Countless Blossoms: The Actor's Gamble | Chapter 49 | The Egret in Snow | Novela.app

Chapter 49 - The Egret in Snow A movie was, after all, just a movie. Qi Bailu kept his gaze fixed resolutely on the screen, determined to treat Ruan Qiuji as nothing more than a piece of inanimate wood. He tried to convince himself that this was no big deal, yet there was something undeniably surreal and unsettling about watching one’s own erotic performance alongside a man who clearly harbored designs on him. In a public cinema, the presence of a crowd might have offered a buffer of anonymity. Here, in the suffocating privacy of the screening room, they were the only two souls present. Every breath was audible, every shift in posture magnified. On the screen, the youth was caught between two men like cheese in a sandwich, slowly melting under the searing heat of carnal desire. He was frail, passive, and utterly overwhelmed. As the man before him cupped his face and captured his lips, the youth let out his first sharp, ragged gasp of breath. At that exact moment, Ruan Qiuji set his glass of pomegranate juice aside. His upper body shifted slightly; while his eyes remained anchored to the screen, his hand reached toward Qi Bailu. Before Qi Bailu could even register the movement, his own arm—which had been hovering over the bowl of popcorn—jerked back instinctively. Their fingers brushed, a touch as light as a dragonfly skimming the water’s surface. Two seconds later, they both froze. The silence was shattered by the sudden, percussive thud of the popcorn bowl hitting the floor. The kernels cascaded down like a soft, white waterfall abruptly cut short, or like a flurry of hail pelting the ground, though the plush carpet swallowed the violence of the sound. As the popcorn rolled away into the shadows, the only sound remaining in the stillness was the rhythmic, stifled moaning from the film. Ruan Qiuji’s hand remained extended in the air, frozen in the gesture of reaching for a snack. Qi Bailu’s hand was similarly suspended, neither of them knowing how to retreat. Slowly, Ruan Qiuji turned his head. "I’m sorry," Qi Bailu stammered, "I didn't mean to..." He lowered his hand, torn between the urge to clean up the mess and the desire to simply finish the movie. After a moment of hesitation, a defensive, ostrich-like instinct took over. He crouched down, avoiding Ruan Qiuji’s gaze, and began to gather the scattered kernels. He regretted the move almost instantly; he could feel Ruan Qiuji’s attention shifting away from the screen, his gaze dropping to follow Qi Bailu’s every movement. The floor was carpeted in white. He hadn't realized they had gone through so much popcorn until it was all over the ground. After tossing a few handfuls back into the glass bowl, Qi Bailu cleared a small space and knelt on one knee. From this vantage point, he could see the tips of Ruan Qiuji’s shoes and the hem of his trousers. The embarrassing sounds of heavy breathing from the speakers showed no sign of stopping. As he worked, Qi Bailu felt a mounting sense of oxygen deprivation. His face and ears were burning a deep crimson; he kept his head bowed low, hoping the man looming above wouldn't notice. Suddenly, Ruan Qiuji stood up and dropped into a half-crouch in front of him. Qi Bailu first saw the man’s hand reaching out to help, then his knees, his white sweater, and finally the sharp line of his chin. Qi Bailu didn't dare look any higher. He remained silent, eyes downcast. He was acutely aware of the pheromones radiating from Ruan Qiuji—a direct, primal, animalistic scent. They were both healthy, grown men; it would have been stranger if there were no reaction at all, yet such things could never be acknowledged aloud. From the corner of his eye, Qi Bailu saw the three figures on the screen, entwined like tangled waterweeds, their bodies swaying rhythmically with the ebb and flow of the scene. The camera zoomed in for a tight close-up of his own face, and his cries became... lingering. Though the cinematography was undeniably artistic, the sensory assault was nothing short of explosive. Ruan Qiuji seemed possessed of an incredible composure. He picked up the kernels with unhurried deliberation. Qi Bailu watched the man’s hand moving back and forth in front of him, praying for the ten-minute scene to end. Fortunately, the floor was nearly clear. Huddled together on the floor like this, an outsider might have mistaken them for lovers caught in a tryst. Any other two people in this situation might have ignited like dry tinder, yet here they were, meticulously picking up popcorn. Almost done. Just one last kernel lay lonely on the carpet, right by Ruan Qiuji’s foot. Qi Bailu reached for it as if trying to catch a fallen star made of white marshmallow, but the star was suddenly eclipsed by a cloud. Instead of the popcorn, Qi Bailu’s hand closed around Ruan Qiuji’s. For a heartbeat, all the noise in the room vanished. The world within the movie felt leagues away. What he held was real—a