Chapter 5
Tuesday at noon, twelve o’clock—the interview livestream.
Both Meng Xuehuan’s and Lu Xiao’s studios were under Sea Star Entertainment. The Lu family held shares in it and had also invested in Sea Star Live.
Sea Star Live had been established early on. When it was founded, it pulled in half the entertainment industry to open accounts. Catching a favorable moment, it took off directly and became the largest livestreaming app in the country.
It had a public livestream channel that invited celebrities every Friday night for live interviews. The traffic rivaled that of a breakout prime-time TV show, and even the host became hugely popular. During movie and drama promotion periods, everyone lined up to get on.
This was the first time it had broken its rules to squeeze in an extra session.
And Meng Xuehuan and Lu Xiao’s traffic was absolutely worth the exception. Even while the preview page was still playing music, over a million viewers had already poured in. As people got off work and school, the numbers exploded upward.
The song playing was their debut duet from their boy-group days. The lyrics leaned toward an ancient style and were enshrined by CP fans as the starting point of their romance. Many people had fallen into the fandom because of that song—after all, face was justice.
[When they first debuted, it was obvious they weren’t familiar with each other. Each sang their own part—it cracked me up.]
[Just thinking about the two of them singing a love song with those sexually frigid faces makes me stand at attention. It feels like forcing two cultivators of the emotionless path to do it; their eyes don’t meet, but their bodies are tightly pressed together, and their voices unconsciously carry gasps.]
[Listening with my eyes closed—there are pictures now.]
[Such vivid description, so spicy!]
[First time seeing someone wash “unstable breathing” this hard.]
[You fans… never mind.]
[Meng Xuehuan was off-key and you’re still hyping him?]
[And Lu Xiao sang perfectly?]
[Stop arguing, you’re just letting passersby watch the joke.]
[We solemnly call on both sides to restrain themselves.]
[Here it comes, it’s starting!]
On screen, the host delivered the usual opening remarks, then said, “Let us welcome today’s two guests, Meng Xuehuan and Lu Xiao—listed in no particular order.”
[But there is a top and a bottom.]
[.]
Meng Xuehuan and Lu Xiao walked in from backstage and took their seats on single sofas. Both wore black suits with white shirts, their collar styles slightly different. This was their first public appearance after the scandal, and dressing more seriously made it easier to win goodwill.
The director had notified them overnight to wear more clothes—especially Lu Xiao. Buttons fully done up, don’t show that, to avoid the livestream being flagged for explicit content.
The viewer count quickly surged into the tens of millions. Sea Star Live had over a hundred million daily active users. Passersby who scrolled into the room couldn’t tear their eyes away once they saw the faces, calling it peak, transcendent art.
One particularly appealing aspect of this interview was the massive screen behind the host and guests, displaying real-time scrolling comments—directly hitting the nerves of fans and mischievous netizens alike.
Fans wanted to confess their love; trolls wanted to play with memes. The comments flew by.
Backstage staff filtered out comments that violated public decency, but puns and thinly veiled mockery were hard to catch at first glance.
[Wuwu they’re together again, so handsome, so handsome—instant boy-group flashback! My life is complete!]
[The two of them just sitting there is an idol drama.]
[Dressed so tightly—going to register their marriage?]
[What is there that we, the family, can’t see?]
[Didn’t Brother Lu wear a short-sleeve shirt to dinner last night? It was 10°C last night, 20°C now—why are you all bundled up?]
[Here’s a joke: Lu Xiao is famously not afraid of the cold. At outdoor award ceremonies, everyone else is freezing with blue lips, and Lu Xiao could still go for a winter swim.]
[Covering up is explaining.]
[Bro, are you hot?]
[Bro, are you hot?]
[First time watching—does this studio have the AC cranked way up?]
Every line wasn’t explicit—yet every line was.
Meng Xuehuan sat angled away from the screen. Catching the netizens’ sincere “concern” out of the corner of his eye, his gaze slid over and landed on Lu Xiao.
When Lu Xiao debuted, he followed a handsome, unrestrained image. His outfits were styled by professional designers—bold and flamboyant. Paired with that face, he looked like a god descending into the mortal world, intoxicating everyone. He rarely wore this kind of serious, conference-appropriate suit; usually he’d rather wear a T-shirt than a dress shirt.
Today, it was to match him—and also to… ahem.
Host: “Here we announce some good news. Lu Xiao will be joining the film Little Mountain God, starring alongside Meng Xuehuan as dual male leads.”
[Called it—joining for love.]
[The film’s theme is a mountain god and a believer. Lu Xiao looks too arrogant to pull it off; the humble Shao Dancheng fits the script better.]
[@Shao Dancheng fans, isn’t it Qingming? Not burning paper for your guy and instead taking a dump here?]
Host: “I’ve gathered a few of the questions netizens are most curious about and would like to ask the two of you.”
“The first question is for Meng Xuehuan: between Lu Xiao and a certain someone, who do you think fits the role better, and why?”
This had been prearranged. The producer was determined to scrub away Shao Dancheng’s presence. Some people were genuinely shipping Meng Xuehuan and Shao Dancheng and had stubbornly demanded that the crew not replace him.
