Chapter 14: The Ice Pop

When they were filming Three Quarters, Liang Jingyan’s guest role was that of a student who spent every last bit of his living expenses in an underground gambling den late at night. Fu Yanzong’s character, Li Gu—one of his identities—was a fighter who kept watch over the place.

In that film, the only two places where he took notice of Fu Yanzong were the stuffy, rowdy gambling den and the dingy, humid basement used for sex.

Liang Jingyan’s scenes were concentrated but not insignificant. Whenever he was shooting, Fu Yanzong—who had no scenes of his own—would always be on set, whether there was a camera trained on him or not.

Fu Yanzong’s Li Gu usually leaned against a peeling wall, sizing up the motley crowd in the venue. A loose black tank top hung off his frame, exposing his lean arms and chest. The makeup team had painted a full python on him, coiling from his left shoulder all the way down to his wrist.

Li Gu also had long hair, but not the deliberate, aesthetic kind like Fu Yanzong’s—it was unkempt, like he couldn’t be bothered to style it. Damp strands covered half his face, making his cold stares all the more chilling and intimidating.

Back then, Jiang Ming would always pin Liang Jingyan down in front of the gambling table covered in felt, forcing him to stroke the sweat-slick, slippery plastic chips over and over. “You have to get into character,” he’d say. “Show that mix of embarrassment at your empty pockets and the desperate greed of someone at the end of their rope.”

Liang Jingyan had acting chops, but hitting Jiang Ming’s standards was incredibly tough.

He could never quite nail that feeling… until he realized he could look at Fu Yanzong behind the camera.

In an overlooked corner, Fu Yanzong still fully embodied Li Gu. He watched Liang Jingyan’s pathetic struggles at the table with mocking eyes, tilting his head back with a sly smile that plainly said, “Lose your money and drop dead for all I care.”

In moments like that, Liang Jingyan could feel the character’s rage and resentment. He also understood why Jiang Ming demanded this immersion from every actor on set—especially Fu Yanzong.

Three Quarters never screened domestically, but Liang Jingyan vividly remembered the jury’s award citation when it won prizes.

The gist was that the film was a pure showpiece for director Jiang Ming and lead actor Fu Yanzong. Fu Yanzong’s extreme method acting hijacked every inch of the audience’s attention, blurring the line between him and Li Gu so thoroughly that viewers couldn’t find their own “one-quarter” in the mirror—lost in the other three.

When they were first shooting the film, Liang Jingyan had felt a bit sorry for Fu Yanzong. He knew all too well the fate of someone lost in total immersion: depression or suicide.

From ancient times to now, anyone who couldn’t separate fiction from reality ended up the same way.

But later, things shifted slightly.

—After Fu Yanzong got a new assistant.

The assistant didn’t look much older, probably even a touch younger than Fu Yanzong. He had a cool austerity somewhere between boy and young man. Pale-skinned and overly thin. Whenever the crew was setting up sets or the lighting techs were positioning spots, he’d approach Fu Yanzong to talk.

Fu Yanzong would often lounge lazily in whatever chair was handy, slowly lifting his head to say to Song Linyu, “Why are you bothering me again?”

“It’s not that bothersome…” Song Linyu hesitated in his defense, then glanced at Jiang Ming before cautiously pulling a matcha ice pop from the insulated bag he was carrying and handing it over.

On set, Jiang Ming forbade any diva behavior—no assistants trailing with hair dryers or iced Americanos at the ready. In the sweltering summer, they had to convey the misery of stewing in hot water. Even if you blistered from the heat, Jiang Ming would praise you for getting real.

Fu Yanzong eyed the ultra-chilled double-helix matcha ice pop, temptingly cool in the blazing heat, and blinked without much self-control.

Then he sternly refused Song Linyu: “No. Li Gu doesn’t eat matcha ice pops.”

“Fu Yanzong can,” Song Linyu whispered conspiratorially, his eyes curving faintly in a smile.

Three seconds later, Fu Yanzong took the ice pop with a helpless expression. With a snap, he broke it in half and handed the other piece back to Song Linyu.

Now it was Song Linyu’s turn to freeze. He tilted his head, pondering for a moment before earnestly explaining, “I didn’t put anything weird in it or coat it with glue. It’s just from the convenience store.”

Fu Yanzong fell silent.

He looked up at Song Linyu for a few seconds, then suddenly grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward the protruding counter behind them.

This scene was in the movie too—it had only just wrapped. Li Gu was a sex addict, and Jiang Ming used a barrage of provocative, metaphor-laden sex scenes to flesh out his character.

Song Linyu had watched from the side, remembering how Fu Yanzong pinned the other actor against the sharp table edge, ignoring his pain, cries, and the gouges left behind, rutting into him like a beast.

