Peaches and Plums Don’t Speak – Chapter 92
by Little PandaDrunk
After it became clear there was no possibility with Liao Chengyu, Yan Xi had actually prepared herself for the likelihood of spending her life alone. Especially now that Anzhi was older—once she started university, she would need her less and less. So the life Yan Xi envisioned was this: work, cultivate hobbies, travel.
But a recent series of events, both professional and personal, had left her feeling adrift. By mid-June, when Grandfather Yan’s follow-up examination results came back, she breathed a deep sigh of relief only after seeing them. During that period, she had been staying at the Old Residence, commuting three hours each day, and the exhaustion had made her noticeably thinner and more haggard. Grandfather Yan sent all the working family members back to their own homes.
When Yan Xi returned home, she realized Anzhi wasn’t there either—she had gone to summer camp. She sat alone in the living room for a long while, shaking her head with a rueful smile. Why was she, a grown woman, sulking at Anzhi? She wanted to call her, but then it struck her—wait, Anzhi hadn’t called her either…
A flicker of irritation rose in Yan Xi’s chest, and she pulled back the hand that had been reaching for her phone.
While she hesitated, the phone rang. Yan Xi’s heart skipped a beat. The next second, she saw Gao Jiming’s name flashing on the screen.
She rubbed her forehead. Right. There was still this.
Gao Jiming had been sending flowers to the TV station for a month. Yan Xi couldn’t stop him—he claimed they were already ordered. For that entire month, her female colleagues happily carried fresh blooms home each day, while Yan Xi couldn’t bring herself to feel pleased.
“I don’t like flowers.”
“I just want people to know I’m pursuing you.”
That was what he’d said when he pursued her in the second semester of her freshman year. Back then, because he was a campus celebrity, practically the whole school found out.
Now, nearly everyone at the station knew too. Some female colleagues even said enviously, “He’s handsome, financially stable, attentive and romantic—you should hurry up and say yes.”
In truth, Yan Xi didn’t mind receiving flowers occasionally. She just didn’t care for such ostentatious displays, as if the whole world had to witness his pursuit.
Yan Xi didn’t answer the call. He called again.
“Come out for a drink together?”
“I’m busy.”
“You’re at your own place right now, aren’t you? Yan Xi…”
Yan Xi frowned. “Which member of my family did you buy off?”
Gao Jiming smiled without answering.
Yan Xi cut straight to the point. “I have absolutely no desire to rekindle anything. Don’t waste your effort.”
“Can’t you give me one more chance?”
“No.”
“‘A gentle and graceful lady, the gentleman seeks her1‘—you can’t stop me. Rest well. I won’t disturb you today.”
Yan Xi simply switched off her phone.
Conditions at the station hadn’t improved. If anything, during this year’s dog days of summer2, the conflicts had intensified. More and more taboos and restrictions, proposal after proposal being shot down. The faction that advocated for compromise and stability argued endlessly with the faction pushing for innovation. The work atmosphere grew increasingly oppressive. Some veteran media figures chose to resign; others hung on, waiting for clearer skies; some, clinging to the security of their state-affiliated positions, drifted along despite their disapproval; others read the writing on the wall and moved to other stations for easier work with better pay.
Human nature in all its varieties, taking shape after shape—it left Yan Xi bewildered. Even though her position in the Entertainment Channel shielded her from the worst of it, how could she not feel the heat when she was in the same boiling pot?
In August, an old director who had mentored Yan Xi since she joined the station resigned. In Yan Xi’s eyes, this old director was a dedicated, admirable media professional—someone who would work through the night for a single program, who would obsess over a single shot, a single piece of footage, to get it right. The stated reason for his resignation was family, but everyone knew the real reason—his heart had grown cold.
A few colleagues who were close to him held a farewell gathering. The old director was only a little over fifty. He didn’t say much—just drank. When his face was flushed red from alcohol, he said: “‘We went from being the people’s mouthpiece to being the Party’s mouthpiece, and now they’ve simply cut out the tongue altogether.'”3
No one knew how to comfort him. Everyone had their own grievances, their own swallowed complaints. They could only drink with him. Even Yan Xi, who rarely drank outside, had quite a bit that night.
The old director’s parting words were: “Don’t let the glamour of this job blind you. Beyond the glamour, we still have a responsibility.”
“But—most importantly—figure out what you want, what you’re pursuing. This applies to work, and to life as well.”
