Chapter 7
Meng Xuehuan froze, then nodded. “Got it.”
Seeing that Meng Xuehuan wasn’t nervous at all, Lu Xiao swallowed the question How far can I kiss you?—it would make him look unprofessional.
You kiss however the director arranges. The newly appointed director, Jiang Lang, had made films that couldn’t pass domestic review and were shown only overseas, later hailed as classics. He was especially skilled at shooting ambiguous scenes. As soon as he got the script, he pushed his forte—the kissing scenes—to the front of the schedule.
To achieve the desired effect, the director would teach movements step by step, so even decorative “vase” actors could deliver standout performances on screen.
Lu Xiao decisively declined the director’s kind offer.
“Tonight we’ll probably be shooting until two a.m. Get some rest while you can.”
“Okay.”
Lu Xiao returned to his room. Only then did Meng Xuehuan realize their rooms were next to each other, the two doors barely a meter apart. He wondered about the soundproofing—otherwise, even the sound of showering might carry through.
As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he discovered there was no en-suite bathroom. Instead, there was a large bathroom across from the bedrooms, with three separate luxury cubicles—for showering, washing up, and the toilet—clearly reflecting the owner’s distinctive taste.
After checking the room and confirming there were no cameras, and that the window bars and door locks were sturdy, the assistant left. Meng Xuehuan wheeled his luggage inside, spread everything out on the floor, hesitated among seven or eight bottles of mouthwash, and finally picked a fresh mint flavor.
He would start keeping his breath fresh from noon onward.
Holding the mouthwash, he went to the sink, then paused. The sink had a curtain door—if Lu Xiao came in, he’d see him.
So he turned left and went to the bathroom instead.
After sleeping for a while, Meng Xuehuan got up for hair and makeup, reading the script at the same time. The little mountain god couldn’t adapt to city life and returned to the mountains, sitting on a high platform, swinging his legs and watching the snow in loneliness. The CEO chased after him from the city, leapt onto the platform, and forcefully kissed him…
Immortals weren’t afraid of the cold. Meng Xuehuan’s costume was very light—a simple blue robe the little mountain god wore before falling into slumber. The snow was artificial, but on a spring night the temperature was only about 10°C. He stuck heat packs to his knees.
The “high platform” was actually a steep concrete slope about five meters high, built to prevent landslides along a national highway. It was difficult to climb with bare hands. The director asked Lu Xiao, “Do you need a stunt double?”
Lu Xiao sneered. Who uses a double on the way to kissing his wife? “No.”
The director was doubtful. “If you roll down from up there, your face will get messed up.”
Lu Xiao replied, “We bought insurance.”
The director said, “Alright. See that marker? You drive to here, spot Teacher Meng on the roadside platform, stop the car, grab that vine, climb up, and knock Teacher Meng down.”
“Is the vine secured?”
“Yes.”
Lu Xiao gauged it for two seconds, stepped forward, grabbed the vine, and climbed up in just a few strides—several steps fewer than the director had expected. Standing at the edge, he surveyed where Meng Xuehuan would be sitting. The edge itself was concrete, but where he’d fall, there was a patch of grass.
He crouched down, pressed his palm to the ground, and checked inch by inch for anything protruding. His palm pressed against a harmless small stone; he picked it up and tossed it aside.
The director stared in astonishment, then quickly adjusted the shooting plan.
“Places, everyone. Little Mountain God, Scene One—rolling,” the director said considerately. “Kissing won’t get you pregnant, and we won’t shoot it in detail. It’ll be hazy, hidden in the grass. The light will hit Xuehuan’s profile; Lu Xiao will be in shadow. But you do need to actually kiss. Of course, I also have some tricks for—”
Lu Xiao: “You’re being long-winded.”
The director swallowed the rest of his “complete guide to cheat angles.”
Meng Xuehuan took off his coat and went up the steps. Lu Xiao got into the car.
A wind picked up at night, just enough to achieve the director’s desired effect of snow blowing in the air.
Lu Xiao sat in the car. He was a believer who had traveled far, a prisoner trapped in love. The high beams illuminated the little god seated high above, and his mood almost perfectly overlapped with that of the script.
Meng Xuehuan barely needed to act as the mountain god. Sitting there, he was divine by nature—innocent yet aloof, exquisitely beautiful. When his black-and-white eyes shifted, a faint divinity flowed out.
