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It happens fast, once the world starts burning around one person. Gongjun is contracted to remain in Hengdian for most of it, something his staff is probably grateful for. He shows up in front of the cameras (he’s not the one whose world is burning), walks through the beautiful sets as though there is indeed another world where loyalty can be proved by a sword, and fires can be put out by channeled qi or a sacrifice.
There is only a short text message, a pained apology, a bittersweet farewell. I’m sorry, Junjun. It’s over.
By the time he leaves Hengdian, it is finished—completely and utterly burnt to ashes. He tries, during one impulsive afternoon, to pass by that Shanghai apartment.
It’s empty.
There are no replies to his texts, no one to pick up his calls. He switches from contact to contact on his phone like a madman, tears streaming down his cheeks as he begs someone, anyone, to give him an update, to give him something.
Xiao Yu finally gives in, months later. Just a terse reply. He’s fine. Don’t call.
Cold, cruel. Gongjun grips the phone with shaking hands as he sobs, the knives stabbing in his chest.
His phone vibrates. Interview in 1hr. Pickup in 10.
Gongjun exhales. Another interview, another endorsement, another stop in the galaxy for a rising star. He moves to the bathroom, splashes cold water on his face as he wills the swelling on his eyes to subside. Ah, the makeup jiejies are going to kill him again.
He moves on. He can do little else. He’s not stupid—if the flames didn’t reach him, it’s because the dagger cutting him off was ice-cold, efficient, swift. It doesn’t make his heart hurt any less.
Five years go by in a blur of drama and movie projects, his star never dimming. He’s been born under a lucky one, the industry says. Project after project is impeccable—just the right chemistry with his co-stars, just the right script, just the right director. Endorsements pour in like clockwork, switching through the seasons. His fanbase grows and wanes just like any other, but it soon becomes a solid foundation that only a few can match.
He never gets another text from Xiao Yu or him ever again. The burning demolition was complete, absolute. It’s like he never existed. It’s as if that summer never happened. It numbs him to the core and freezes his spirit from the inside out.
But still—Gongjun smiles and captures hearts. No one bothers to ask him if he’s happy. Why would they? He should be.
He’s not.
It’s another year-end awards show, with all the glitz and glam that their industry thrives on. There are drama awards, actor/actress awards, production awards, and even an honorary award on the program with a surprise recipient, something about national pride in the arts, bringing honor to the motherland and all that. Gongjun is faintly curious, but not enough to go prying around. It’s another event, another ceremony to smile for the cameras, and he’s both an awardee and an honorary presenter. It's nothing but another role to play.
His staff seem flustered today though, their movements more jerky than usual, their running around more frenetic and harried. It’s always like this during big year-end events—all these stars in one venue, all the opportunity for fans to close-read interactions and outfits and Weibo posts like some sort of secret language. Everything has to be absolutely perfect.
His makeup staff isn’t any different, and he winces for the second time as they pound on the foundation a bit too strongly.
“Aiya,” he says in gentle reproach, pulling back a little from the heavy hands. “Jie, I have to make money with this face.”
The murmured apologies are brushed away with a smile as he settles back into the chair. “Are you more nervous than usual about my look today, jie? I won’t be under the lights for long, I don’t think I’ll have time to sweat this off anyway.”
His makeup artist just stutters and shakes her head, opting to continue the rest of the look in silence. As she applies extra waterproofing setting spray more than once over his face, Gongjun quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t push it. He gives them enough grief, but they’re good people. He has to think about their raise next year.
His assistant runs up to him in a panic, shoving revised cue cards in his face. In some weird program scheduling fluke, Gongjun finds out that he isn’t the award presenter—he’s reading out the introduction to the actual award presenter who turns out to be an upper functionary in one of the many government bodies overseeing their industry. That’s fine, it makes sense—the honorary award is more ceremonial than anything, a recognition of patriotism and contributions beyond entertainment.
He shrugs and tucks the cue cards into his suit pocket.
Gongjun plasters on his trademark beaming smile as he walks on stage to read his part, standing slightly to the left of the podium and using his own microphone. He finds all the cameras, even the livestreaming one, just for his fans’ screenshots. He knows they love that.
The music quiets, and he reads out the introduction given to him with mild curiosity, and steps back as the official walks onto the stage and takes the podium mic to polite applause.
“It is our honor to present this award in recognition for the creation of arts that bring pride to the motherland…"
Gongjun listens politely as the official outlines the background of the awardee. An overseas small independent studio committed to creating media about China, apparently an award-winner at several European festivals. Impressive—no wonder this studio director has garnered the attention of the domestic industry.
“This award is hereby awarded to—studio director Zhang Zhehan.”
The applause is muted, perfunctory and surprised. Say what you want—this audience is the type to never forget, much less forgive. Gongjun freezes, the lights on and offstage blurring together as he ducks his head down to consult his own cue cards. His breath feels knocked out of his lungs.