“My wife is in poor health, and there’s no one to take care of my child’s schooling. So right now, my family is most important. I’ve worked hard at this job, poured my sweat into it. Thinking of it that way, I have no regrets.”
Yan Xi left half-drunk. It didn’t show on her face. After they parted ways, she walked a few steps along the roadside, wanting to let the wind clear her head. But the moment the breeze hit her, the alcohol rushed up. Her temples throbbed with a dull, pulsing pain.
A blue-gray Bentley Mulsanne pulled up in front of her and gave a gentle tap of the horn. Gao Jiming leaned out the window, a smile on his lips.
Yan Xi said, “…Which colleague did you buy off this time?”
“I’ll take you home first. It’s hard to get a cab here.” His voice was gentle.
He studied her. Her hair was tied back, revealing her pale, slender neck. Her cheeks were flushed, but her expression was calm and detached—no trace of drunkenness at all.
“I know you know boxing. Relax.” Gao Jiming smiled. “And you can really hold your liquor.”
Yan Xi checked her location on her phone. She had walked some distance, and just as he’d said—this stretch of road wasn’t easy for catching a cab.
She paused, then declined his suggestion to sit in the front passenger seat and climbed into the back.
The car began to move. Outside the window, the night was tender, the lights sparse and dim.
Gao Jiming turned on the music. “‘Still haven’t met / that perfect match meant for me, You haven’t appeared at all, Or perhaps you’ve already slipped away…'”4
Yan Xi closed her eyes to rest. Eason Chan’s songs—they had always been a shared favorite.
“I sometimes think, if I hadn’t gone abroad back then, maybe we’d be married by now, maybe even have…”
Yan Xi’s brow twitched. “You’re taking too much for granted. Besides, life doesn’t have ‘what ifs.'”
Gao Jiming fell silent.
When they reached her residential complex, Gao Jiming insisted on walking her to her door.
“No need! I’m not drunk at all. Besides, it’s a hassle to get into the complex—you’d have to register.”
Yan Xi said, “Thank you for the ride.” She waved her hand and started to walk away. Gao Jiming watched her cold demeanor, and his expression darkened slightly. He caught her wrist.
Wearing high heels, Yan Xi stumbled from the pull. Gao Jiming took the opportunity to step forward and wrap his arms around her. Yan Xi’s forehead throbbed violently, a sharp pain slicing through her head. Her stomach felt bloated and uncomfortable. The smell of his cologne only made it worse.
“Yan Xi, you’re beautiful.” Gao Jiming lowered his gaze to look at her. His lips began to descend.
Yan Xi spoke flatly: “You really shouldn’t.”
Gao Jiming glanced down. Yan Xi’s fist was already pressed against his abdomen. Her high heel was grinding into his leather shoe. Her knee was angled toward the space between his legs.
“Let go.” Yan Xi’s voice was utterly without inflection.
Gao Jiming had no choice but to release her. In truth, Yan Xi’s head was splitting, her whole body ill at ease. She struggled to keep it from showing. She had barely steadied herself when a soft, clear voice called from nearby:
“Auntie.”
“Taotao?”
Anzhi’s gaze swept over the two of them. She hesitated, uncertain whether to approach. But when she got a clear look at Yan Xi’s face, she broke into a small run toward her.
The moment Anzhi reached her side, Yan Xi caught her hand and leaned against her. Anzhi immediately supported her, shooting a glare at Gao Jiming.
Leaving him behind, the two of them walked toward the complex’s main gate.
“Auntie, are you okay?” Anzhi asked worriedly. Yan Xi reeked of alcohol, her cheeks rosy.
“Support me. My head hurts.” Yan Xi murmured, but she was careful not to lean too heavily, afraid she’d be too heavy. Unexpectedly, soft arms slipped around her shoulders, half-embracing her. “Auntie, it’s okay. You’re not heavy.” Yan Xi felt dazed. Her shoulder brushed against the girl’s slender, resilient one. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a sliver of pale skin, a familiar scent. Finally, Yan Xi relaxed.
Anzhi helped her home and had her sit in the living room. Then she went to search for hangover remedies on her phone.
Yan Xi gave a soft laugh. “I’m not drunk. Just pour me some hot water.”
Anzhi did as she said and brought her a cup of warm water. But though Yan Xi looked sober, her movements betrayed her—she reached for the cup several times and missed.
Anzhi muttered, “And you said you weren’t drunk.” She held the cup to Yan Xi’s lips. Yan Xi curved her lips, smiling sheepishly. “Hmm. Seems I am a little drunk.”