Meng Xuehuan followed the answer the producer had given him: “Lu Xiao. Because one of the male leads is me, so he’s more suitable.”
The host let out an exaggerated “oh-ho.”
[Official sugar drop—so the person both in and out of the drama can only be Lu Xiao, right?]
[What this really means is that Lu Xiao won’t fight Meng Xuehuan over billing, unlike a certain someone.]
[Wrong. This is your idol forcefully selling CP fanservice.]
“The second question is for Lu Xiao: why did you decide to take this film?”
Lu Xiao told the truth: “The screenwriter convinced me with the script. The writing is very solid.”
The kissing scenes are written very well.
[You little brat, you were captivated by all that on-screen chemistry with your wife, weren’t you!]
[Heh, Meng Xuehuan must be embarrassed now!]
[Lu Xiao the liar—saying it like he just saw the script. Back when Xuehuan’s role was confirmed, Lu Xiao was a hot candidate. Insiders even said the script was sent to him, but he wasn’t interested.]
Although the bullet comments didn’t show IDs, their fandom allegiances were crystal clear.
Meng Xuehuan observed Lu Xiao’s answer. Even though they’d agreed to “work the pairing,” Lu Xiao hadn’t forced it—his response was fairly objective.
Got it.
He understood his colleague’s style of fanservice.
Only after speaking did Lu Xiao realize—damn it. Netizens didn’t know the script had been revised. The ending had been changed back from “mountain god and believer” to “mountain god and his husband.”
That answer sounded too official. Compared to Meng Xuehuan’s earlier reply, it could make Meng Xuehuan look like he was the only one pushing the CP.
He wanted to add something, but the host had already moved on: “The third question is for Meng Xuehuan. After one year and 250 days, you’re working with Lu Xiao again. How do you feel?”
Meng Xuehuan said, “Feels kind of… two-hundred-and-fifty.”
The host laughed. “How so?”
“I mean the whole thing, from beginning to end, is pretty…” Meng Xuehuan mocked himself briefly, then continued seriously.
“Being able to work with Teacher Lu again is an honor for me. Compared to working with other actors for the first time, we’ll definitely spend less time on adjustment. The whole crew is new right now and needs to find its rhythm. Teacher Lu and I can save the crew some effort—that’s also why the production invited Teacher Lu, to work with familiar faces whenever possible.”
“Just like I said earlier: since I’m one of the male leads, Teacher Lu is the most suitable choice for the other one.”
Without making a fuss, Meng Xuehuan neatly reeled the first question back in.
[? Teacher Meng, why are you still washing sugar?]
[Calling him “Teacher” every other word—so much for them being close.]
[Of course they’re not close, they don’t even follow each other on Weibo.]
Led by him, the host also switched to calling them “Teacher”:
“The fourth question, same one—Teacher Lu, please.”
Lu Xiao said, “My feeling is… people aren’t as good as the old ones.”
Meng Xuehuan: ?
Woke up? Finally remembered to do fanservice?
[After meeting so many people later, none of them were as good as you—ew.]
[Yep yep yep. I’ve jumped ships across so many CPs, and none of them compare to you. I’ll die shipping a reunion arc.]
[I get it! The undercurrents between you little couple, right?]
[Wife made a move, Lu-dog didn’t catch it, wife got mad, Lu-dog knee-slid to apologize.]
[Are we part of the play too?]
Solo fans, like tumbleweeds blown around by the wind, went silent for a moment—afraid of getting slapped in the face again, yet unwilling to be steamrolled by CP fans. They started spamming “so handsome, so handsome.”
But among the sea of “so handsome,” CP fans’ comments stood out sharply—like couples talking in a crowd of single dogs.
The host had to keep control of the room, blocking the cabinet door when it opened too wide, nudging it open when it stayed shut:
“Well said, Teacher Lu—clothes aren’t as good as new ones, people aren’t as good as the old ones. Many people feel that as they grow older, friendships become less pure, especially after starting work. Only your very first batch of colleagues are willing to open up. Later on, everyone says you shouldn’t befriend coworkers—they’ll steal your milk tea. Director, am I right? The cup in your hand is mine.”
The camera cut to the director, who sheepishly pulled his hand back. The bullet comments exploded with laughter.
During the transition, the set changed, and a whiteboard appeared in front of each of Meng Xuehuan and Lu Xiao.
The host picked up a tablet and said, “Next is a tacit-understanding quiz, to see how well you know your old partner.”
“Everyone look closely—this is a randomly generated interrogation mini-program. We definitely didn’t cheat. Absolutely real.” The host swiped casually, each swipe generating several random questions.
Meng Xuehuan quickly reviewed his memories with Lu Xiao since they’d met.
Mm, his memory was good. No problem.
He was full of confidence.
With a tap, the host revealed a question: [The season and weather when you first met.]
Meng Xuehuan remembered that it was very cold on the day they signed the contract. He’d taken the subway to Sea Star Tower and met Lu Xiao.
He was about to write: “February 1, 202×, rain.”