warm, solid hand. Ruan Qiuji’s palm was pressed over that single kernel as if it were a miraculous seed cast down from deep space, something they both had to scramble for. Qi Bailu felt as if he had been burned and tried to pull away, but Ruan Qiuji was faster. He flipped his hand over, covering the back of Qi Bailu’s and pinning it firmly to the floor. Qi Bailu didn't look up, but he knew Ruan Qiuji was staring down at him. Their foreheads were inches apart; if he raised his head, he would bump right into the man’s chin. Ruan Qiuji’s fingers slowly slid into the gaps between Qi Bailu’s, interlacing their hands and pinning his palm flat. The sexual subtext of the gesture was overwhelming. As he felt those fingers slotting into place, Qi Bailu felt his resolve waver for the very first time. In the dim, flickering light of the projector, Ruan Qiuji’s eyes fixed on the top button just below Qi Bailu’s collarbone. If he started there—if he reached out, unfastened it, and let the fabric slide off those shoulders—he could lay him open. From this moment on, the boy could belong to him completely, inside and out. Ruan Qiuji looked at the flush on the boy’s ears, the eyes hidden behind long lashes. If he were to lean in and kiss him now... Suddenly, Ruan Qiuji’s gaze turned dark and inscrutable. It wasn't desire that changed his expression, but the sight of a deep ring of teeth marks on the back of Qi Bailu’s neck. Worse than the bite were the bruises—dark blossoms left by heavy sucking and gnawing. Though the colors had faded, they were a stark, violent reminder of what this body had endured. It was a deliberate mark, a brand of sovereignty left by another man. Ruan Qiuji watched in silence for a moment before abruptly pulling back. He released Qi Bailu’s hand, stood up, and tossed the final piece of popcorn into the bowl. Qi Bailu blinked, stunned by the sudden withdrawal. He couldn't tell if he felt relieved or disappointed; he only felt that he had perhaps judged the man too harshly. Qi Bailu stood up as well, looking at the "gentleman" before him. Ruan Qiuji took the bowl away, noting that the popcorn was no longer fit to eat. "Do you want more?" he asked. "No," Qi Bailu replied. "Should we... finish the movie?" Ruan Qiuji agreed naturally, and they returned to their seats. Holding his cold glass of pomegranate juice, Qi Bailu slowly regained his composure. His mind wandered for a moment, but the plot soon pulled him back in. Ruan Qiuji’s face betrayed nothing, but his emotions had been tightly reined in, leaving behind a faint, chilling aura of detachment. The explicit scene drew to a close. The female lead watched through a cracked door, her calm eyes meeting the protagonist’s. She watched his suffering like an outsider, yet she wasn't entirely indifferent. There was sympathy in her gaze, and resentment. She was like a sugar figurine, stuck in place, unable to move. She couldn't save him, and she couldn't join them. During an interview at Cannes, a reporter had asked Qi Bailu why he had accepted such a provocative role. They asked if he felt his body was being exploited and how he interpreted the scene. Qi Bailu had felt that exploitation intensely, and even now, he wasn't sure if his performance was so haunting because he had channeled the things Zheng Kunyu had done to him. He remembered the angles his body had been bent into; he remembered every agonizing detail. The interpretation was simple enough. In the film, he had no name, no family, no past. He was purely a figment of her imagination, a substitute for her own self-consolation. He was the projection of her desire for an older male figure, a doll warped under the pressure of power. Because the plot of *Dewy Night Run* was so bold, the director had been savaged by critics upon its release. They didn't speak during the second half of the film. When the credits rolled, they moved to the living room. Ruan Qiuji lit a cigarette, pausing to ask if Qi Bailu minded. Qi Bailu shook his head. He expected Ruan Qiuji to say something—about the film, or perhaps the popcorn—but the man simply stood there, smoking and watching him. He looked the same as always, yet there was a subtle air of preoccupation about him. With the whole afternoon ahead of them and Lin Yuewei still out, they ordered takeout and found an old Western to watch. The tales of gunslingers and vendettas were easy to get lost in, allowing the tension to dissipate. Halfway through the movie, Ruan Qiuji spoke up out of the blue. "President Zheng went to Yunnan?" "Ah." Qi Bailu’s confirmation was tinged with a questioning note, wondering why the topic had suddenly shifted to his patron. "When is he back?" "Tomorrow." Qi Bailu didn't overthink it, assuming Ruan Qiuji had business matters to discuss with Zheng Kunyu. "Good," Ruan Qiuji replied casually. Qi Bailu glanced at him, but his attention was quickly snatched back by the iconic whistling of the film’s soundtrack. He didn't have time to ponder exactly what Ruan Qiuji meant by "good." ***