Chapter 17: What I Want

On August 13, 2018, the film Three Quarters wrapped production. At the wrap party, Jiang Ming calmly told the attending media that the movie would earn Fu Yanzong his second Best Actor award.

The announcement sent the room into an uproar. Flashes popped wildly from every direction, determined to strip bare the man whom critics had dubbed “a has-been out of ideas” from head to toe.

Unfortunately, Fu Yanzong himself wasn’t there. Just like at the wrap party for his breakout teenage hit Spring Tide Undercurrent, he had vanished without a trace once again.

Song Linyu received Ji Cheng’s message just as he arrived at the door of Fu Yanzong’s apartment. Ji Cheng had specifically warned his scatterbrained new assistant not to bother Fu Yanzong in the days right after filming wrapped—doing so would only invite the young master’s wrath and a swift dismissal.

Song Linyu glanced at it, his face impassive, and replied with a simple acknowledgment. Then he raised his hand to unlock the apartment’s fingerprint lock.

But another message popped up on his phone—from an unknown sender.

“Boss, Geng Zhiyan’s side says no to cooperating with us. We haven’t gotten any dirt on him yet, and the shares he holds right now…”

Song Linyu frowned in irritation, the screen’s cold glow turning his pale irises to ice. He withdrew his hand and typed back without hesitation: “If you can’t find leverage, make some. Geng Zhiyan’s son can’t keep it in his pants—wouldn’t it be easy to stir up a little trouble?”

With that, he deleted the message in disgust and opened the door to Lanting Apartment.

Song Linyu had assumed Fu Yanzong would still be sleeping at this hour. Filming schedules wrecked havoc on one’s internal clock, and it was no small feat to reset them—especially for someone like Fu Yanzong, who was perpetually sleep-deprived.

To his surprise, however, Fu Yanzong was in the media room, watching a rough cut of Three Quarters that Jiang Ming had just sent over.

The room was pitch black, no lights on. Fu Yanzong sat cross-legged on the carpet, chin propped in his hand, silently watching his own strikingly different image play out on the small screen.

A rough cut was little more than trimmed footage—no music, no color grading, no sound design. The result was like the rawest documentary, capturing the character’s joys and sorrows from birth to death in unflinching detail.

Even the ambiguous sounds of flesh entwining had been faithfully recorded by the camera. Though achieved through clever filming techniques rather than anything explicit, the unprocessed gasps and moans were still enough to make one’s face heat and heart race.

Amid those moans, Fu Yanzong let out a soft chuckle. Then he spread his arms and, with perfect accuracy, caught hold of Song Linyu, who had crept silently to his side.

Song Linyu hadn’t expected to be spotted so quickly. He prided himself on his stealthy approach, yet Fu Yanzong nabbed him effortlessly, pulling him into his lap in place of the throw pillow he’d been hugging.

At home, Fu Yanzong always dressed for comfort—just a thin short-sleeved shirt clinging lightly to his skin. Late summer still carried lingering warmth, and as Fu Yanzong drew him close, Song Linyu could feel the soothing heat, like being rinsed in warm water.

Warm. Gentle. It gave the sense of a safe haven where even the end of the world wouldn’t matter.

Song Linyu froze for a beat, then felt a faint, harmless weight settle on his head. Fu Yanzong rested his chin there, eyes still fixed on the shifting screen, and drawled lazily:

“Don’t move.”

His voice was muffled through his nose, tinged with an indefinable rasp.

Song Linyu lowered his gaze and quietly watched alongside him.

Song Linyu’s body was always cool to the touch, surprisingly pleasant to hold—lacking only in softness to be flawless. Before he arrived, Fu Yanzong had already watched half of the nearly five-hour rough cut. By now, the story was nearing its end, the character on the brink of spiritual and physical death.

Fu Yanzong watched intently until a cool palm suddenly covered his eyes, plunging his vision into darkness.

Song Linyu, who hadn’t made a sound until then, spoke softly after a moment’s hesitation: “It’s too long. No need to finish it today. Take a break—you’ve got time.”

Fu Yanzong didn’t pull his hand away. Instead, he seized Song Linyu’s wrist mid-motion, tilting his head down to stop right in front of him amid the blackness.

With a light laugh, he asked: “Nosy much? Didn’t Ji Cheng tell you not to come around right now?”

They were so close that Song Linyu could feel the warm breath on his face. He blinked slowly and shamelessly shifted the blame: “He didn’t say.”

Fu Yanzong drawled an unhurried “Oh,” letting the obvious lie slide.

He stood, letting Song Linyu’s hand slip from his view, and flicked on the media room lights with brisk efficiency.

They both blinked against the sudden brightness. When Song Linyu’s eyes adjusted, his breath hitched for a split second.

Fu Yanzong was tying back his loose long hair with a band from his wrist, eyeing him with a smirking curl at the corners of his eyes. As his arm lifted, the black short sleeve rode up, revealing the smooth lines of his waist and abdomen. Even without trying, Song Linyu instantly recalled certain unspeakable scenes from the film.

He quickly looked away and murmured: “I was worried you wouldn’t eat properly, so I came to check… that’s all.”

“Mm, good guess.” Fu Yanzong pushed open the media room door and headed to the kitchen island, casually unzipping the insulated bag Song Linyu had left on the table.

Perhaps fearing he had no appetite, Song Linyu had packed a variety of dishes—all still steaming hot. Fu Yanzong sat on a stool, sampled a piece of chicken breast, then set his chopsticks down without a word.