Then he thought the date was too precise—if Lu Xiao didn’t remember it, it would be awkward. So he erased it and changed it to: “Winter, rain.”
Broad enough. It couldn’t be wrong. Lu Xiao had a good memory—this one was safe.
The host said, “All right, finished writing—3, 2, 1, flip!”
Meng Xuehuan confidently looked over at Lu Xiao’s board.
On it was written: [Spring, snow]
Meng Xuehuan: ?
“Oh, the answers are different,” the host said. Being a bit nearsighted, he didn’t immediately notice that “snow” and “rain” were different; he thought it was just the season that didn’t match.
Having done his homework, he quickly smoothed things over:
“I remember you met in February. Around that time, the temperature difference between north and south is huge—it’s easy to mix up spring and winter. Folk tradition often uses the lunar Spring Equinox as the dividing line, usually in February or March.”
“And meteorologically, the standard for entering spring is… Teacher Meng, you’re a meteorology major—why don’t you explain it for us?”
Meng Xuehuan’s gaze was still lingering on Lu Xiao’s answer. Multitasking, he answered reflexively like a good student being called on:
“Five consecutive days with an average daily temperature above 10 degrees Celsius.”
Snow was rare in the southern city. How could Lu Xiao even get that wrong?
The host laughed. “The timing of the meeting was a bit tricky, so we’ll count this question as correct for both of you—”
His unfocused gaze suddenly caught the discrepancy between rain and snow on the board, and he froze.
Lu Xiao’s eyes dimmed. He remembered that day clearly—there had been a rare flurry of snow in Nancheng. But the moment he saw Meng Xuehuan, he felt as if spring had arrived.
He had deliberately written spring, thinking he could explain it away later.
He had fallen that very day—but Meng Xuehuan clearly hadn’t felt the same.
Deflated, Lu Xiao said, “I remembered it wrong. It didn’t snow that day.”
The host trotted out a tired old joke: “It didn’t snow that day, but your snow arrived.”
Lu Xiao didn’t feel comforted at all.
The CP fans in the barrage were stunned too. Where was your tacit understanding?
Solo fans seized the chance to revolt: You didn’t even meet each other, did you?
Then Meng Xuehuan suddenly said, “No, it’s me who remembered wrong. It might have snowed that day.”
He didn’t elaborate. From the netizens’ perspective, he was just rushing to take the blame.
“Next question,” the host said.
[Name one annoying thing the other person does.]
Meng Xuehuan: “Always forcing me to eat eggs.”
Lu Xiao: “Cheating and refusing to eat the egg whites.”
This time their chemistry was off the charts—so synchronized it was like they’d memorized the entire driver’s license question bank!
The CP fans, who’d been flattened by the first question, cautiously learned to “drive” again:
[The egg you’re talking about… are the chicken and the egg separate?]
[I told you they’re eating well.]
A few more questions followed—birthdays, clothing sizes—and the two of them hit their stride, answering everything correctly.
The atmosphere heated up, and they reached the most anticipated segment—turning around to answer questions from the live barrage.
There was a reason this show was popular.
Anyone with dirt on them would be sweating bullets in this segment, but since audiences loved “authenticity” these days, it was also a perfect chance to clear things up.
CP fans instantly went into overdrive, racing solo fans to spend money on special effects to make sure their questions gleamed gold and caught the stars’ eyes.
The livestream didn’t have tipping enabled, but backend revenue still spiked instantly, leaving the director grinning ear to ear.
Meng Xuehuan felt a little nervous. Surely they wouldn’t—
The moment the camera focused on the big screen, it was flooded with dazzling special-effect text, blinding like pure sensory pollution.
Amid the distorted, bold, flashing effects, one high-budget comment exploded onto the screen, slithering across like a dragon’s tail and leaving behind a line of yellow text.
This segment displayed usernames.
[@OnlyLoveLuXiao: Bro, are you hot?]
Short. Powerful.
For a moment, it was impossible to tell whether this was sincere concern from a solo fan or deliberate troublemaking from CP fans.
[Let Lu Xiao take off a layer. He looked drenched in sweat earlier when he forgot to “work the CP.”]
[Dear moderators, we are not a pornographic streamer.]
[Relax, this livestream is Sea Star Live’s favorite child. It won’t get banned—everyone be bolder online.]
The comment was too conspicuous to ignore.
Meng Xuehuan made a snap decision. Since netizens wanted to tease, this was the perfect chance to clarify things. He turned to Lu Xiao.
“Teacher Lu, fans are asking if you’re hot.”
They hadn’t slept together—being misunderstood like this was too much of a loss.
“A little.”
Lu Xiao went along smoothly and took off his suit jacket.
Some tacit understanding had formed.
Meng Xuehuan happily took it, pretending to just notice, and tossed out the topic:
“What happened to your neck?”
Lu Xiao said, “Scratched by tree branches while sweeping graves in the mountains last night.”
Meng Xuehuan: settled.
Another barrage exploded.
[@OnlyLoveXuehuan: Look carefully at how this man hands over his jacket—it gives everything away.]
Meng Xuehuan: “……”