Anzhi said, “Just drink the water.”
Yan Xi took a sip. “…Hot.”
Anzhi immediately took the cup back and took a sip herself, puzzled. “It’s fine.”
Yan Xi tilted her head, smiling. “Oh. Then let me have it.”
Anzhi’s face warmed. She said awkwardly, “I just drank from it. Let me get you another cup.”
“This one’s fine.” Yan Xi’s fingertips rested on the back of Anzhi’s hand as she took small sip after small sip.
“You sit here for a moment. I’m going to lock the door.” Anzhi steadied herself, then hurried out. She locked the main gate, the inner door, the entrance door—one by one—and returned to the living room. Yan Xi was no longer there.
She hurried upstairs. Yan Xi was lying on the living room sofa, eyes closed. Her long lashes fanned out like two rows of feathered plumes.
“Is it okay to sleep here?” Anzhi walked over.
Yan Xi’s hair had been undone. It spilled over the leather cushion, the ends slightly curled. Anzhi gathered it in her palm—smooth and dark, like a waterfall of black silk.
Anzhi watched her silently for a long while, then went to get makeup remover wipes to take off her makeup.
The foundation, slightly worn, didn’t look bad on her face; it had melted into her skin, giving it a delicate sheen. She hadn’t worn eye makeup—only her brows were drawn, her lips colored.
Anzhi’s touch was feather-light as she brushed over Yan Xi’s eyebrows, her forehead, her cheeks. She changed to a fresh wipe and gently wiped her lips. Anzhi took great care not to linger on them.
When the surface makeup was gone, she dampened a cotton pad with warm water, laid it over Yan Xi’s face to steam it gently, then used another to wipe it clean.
Then she returned to the room for toner. She soaked a cotton pad and patted it gently into Yan Xi’s skin. Every step was careful, attentive—though her heart trembled faintly the whole time.
The corner of Yan Xi’s mouth lifted. She opened her eyes and looked at her. “Very professional.”
Anzhi smiled, a little embarrassed. “…You weren’t asleep? Then let’s go to the bedroom.”
Yan Xi rolled over, languid. “No. I’m sleeping right here. It’s comfortable.” She narrowed her eyes. “When did you get back?”
“Today. You hadn’t come back yet, so I went out to look for you.” Anzhi said, automatically filtering out the image of them wrapped around each other.
“…Did you have fun?” Yan Xi propped herself up on one arm. Her tone was lazy. Without makeup, her skin was translucent and fair, still faintly pink.
“Mm. It was good.” Anzhi withdrew her gaze from Yan Xi’s face.
“Oh.” Yan Xi gave a soft sound of acknowledgment, lay back down, and closed her eyes.
Anzhi waited a while. Yan Xi’s breathing grew slow and even—she seemed to have truly fallen asleep. She went to the room for a thin blanket. She leaned down to cover her.
Suddenly, her wrist was caught. Yan Xi pulled her down. Anzhi stumbled and fell onto Yan Xi. It happened so fast. By the time Yan Xi had gathered her in her arms and flipped over to pin her beneath, Anzhi was still blinking, dazed—staring straight up at the woman above her, whose lips now curled into a mischievous smile.
The next second, her cheek was pinched. Yan Xi smiled. “You little ungrateful one. Gone for over two months, and not even a phone call…”
Footnotes
- A classical line from the Book of Songs (Shijing), China's oldest collection of poetry dating back to the 8th century BCE. The original phrase 'yǎotiǎo shūnǚ, jūnzǐ hǎoqiú' describes a refined gentleman's pursuit of a graceful lady.
- The 'dog days of summer' (sān fú tiān) refer to the hottest period in the Chinese lunar calendar, typically mid-July to mid-August, characterized by high humidity and heat.
- The source text uses heavy self-censorship (interpuncts and substitutions like 喉·舌, 'dang,' 舌/头, 割) to avoid platform censorship when discussing politically sensitive topics. The original phrase 'the people's mouthpiece' historically referred to media serving the public, while 'the Party's mouthpiece' reflects increased state control over journalism. The 'cutting out the tongue' metaphor comments on how even that controlled role has been further silenced.
- 'Falling Flowers, Flowing Water' (Luò Huā Liú Shuǐ) is a 2006 Cantonese song by Eason Chan featuring lyrics about missed romantic destiny and two people meant for each other who never meet.
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