The notes are cold, impersonal. Awardee enters from stage right.
A beat, the lights adjust, and there he is. Gongjun is standing on stage left, in the back corner—he has the best viewpoint.
Beads of sweat are starting to appear along his hairline, the rest of his foundation clinging on for dear life under the hold of waterproof setting spray, applied twice. Ah, jie knew. One application for the sweat, maybe a second for the tears. Just in case. He’s gained a reputation for crying prettily, after all.
Of course his staff must have known—some of them used to be his, after all. All it would have taken would have been a few hurried WeChat messages, the way gossip spreads like wildfire among the true workers that keep this industry going.
His heart whispers treacherously anyways. Of all of them, why was he not told?
The awardee (Zhang Zhehan, Gongjun thinks mutely, fills in the blank with a name, turning it over and over in his head—he never thought he would hear that name again on a stage like this) is walking on now, and it takes everything within Gongjun to stand still, to keep a neutral face, even as he knows the fans must be taking a thousand screenshots of the livestream right now.
He looks good, Gongjun thinks. He looks well. Those fan groups must take good screenshots of this. His hair is long now, not as long as that one summer—but long enough to frame his face, to draw attention to those elegant cheekbones. His skin is flawless, glowing under the stage lights. The suit is tailored, expensive—the leather dress shoes make a muted clackclackclack across the stage. He was meant to be here. Studio director Zhang Zhehan.
Gongjun stays where he is, rooted to the spot, fingers clutching the edge of his cue card until it digs into his skin, the heavy metal of the handheld microphone growing damp with his palm’s perspiration. He consults the cue card again and again, desperately looking for that line where it tells him to exit the stage.
There is none. Perhaps a misprint, an error, a cruel joke. He cannot leave until this whole segment is done.
Acceptance speech 3 min. All three exit stage left. Music cue.
And now that infuriating precious man is smiling at the presenter as he comes to the podium, shaking hands. Gongjun feels his own heart stutter and skip several beats at the sight of that megawatt smile. He’s accepting the award now, holding the artistic twisted metal figure in his hands as the presenter steps back, the three of them in a diagonal line across the stage—Gongjun at the very back.
Gongjun swallows. He’s witnessing a phoenix rising from the ashes, but he’s one of those caught in the dust cloud. It hurts to breathe.
Zhehan opens his mouth, but the sound of the podium mic cuts out. Gongjun’s heart beats faster and faster. A sound malfunction now, really? He wouldn’t be surprised if this was timed. His da-ge has never had many things go his way. Faintly, he can overhear the panic of the technicians in the wings, the harried decision of making an underdressed staff member run on or awkwardly hand a microphone from below stage or—
Zhehan taps the podium mic a few times and blinks at the lack of sound, turning towards stage left, towards the technicians’ station, and oh, towards Gongjun.
As his da-ge’s eyes slide towards him, Gongjun wants to disappear. He wants to run away. He wants to run towards him. He wants to curl into himself. He wants to shake Zhehan so hard and push him away, he wants to hold him close and never let go.
Zhehan’s eyes meet his, his face breaking out into that fond soft small smile that was always only for him, and Gongjun forgets how to breathe. He’s walking toward him now, oh, oh, please, wait—
“Gong-laoshi, may I borrow that?” The question is whispered, soft, as though they are the only ones in the world and not on a pedestal exposed for the world to scrutinize. Gongjun follows the hand pointing down to the handheld microphone in his hands, the green light still blinking. Oh.
He’s still frozen, the air is still dead, this is practically a mortal sin for an awards ceremony, the official is looking between the two of them with a questioning gaze—
“I’ll explain to you later,” Zhehan says, his eyes softening even more into something apologetic even as his mouth curves up in a smirk. This bastard. His lines, really? Word for word, too. Gongjun wishes he really did have a sword now. Maybe he’d run him through with it. Maybe he’d take the both of them and fly away.
He hands over the microphone wordlessly anyway, his movement jerky and graceless. Zhehan nods in gratitude as he turns around and speaks into the microphone, slowly walking back to center stage and recapturing everyone’s attention. He’s cramming his acceptance into two minutes instead of three, Gongjun notices dully. He wasted the one minute trying to get the microphone.
The music swells in crescendo with the applause that is now more amazed than polite, and Gongjun blinks through the lights to see some of the industry bigwigs in the front rows actually putting their hands together. Well. Who can argue with honor for the nation?
The lights dim and the three of them exit stage left, Gongjun politely shaking hands with the official before retreating into the darkness of the stage wings. He doesn’t know where Zhehan is, he’s done for the night, does he have to attend the rest of it? His feet carry him to his dressing room without thinking, a few of his staff already tidying up for the night. He lets them work around him, taking off his outer coat to collapse on the beat-up cushion and close his eyes for a while, his heart doing somersaults in his chest.