The more nervous he felt, the calmer his expression became. In this scene, his main task was to be cold; Lu Xiao had the harder part. Kissing was fine, but he hoped to get it in one take—so Lu Xiao wouldn’t have to climb up several times. He wasn’t a monkey.
“Action!”
A silent national highway. Wind and snow.
Lu Xiao came running toward him.
Closer and closer—faster than in rehearsal!
Lu Xiao pounced and knocked him down!
Meng Xuehuan held his breath, nerves making him break out in sweat. He had never been this close to Lu Xiao’s perfect face—it was practically a breathing inhibitor.
Yes, he’d agreed to marriage largely because Lu Xiao was handsome—the most beautiful man he’d ever seen—like the legendary flower god who irresistibly drew the queen bee’s gaze, forcing her nuptial flight to circle only this king peony, blind to all others.
Circling a single peony meant being single forever.
His lips softened. The peony was about to bloom.
“Cut!”
The director shouted angrily up at the people on the platform. “Camera Two, what are you doing? I can see from down here that your angle’s wrong!”
Camera Two shouted back, “The way you had it, there was no way to get the effect!”
Director: “Impossible. Did the lighting not follow my instructions?”
Gaffer: “The snow’s too heavy—do you think electricity is free?”
A newly assembled crew, rushed into position, still needed time to adapt to each other.
Lu Xiao, pinning Meng Xuehuan down, heard this and his face darkened. He pulled Meng Xuehuan up, blocking the wind for him, and cursed bluntly, “Amateur hour.”
He wouldn’t have minded a few extra NGs to take advantage—on the condition that Meng Xuehuan wasn’t here freezing, his hands already icy.
Hearing Lu Xiao’s irritated tone, Meng Xuehuan felt a bit guilty. “Taking over this amateur crew must be rough on you. We’ve only shot one take anyway, so maybe—”
Terminate the contract? He could pay the penalty himself.
Lu Xiao shot back immediately, “I love taking over messes.”
Meng Xuehuan: “?”
The producer was personally supervising the first shoot that night to ensure a smooth start. Hearing Lu Xiao curse, he rushed over to mediate.
Five minutes later: “Reshoot.”
The director instructed, “Lu Xiao, climb slower. Even mountain spirits aren’t as fast as you—why did you speed up?”
Second take.
Meng Xuehuan sat in the same spot. The grass behind him had been tidied, the flattened blades propped back up.
After witnessing Lu Xiao at double speed, watching him deliberately restrain himself now was like viewing a film slowed frame by frame. Every step landed squarely on Meng Xuehuan’s heart, igniting a burning heartbeat.
Mm. The grass fell over again.
For the first time, Meng Xuehuan realized how completely one person could pin down another—how the wind brushing his face seemed to stop, leaving only the surrounding blades of grass gently swaying.
An unfamiliar tongue hesitated, circling at the corner of his mouth. Seeing that its owner met no resistance, it tentatively began to invade from there.
Meng Xuehuan’s body shuddered. By the requirements, he wasn’t supposed to move—ideally not even blink. But the director hadn’t said his mouth couldn’t open.
He stayed still, warmth building inside and out.
A flake of artificial snow nearly drifted into his eye. His lashes fluttered, as if flipping some kind of switch.
Xuehuan’s huan is “snowflake” multiplied by n, so his fans are called Snowflakes. Meng Xuehuan is a great snowflake formed from countless little ones.
Kissing probably makes fans fall away.
He felt his body growing lighter, as if snowflakes were secretly flying off—or melting. Hidden by the grass, he quietly clutched the corner of Lu Xiao’s clothes.
…
Mint and honey.
No—under the mint, it was honey. Sweet, but the sweetness didn’t quite come from honey. More accurately, it was fragrance. His wife smelled so good.
Catching sight of something in his peripheral vision, Lu Xiao reached out and grabbed a small insect about to jump onto Meng Xuehuan’s face.
At the same time, he remembered the cameras surrounding them, and a surge of possessiveness erupted. He tilted his head, blocking them.
“Cut,” the director called. The timing of that little insect had been simply perfect.
The gaffer thoughtfully shut off the lights at once, giving the leads space to reset.
