely.
The producer had never been satisfied with Fang Huai in the first place and had wanted to replace him. If this issue escalated, the producer might take the opportunity to push for his removal. And it wasn’t just the producer—even Lin Shengyun himself, lying in bed at night, couldn’t help but wonder if choosing Fang Huai had been the right decision.
If Fang Huai couldn’t deliver any scene related to ‘emotion,’ then the character of Lin Shuheng would be ruined. The old man had never made such a high-stakes gamble before, and this was the first time he was doubting his own decision.
At this point, everything depended on Fang Huai’s performance that afternoon.
Li Yunyun ordered takeout from a local private kitchen, and Fang Huai paid for everyone’s meal. The tension and resentment in the crew finally eased a bit as they put work aside and started eating. Fang Huai, however, didn’t eat. He stood off to the side, script in hand, reading and practicing his lines.
In just a few weeks, he had to go from a rookie to someone who could earn Lin Shengyun’s approval. The pressure on him was immense. And on top of that, Lin Shuheng was a character Fang Huai truly… didn’t want to mess up.
Fang Huai left the set and walked to a quiet spot away from the crowd. Staring at the rippling surface of the river, he began rehearsing his lines.
“Please don’t disturb me.”
“Sorry…”
—“Sorry, and you are?”
A voice suddenly interrupted him from behind.
It was a striking voice, deep and rich like a languid cello, yet controlled in tone and inflection, perfectly capturing the detached, even slightly arrogant, manner of a young noble.
Fang Huai froze and turned around, seeing a man standing there. The man was smiling lazily at him, strikingly handsome, with uniquely light golden eyes.
Fang Huai recognized him. Feng Lang, the male lead of Frost.
For a fleeting moment, as he looked into those golden eyes, an odd sense of familiarity washed over him. But just as quickly as it came, the feeling disappeared.
“Hello.” Fang Huai withdrew his gaze and nodded politely.
Feng Lang studied him intently, as if trying to see straight through him. After about thirty seconds, he finally curved his lips into a casual smile. “Mm. Hello.”
“You’re reading it like this?” Feng Lang repeated the lines, demonstrating where to pause and where to lift the intonation.
He casually offered a few more tips before someone came looking for him, at which point he bid Fang Huai farewell.
“Thank you.” Fang Huai sincerely expressed his gratitude.
“You’re welcome.” Feng Lang smiled.
Just as he turned to leave, Fang Huai faintly heard him mutter under his breath, “He really doesn’t remember?”
“…”
Fang Huai didn’t understand.
His mind was still occupied with his acting, so he immediately tried applying Feng Lang’s advice. It did improve his delivery considerably.
But how should he put it… it was a technique.
It wasn’t what Fang Huai was looking for. He wasn’t planning to take a shortcut. But even so, he was deeply grateful for Feng Lang’s help.
*
“We’ll shoot it one last time after lunch,” Lin Shengyun told the assistant director. “If it doesn’t work this time, we’ll just drop it.”
The assistant director’s heart skipped a beat. He hesitated for a moment but ultimately nodded helplessly.
Having worked under Lin Shengyun for so long, he knew exactly what “drop it” meant. This wasn’t good news—for Frost or for Fang Huai.
There were still thirty minutes left before the break ended.
Fang Huai was still staring at the script.
He had read this section too many times to count. The words had practically burned themselves into his mind, reappearing even when he closed his eyes. But they remained just that—words. Dry, lifeless, without any visual form.
Like, unspoken love, the cold indifference masking deep affection…
What does that even look like?
Even if he couldn’t feel it himself, at the very least, he wanted to witness it.
Shi Feiran and Lin Shengyun had shown him films before, trying to help him understand. But the images on the screen always felt… distant, like something fabricated. He needed to see it with his own eyes, to experience it, to—
With a sigh, the young man let himself fall backward onto the ground, covering his face with the script.
He had backed himself into a corner. And now, instead of focusing, his thoughts were beginning to drift.
One moment, he was thinking: Today’s September 2nd, isn’t it? Ye Yuyuan said he’d be back today—did he go straight to Nan City?
The next, he was wondering: What does it really mean to like someone?
Earlier, Xiao Liu had confessed to him, saying it was like. He had thought so too. But that feeling had never been as intense as what Lin Shuheng was supposed to feel. It was more like a fleeting attraction, something hormonal.
But Lin Shuheng… was different.
The person he loved—maybe it was Fang Jianguo, maybe it wasn’t. Fang Huai still wasn’t sure. But Lin Shuheng wasn’t just attracted to him. He had placed him on a pedestal, made him into something sacred.
Fang Huai recalled what Lin Shengyun had told him.
That kind of emotion—it wasn’t just hormones. It was something else.
But what?
He couldn’t quite grasp it. Maybe that was the real reason he couldn’t bring it to life on screen. At first, Lin Shengyun had assumed that Fang Huai simply couldn’t understand same-sex love. But that was completely wrong.
To Fang Huai, gender didn’t matter.
What he didn’t understand was love itself.
Still lying on the ground, script covering his eyes, he thought about it for a long time. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t sort through the mess in his head. Finally, he opened his eyes.
His vision was still partially blocked by the script. He lifted it slightly and glanced off into the distance, not really expecting to see anything.
And then—He saw someone.
For a single, breathless moment, time seemed to stop.
The late summer wind carried the scent of the changing seasons. Above, the sky stretched out like an oil painting, vast and impossibly blue. A white-winged bird drifted past, its feathers ruffled by the breeze.
And in that split second—The wind stilled.
The soft hum of air moving around him stretched into something infinite, something soundless.
It was Ye Yuyuan.
Fresh off a ten-hour flight, from Switzerland back to China. He looked a little weary from the journey, his figure dusted with the golden light of the afternoon.
He had wanted to see him.
So the moment he landed, he came straight here—Not willing to wait even a second longer.
When Ye Yuyuan arrived, he saw Fang Huai deeply engrossed in his script. Not wanting to disturb him, he quietly stood under the eaves and waited patiently. After a while, he asked his assistant for a sketchbook and a pencil. He glanced at Fang Huai twice before putting his pencil to paper, sketching a rough outline.
And when Fang Huai finally looked up, this was the scene that met his eyes.
Not far away, the man stood with one hand holding the sketchbook, his gaze lowered, pencil gliding across the page. He stood in silent concentration, a stark contrast to the small city’s cluttered yet lively surroundings. It was as if he existed apart from it all.
There was no obvious emotion on his face, but in his lowered eyes, there was a quiet tenderness.
Then, as if sensing Fang Huai’s gaze, Ye Yuyuan lifted his eyes to meet his.
For that single moment, he was caught off guard—his emotions, too raw to be concealed, were laid bare for Fang Huai to see.
The next second, Ye Yuyuan hesitated. Then, almost hastily, he averted his gaze, pressing his lips together.
There are three things in the world that cannot be hidden: poverty, a cough, and love.
Just a second ago, Fang Huai had been thinking about how he wanted to witness what liking someone truly looked like.
And now, in Ye Yuyuan’s eyes, he saw it.
Ye Yuyuan liked the person he was sketching.
That emotion was solemn, deeply restrained—something hidden in a place no one could reach, only surfacing in fleeting, unguarded moments.
Fang Huai’s grip on his script suddenly froze.
The wind, once still, resumed its slow, steady flow, but his thoughts remained suspended in that one moment.
And then—All the images and colors he had never been able to grasp before suddenly burst into life.
Fang Huai shot to his feet.
…He knew how to act it now!