“Gong-laoshi.”
The voice startles him, followed by the soft shutting of the door. Gongjun gets up and looks around—they’re alone. Right. His staff knew.
He didn’t.
He can’t bring himself to look at Zhehan, all aglow—as though the last five years of excruciating silence haven’t happened, as though they’ve all just woken up from a bad dream.
His da-ge is sitting down beside him now, the cushion dipping under both their weights. They’re so close, closer than they’ve been in five years. Working on impulse, he brings up his fists against that broad chest, pounding down with restrained frustrated strength.
“Ai, Lao Gong.” Long fingers wrap around his wrists. “This is the best day of my whole life.” Zhehan says with too-bright eyes, and Gongjun narrows his eyes because the other man is obviously reciting, damn him. “Don’t beat me here.”
“Stop that.” This insane man. Is he actually enjoying this, these parallels? Does he think he’s finally given Zhou Zishu the revenge he deserves on the opposite side of a secret?
“Stop what?”
Trust Zhang Zhehan to come up with something crazy, something totally out of left field and unpredictable.
“You’re not him. We’re not them.”
“I always wanted to play Wen Kexing.”
Gongjun almost laughs bitterly at the absurdity of it all. What comes out is a small scoff. “This isn’t the jianghu.”
Zhehan’s gaze hardens, just a bit, and Gongjun tries not to tremble. “No. Ours is a much more vicious world.”
And Gongjun knows that’s true. He doesn’t want to know or imagine the deals that have been cut behind closed doors, the portions of his soul that Zhehan had to sell to crawl his way back here through the ashes, all bloodied fingertips clinging to a cliffside, the mob ready to pull him down if he so much as let go.
“Five years.” The words burn out of him, angry tears falling down his cheeks. “Five years. Why?”
Zhehan, at least, has the presence of mind to look a little guilty. “I had to protect—“
“Protect me.” Gongjun huffs, brushing away his tears with shaking hands. “I would have been fine.”
“You’re fine now,” Zhehan smiles, a little victoriously. “More than fine, I’ll say. Our Junjun is a bright lucky star.”
“I could have—“
“No.” It’s Zhehan’s turn to burn in indignation now, eyes sparking. “No. You couldn’t have. You would have gone down too.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
The silence is heavy, weighed down by five years of torturous quiet. Gongjun breaks it with a whisper. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Would you believe me if I said I wanted it to be a surprise?”
“The staff knew.”
“Of course they did. Xiao Yu was never a good secret-keeper. I just told him not to tell you.”
Gongjun’s hands are shaking again. Zhehan looks over, eyes softened in sympathy, apology, and love, and covers those trembling fingers with his own. “I’m sorry.”
“You left without a word, and you show up like this—“ his voice shakes.
“You don’t have to forgive me.”
Gongjun laughs through his tears, because he already has. From the moment he heard that name and looked to stage right—he knows he already has.
“How—how have you been doing?” The other man’s voice is hesitant, unsure.
Gongjun stares at him. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”
Zhehan waves him off. “Unimportant. I want to know about you.”
“I’m hurt. Did you really not watch a single one of my works over the past five years?”
“I’m not talking about your projects, although we will have to discuss exactly why you go shirtless in every one of them.” Zhehan’s eyes are piercing, searching for something within Gongjun, something that Gongjun isn’t sure he’ll find. Hell, he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to find it if he looks at himself.
Zhehan is looking for his happiness, and Gongjun’s pretty sure it burned away five years ago.
"You watched every one of them?" It's a poor attempt at distraction, at avoiding scrutiny—but Zhehan fixes him with a look that makes Gongjun feel silly for asking. Of course I did. Every last one.
"You're not answering my question."
“I’m fine. I’ve been fine.”
“Don’t lie.”
“What, you’re the only one allowed to?”
Zhehan turns away at that, and Gongjun winces. “I’m sorry—“
“No, don’t. I deserved that.” Zhehan exhales.
They’re not sure how they fit together anymore. All they know is that they still do.
“Let’s go home first,” Zhehan says lightly, leaning back into the cushions and looking up at the dirty white ceiling. “I will tell you everything after we’re home.”
Gongjun almost rolls his eyes at the familiarity of the words, but the infernal man’s not done. He turns his head to see the smirking lips beside him, the mischievous eyes. “By then, it’s all up to you—“
“—how to take care of me.” Gongjun finishes, the two of them saying it in unison, the heartfelt words from another world echoing around the room and into their bones like an unfinished promise. Cut short five years ago, maybe—maybe they could live it out now. Zhehan turns to him and smiles, the unguarded kind that makes Gongjun melt.
“Do you want to complete the script?" It's his turn to tease, damn it—he can't let the other man have all the fun. "Didi has grown to be quite the heartthrob, I could call him over to call you shifu—“
“Shut up, Lao Wen.”