Let Me Be Spoiled - Chapter 34

Zhou Yu was a chatterbox by nature, so keeping a secret was absolute torture for him. Yet when it came to actually spilling it, he didn’t have the guts. After agonizing over it, he decided to pour his heart out to his own brother.

He messaged Zhou Zhen. 

[Zhou Yu: Ge, I’ve got two huge secrets. Wanna hear?]

Zhou Zhen replied with a single “?”

Zhou Yu tried to play it cool.

[Zhou Yu: It’s about Fu Ge and his boyfriend… their little couple’s secret fun.]

Zhou Zhen’s side showed “typing…” for a long time before he finally replied.

[Zhou Zhen: You can enjoy that secret on your own. Keep your mouth shut if you want to stay alive.]

Zhou Yu didn’t expect his brother to be this much of a coward. 

[Zhou Yu: Ge! My own Ge! Don’t leave—come on, let’s keep chatting!]

All he got back was a cold, merciless red exclamation mark and a prompt.

[Zhou Zhen has enabled friend verification. You are no longer on their friends list.]

Whatever the case, the next morning, bursting with secrets, Zhou Yu boarded an early flight with Xie Yan back to Ji’an. The crew was given two days off, and Xie Yan used the time to organize the next part of the script.

White Whale was a very complete story, but the scenes weren’t filmed chronologically. All the scenes involving the orca had been separated out, and now that they were back in the studio with the effects team on site, filming could finally resume.

These were essentially solo scenes for Xie Yan so the whole set revolved around him.

Filming with special effects really tested an actor’s ability. Everything was done in front of a green screen, and the orca he interacted with was nothing more than a stuffed prop. If an actor couldn’t immerse themselves in the role, couldn’t believe in the scene, the final result would feel fake and unconvincing to the audience.

Xie Yan was doing an excellent job. He was a natural method actor, able to dive deep into the role. Whether on a real set or a green screen, it made little difference to him. Once filming began, he became Lu Fengchun. Even though these scenes were isolated from the rest of the film, the emotional progression—centered on his connection with the orca—was carefully built, step by step, with logical consistency.

When he acted, the entire set fell silent. His emotions were rich and deeply affecting. Normally, these kinds of green screen performances looked silly live while crying or laughing at a comically shaped prop. Yet everyone on set who watched him from morning to night felt moved, even knowing it was fake.

The orca scenes in the studio would take no more than a month and a half. Most of the work would come in post-production. Xie Yan had already been filming for over two weeks, and he could enter the character instantly. The only struggle was getting out of character, but chatting with Fu Qing after leaving the set helped him quickly reset.

Because of budget constraints, Sun Huaijun had compressed the schedule tightly—sometimes shooting for more than ten hours a day. The whole crew was working non-stop.

Today’s scene was about swimming freely with the orca in the sea. Xie Yan spent the entire day in the water and only climbed out of the tank when Sun Huaijun called “That’s a wrap,” and the cameras stopped rolling.

He was soaked from head to toe. His white T-shirt and black shorts dripped water, and he stood barefoot in a growing puddle.

Bending over, he wrung out his hair at the edge of the pool, took the towel Zhou Yu handed him to dry off, then wrapped himself in a bath towel and changed in a nearby partitioned area into a long hoodie, black jeans, and picked up a mask lying nearby.

He still had makeup on, but it was waterproof. Fortunately, Xie Yan had become very skilled at removing it.

Outside, Zhou Yu waited while using his phone to direct his underlings in a street fight. Since returning to Ji’an, he had stayed with Xie Yan mostly because he had nothing better to do. He was the type who couldn’t sit still—too childish for office life. Even Fu Qing knew it. Whenever Zhou Zhen tried to discipline him too strictly, Fu Qing would say a few kind words, which was probably why Zhou Yu got to be so carefree.

But deep down, whether it was working at the company or staying by Xie Yan’s side, it was all for Fu Qing. Zhou Yu even thought his job was more important.

Money could be earned again. Fu Ge was already thirty-two—boyfriends, on the other hand, don’t come around twice.

Waterproof makeup came off slowly. Most of the crew had already left. The soundstage was so empty that even light breathing echoed.

Xie Yan was standing in front of the mirror removing his makeup when he suddenly heard footsteps outside.

The steps grew closer. Then, a voice—

It was the assistant director. “Director Sun, remember when you wanted to hire that overseas effects studio? Well, no chance now. We can’t afford them.”

Sun Huaijun let out a sigh. Click—probably the sound of his lighter.

The domestic effects studio they were using was top-tier in China, but still couldn’t compare to the international elite. Sun Huaijun had high standards. It was not that the current team was bad, but knowing there was something better out there left him restless and dissatisfied.

He had been preparing this film for seven or eight years. Back then, visual effects weren’t as developed, and budgets were lower. He had saved up for years, but effects had only become more advanced and more expensive. Every frame cost a fortune.