Song Linyu had stared for a bit at Fu Yanzong’s taut jaw with sweat beading on it and the sliver of waist exposed to the camera, then hastily looked away.

Now, Song Linyu compliantly tilted his head up, following Fu Yanzong’s lead.

Song Linyu could sense how hard it was for Fu Yanzong to break character. So he didn’t question or resist, just silently waited for the pain he expected against his back.

But Fu Yanzong wrapped an arm around his waist.

Unlike in the shot, Fu Yanzong braced his hands on the counter edge. The moment Song Linyu leaned back, the thin fabric of his T-shirt let him feel the heat of Fu Yanzong’s palm against his skin.

Scorching hot—the distinct knuckles pressing plainly against his side.

Song Linyu’s body went imperceptibly rigid, finding this harder to adjust to than a sharp table edge.

The other half of the ice pop he’d been about to take was now in Fu Yanzong’s hand too, already melting from the heat, giving off the clear, bitter scent of matcha.

Song Linyu’s throat bobbed gently. He heard Fu Yanzong ask directly, “Did you say that because someone bullied you before?”

“…What?”

Song Linyu’s mind blanked for a second. He never expected that question. After a beat, he quickly lowered his eyes and answered as casually as he could, “No.”

Fu Yanzong gazed at him calmly. “It’s okay. You can tell me the truth.”

Come to think of it, Li Gu’s look was designed to scream danger, and Song Linyu hated enclosed spaces.

Yet trapped in this tiny world with Fu Yanzong, he felt no discomfort at all.

Why was that? So strange.

Song Linyu pressed his lips together, then denied it again after a moment. “No.”

Fu Yanzong leaned in closer, the chill from the ice pop drawing near Song Linyu’s cheek. He felt captured by some odd sugary spell, his thoughts slowing.

“Song Linyu.” Fu Yanzong’s tone grew firmer.

He paused, glancing down at Song Linyu’s hand unconsciously clutching the hem of his shirt.

After a moment’s silence, he continued, “…What I meant was, I’m sharing half with you.”

Song Linyu stared blankly, frowning as if to protest the needless clarification.

But the instant his lips parted, a cool touch landed on them.

The matcha ice cream wasn’t purely sweet, but a gentle suck locked the lingering sweetness after the initial bitterness between his teeth—an irresistible treat.

Song Linyu couldn’t help taking a second nibble, then softly told Fu Yanzong, “Thanks.”

Fu Yanzong chuckled lightly. Seeing him like this, he found it amusing.

So he took a bite of his half too, lazily sharing this secret little summer moment with Song Linyu in the unnoticed corner.

Until Jiang Ming circled around, spotted the antics, and barked, “Li Gu, what the hell are you doing!”

The shout yanked him back into character. Fu Yanzong tsked, turned his head to respond, crunched the last sweet bite in his mouth, and casually slid the sunglasses from his chest pocket onto Song Linyu’s face.

“When he yells at you, you run.”

With a sly grin at Song Linyu, Fu Yanzong turned and walked back to the mark.

…

Liang Jingyan observed Fu Yanzong and his assistant just like that, realizing more and more that Fu Yanzong was becoming himself again.

Like on those late-night shoots, when Song Linyu would stand at the edge of the crowd, waiting with him no matter how long it dragged on. Fu Yanzong endured; so did he. During breaks—even if Jiang Ming forbade it—he’d bring something in.

The other actors always joked that Fu Yanzong had finally found a reliable assistant. When he heard it, Fu Yanzong would nod, then weave through the crowd to Song Linyu’s side.

Towering over him, he’d say, “No need to wait. Go rest. If you’re really worried, get Ji Cheng to watch me.”

Song Linyu would shake his head, replying softly, “It’s fine. I just want to watch you.”

No matter what, it was always that line.

Fu Yanzong lowered his gaze and saw Song Linyu sitting there so obediently on the somewhat dirty steps outside the set, waiting for him. Shenlan’s summers had a pronounced day-night temperature swing. They were shooting night scenes outdoors in the evening, and the breeze actually carried a chill.

Song Linyu suddenly seemed to sense something. He reached out and grasped Fu Yanzong’s fingertip, feeling its warmth for a moment before nodding with certainty. “You haven’t caught a cold.”

But his own palm was ice-cold.

Fu Yanzong fell silent for a moment but said nothing. He simply tossed his jacket into Song Linyu’s lap.

…

Liang Jingyan witnessed the whole scene, and that was why he remembered Song Linyu even to this day.

In that instant, he suddenly felt as if Fu Yanzong now belonged a quarter to him.