“…Don’t like it?” Song Linyu watched his darkening expression and stepped closer to ask earnestly: “What’s wrong with the taste?”

Fu Yanzong said nothing, just slid the bowl over and stated calmly: “Try it yourself and see.”

Song Linyu furrowed his brow, sitting across from him like he was facing a grave threat. He grabbed fresh chopsticks and sampled a bit of everything. But he couldn’t detect any flavor issues—the dishes were all ones Fu Yanzong usually enjoyed.

He hesitated, eyeing Fu Yanzong, who was now scrolling on his phone with his head down. Just as he opened his mouth, Fu Yanzong cut him off with an impatient tone: “Eat more.”

Song Linyu had no choice but to finish off the staples too, chopsticks in hand.

Perhaps his overly solemn look was too much—moments later, Fu Yanzong couldn’t hold back a laugh.

Song Linyu looked up in confusion to see Fu Yanzong reviewing files on his phone while leaning back in his chair, chuckling softly. His voice emerged gentle, as if etched from mist.

“Just teasing. Eat up—you’re skin and bones.”

Song Linyu’s fingers tightened abruptly around his chopsticks, his slender knuckles pressing hard against the smooth wood until the veins stood out sharply on the back of his hand.

He kept his head down, black hair veiling the shadowed gloom in his eyes.

After a moment, Fu Yanzong heard him say a quiet “Thanks,” his words coming slow and deliberate.

Fu Yanzong glanced at him and suddenly asked: “Why didn’t you take the college entrance exam?”

He had just finished the files Ji Cheng sent. Ji Cheng noted that a few minor reports and plans were ones Song Linyu had volunteered to try—Fu Yanzong had reviewed them and found no issues. Looked like there was no need to pay him employee wages anymore, just keep him as a personal assistant.

In Fu Yanzong’s view, those plans weren’t just fine—they were excellent. Thorough, insightful, clear potential.

That’s why he asked.

“Something came up… family situation wasn’t great.”

Song Linyu seemed reluctant to elaborate, brushing it off vaguely. But as his words trailed off, he realized Fu Yanzong was watching him steadily.

Fu Yanzong absently picked up a piece of salmon with his chopsticks and served it to him. “What was your top-choice school?”

“…A University.”

“That good, huh?” Fu Yanzong withdrew his hand, propping his chin thoughtfully. In a tone laced with mock trouble, he said: “Buying into A University would be tricky. Switch to B University—it’s not bad, and it’s local, so you can come back anytime.”

“What?”

Song Linyu didn’t catch his meaning at first. Moments later, he lifted his face in stunned disbelief, looking almost disheveled, a touch unhinged.

Meeting Fu Yanzong’s smiling gaze across the table, he asked stiffly: “What… does that mean?”

Fu Yanzong arched a brow, tapping his knuckles lightly on the phone on the table. He spelled it out: “It means go enroll when school starts in September.”

He studied Song Linyu for a beat, then spread his hands openly. “Whether you’re hanging around to pay off Dongyu’s debt or whatever doesn’t matter. Right now, I think you’re a great assistant—pretty likable. So before I lose interest, grab whatever you can get.”

Song Linyu said nothing, just felt a heaviness building in his chest. After a long pause, he shook his head firmly and declared, word by word: “I don’t want it.”

Fu Yanzong let out a soft, puzzled hum. With evident interest, he picked up a piece of food with his chopsticks and placed it in Song Linyu’s bowl. “I can’t think of any reason why you’d refuse. Or is there something you want from me even more?”

Song Linyu had no idea how to respond for a long while.

He lowered his gaze to the slice of salmon Fu Yanzong had just added to his bowl. The fish flesh glistened beautifully, plump and tender—yet ultimately just a helpless morsel on the plate, subject to the whims of whoever wielded the knife.

Song Linyu’s own life was no different from that piece of fish. It could be reshaped and trampled upon at will, often requiring nothing more than a single word.

“Changing someone’s entire life is actually quite easy, in some ways,” Song Linyu thought slowly to himself. “If only everyone were like you, Fu Yanzong.”

He pondered for far too long—so long that Fu Yanzong lost his patience. He set down his chopsticks and leaned forward, peering at Song Linyu with a puzzled expression.

Fu Yanzong drew too close, close enough that the teardrop mole beneath his eye flashed before Song Linyu, framed by his jet-black lashes. Song Linyu instinctively squeezed his eyes shut.

Strands of Fu Yanzong’s loose hair brushed unknowingly across Song Linyu’s eyelids, leaving a faint itch in their wake.

A moment later, Song Linyu felt the warm pad of Fu Yanzong’s fingertip press against his eyelid. Heat seeped through the thin skin, right to his quivering pupil, sending a shiver through him.

“Open your eyes. Look at me.”

Fu Yanzong spoke those words.

Song Linyu couldn’t refuse when he used that tone. He gently lifted his lids, his long lashes trembling as he heard Fu Yanzong ask—with sincere curiosity—”Then give me a reason, Song Linyu. What do you really want from me?”

“If… if I said it was you?”

Song Linyu stared intently at Fu Yanzong, whose brows had furrowed. Then, with sudden gravity, he delivered his answer in a whisper soft as a dream.

For a rare moment, Fu Yanzong was caught off guard.

And in that fleeting distraction, he watched as Song Linyu tilted his head up and pressed an obedient, devout kiss to his lips.