Xie Yan wasn’t the eavesdropping type, but he found himself stopping.

Sun Huaijun took a long drag on his cigarette. “What else can we do? We’ve come this far. One step at a time. We finish the shoot first… we’ll find a way to fund the effects later. There’s always a way.”

The assistant director sounded troubled. “Even if we finish shooting, that’s just our dream fulfilled. But without proper effects, the film can’t be released.”

Their voices slowly faded away.

Xie Yan paused, then continued removing his makeup.

He had loved movies since he was a kid. Though he hated crowds, every weekend afternoon he’d claim the best seat for movie screenings. Other kids were noisy and couldn’t sit still, but he was always fully absorbed in the story.

Gorgeous, decadent, hopeless, painful, or joyful.

A thousand people, a thousand choices, a thousand different lives.

He didn’t envy them. He just found them fascinating.

It was a rare spark in his otherwise uneventful life.

Later, when Xie Yan first encountered cameras and scripts, he realized he didn’t just enjoy movies—he wanted to experience them. He wanted to record and share those moments with others.

Before White Whale, he hadn’t fully grasped it. That making a movie wasn’t about one person, it was the result of everyone’s efforts.

After finishing his makeup removal, Xie Yan washed his face with cold water and walked out—sure enough, he found Sun Huaijun and the assistant director smoking by the window at the corner.

Sun Huaijun looked up and saw him. “You haven’t left yet?”

Xie Yan leaned against the wall, half-squatted, pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and said softly, “I heard what you said just now.”

Sun Huaijun flushed. Though he always joked about being broke and was incredibly stingy, it was still embarrassing to be overheard talking about financial trouble. “So what if we’re short on money? We’re not starving you, are we? Just focus on acting, don’t worry about anything else.”

Zhou Yu had just walked up when he heard Xie Yan say, “You don’t have to pay me the remaining 50,000.”

The assistant director panicked. “You’ve been filming so long and your whole pay is only 100,000. That 50,000—we’re not short on that!”

Xie Yan tapped his ash and stubbed out the cigarette. He stood, slowly put on his mask, and said, “Fifty thousand… that’s at least enough for a few days of crew meals. I don’t need it, but someone else might.”

He simply did what he could so he could live with a clear conscience.

Zhou Yu rushed to catch up, still shocked. “Xie Ge, if you give up your pay, how are you going to live?”

Xie Yan’s mask covered his face. Zhou Yu couldn’t see his expression and only heard him say, “I don’t spend much.”

Driving him home in a beat-up old car, Zhou Yu kept thinking that if it were him—if he had worked this hard on a movie, and it couldn’t be released because of money—he would probably lose it.

Not to mention that after all this, Xie Yan’s pay was only 100,000. It’s not even enough to buy a decent watch.

And yet Xie Yan still wanted to pay off Fu Ge’s tab. That was basically going bankrupt for love.

This love—this relationship—was real.

In the name of protecting it, Zhou Yu quickly reported everything to Fu Qing.

[Zhou Yu: Fu-ge, I’ve got something to tell you. That movie Xie Ge’s filming—heard the director say they’re out of money. It might not even get released.]

Fu Qing replied: [Got it.]

The next day, Fu Qing showed up at the set to take Xie Yan out to dinner back in the old street.

When he arrived, the set was chaotic. The machines had been put away, but the last shot hadn’t gone well and needed to be redone. Sun Huaijun and Xie Yan were reviewing footage and seemed to be discussing something, while the rest of the crew scrambled to reset the equipment. No one noticed an extra person had appeared.

Fu Qing remembered what Zhou Yu once said. Xie Yan was like a different person depending on whether Fu Qing was around. His entire demeanor changed.

Fu Qing hadn’t thought much of it. In his eyes, Xiao Xie’s personality was always adorable—no matter the setting.

But this time, he didn’t call out. He stayed hidden in the crowd and watched carefully.

Sure enough—there were differences.

For example, when Xie Yan spoke to others, he was cold—not angry, not impatient—just distant. He didn’t care about others. His face was expressionless, and he rarely spoke unless necessary.

When he was with Fu Qing, he was full of little gestures. When unhappy, he would frown slightly and talk a lot. When happy, he would smile and even his eyes sparkled.

Maybe it was because he had been watching too long, but eventually Xie Yan noticed someone was looking at him.

He looked up—and through the crowd, the cameras, and the chaos—he saw Fu Qing instantly.

As if everything and everyone else faded into the background.

Xie Yan’s hair was wet, clinging to his cheeks. He froze for a moment, then tucked the messy strands behind his ear, pressed his lips together, and gave Fu Qing a small smile.

Fu Qing’s heart skipped a beat.

He suddenly wondered—could it be that his Xiao Xie liked him too?

Because every kind of affection leaves traces.

And it felt like he had just found the signs that Xiao Xie liked him.

But maybe… he hadn’t.