Darkness fell all around.
Lu Xiao braced himself on his arms, lifting his body slightly away from Meng Xuehuan, though his lips still lingered by instinct.
He fiercely repeated don’t overstep three times before finally pulling away.
Fresh air rushed into his chest. Meng Xuehuan thought Lu Xiao had sensed he was about to suffocate and deliberately pulled back. Instinctively, he tilted his head up to follow—just for a second—before realizing the shame of it. His face flushed red at once; fortunately, it was too dark to see.
The two award-winning actors steadied their breathing and looked at each other for a moment before turning away.
Lu Xiao pushed himself up, took a long down coat from his assistant, and immediately draped it over Meng Xuehuan.
Meng Xuehuan’s back was soaked with sweat. As soon as he sat up, the wind hit him and he shivered.
This was bad—how could he sweat so much? He quietly slid his hands into the coat sleeves, deciding not to let anyone see his back.
His “hold out your arms and get dressed” routine was so smooth that it stunned everyone watching: the internet was right—these two had to be a couple, kissing on the company’s dime.
Lu Xiao brought over a cup of hot water for Meng Xuehuan, his voice slightly hoarse. “Want to rinse your mouth?”
Meng Xueyuan took it, took a small sip, and swallowed absentmindedly.
Lu Xiao’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He swallowed it…
Meng Xueyuan had been sweating a lot. Holding the cup, thinking of the saying “drink more hot water,” he lowered his head and took a big gulp. The word “rinse,” which Lu Xiao had just said, went in one ear and out the other.
Lu Xiao’s breathing stalled. What he and Meng Xueyuan had exchanged was completely… finished by those two gulps.
The nerve of reason was sharply provoked.
He scolded himself: Get a grip, Lu Xiao. What’s wrong with someone drinking a couple of sips of water?
Sensing a scorching gaze, Meng Xueyuan lifted his eyes—and instantly saw a certain part of Lu Xiao.
Hm?
Lu Xiao abruptly turned and left.
Meng Xueyuan’s legs, which had been stretched out, snapped into a cross-legged position as he analyzed what he had just seen.
Lu Xiao was… hard?
Kissing really did feel pretty intense, especially in spring. Would Lu Xiao want to release a bit of pollen in springtime?
There were no more scenes with Lu Xiao next. Meng Xueyuan still had a solo scene inside the Little Mountain God Temple.
He changed clothes and sat quietly for a makeup adjustment. His thoughts drifted to Lu Xiao’s departing back, to pollen, to worker bees building pollen chambers and expecting him to give birth to little larvae…
No, no, no. Even if that happened, it wouldn’t be that easy to get pregnant—at most, it would be a false pregnancy.
Ordinary people might see a line in biology textbooks saying, “Men have a probability of false pregnancy,” or “Symptoms of false pregnancy may be inconspicuous and go undiscovered for a lifetime.” Very few people had seen real cases.
Whether one could have a false pregnancy was a matter of individual difference and privacy, with a touch of the fantastical mixed in. The news department had rules against casually reporting on it and stirring public opinion. In reality, most men who could become pregnant or experience false pregnancy did so because they carried some bloodline of spirits or yokai. They wouldn’t broadcast it everywhere; everyone tacitly kept it secret.
“All done,” the makeup artist said.
Meng Xueyuan came back to himself and said softly, “Thank you.”
The makeup took half an hour. When Meng Xueyuan returned to the set, Lu Xiao was standing at the entrance with his arms crossed, looking displeased as he listened to the producer say something.
Meng Xueyuan edged closer to listen.
Producer: “…A few of those guys who were caught soliciting prostitutes have been released. They came to me saying they want to join the crew. They don’t need to be credited—could work as assistants.”
The producer thought Lu Xiao was extremely dissatisfied with this ramshackle crew and brought it up. “Aren’t you unhappy? Aside from Shao Dancheng, behind-the-scenes staff don’t have as much impact as on-screen ones. And the director—he can’t survive domestically, but overseas he still does fine, has connections. It wouldn’t be good to offend him…”
Lu Xiao rejected it outright: “No.”
Producer: “Why?”
Lu Xiao: “Dirty.”
Producer: “…”
Meng Xueyuan walked past without glancing sideways: Lu Xiao is so handsome.
