The following week, they each went about their own business.
As a professional painter, Su Qingci spent half his days holed up in his studio—a habit cultivated since living with Pei Jingchen. When he lived alone, he resembled a mad scientist, so absorbed in painting that he could lock himself in his studio for an entire month without stepping outside.
Su Qingci teased himself that while he was hopelessly smitten, it hadn’t reached the point of no return—he hadn’t neglected his painting because of Pei Jingchen.
He possessed an obsessive, almost fanatical devotion to the things he loved, like his possessiveness toward Pei Jingchen and his obsession with painting.
Pei Jingchen could easily sway his mood, yet never hindered his painting.
In a way, he was also a workaholic when it came to his career. This was the only aspect where he truly aligned with Pei Jingchen.
Su Qingci’s paintings weren’t dark; their colors were vivid and clear, with some pieces radiating warmth and lightness. Yet beneath the intense hues lay hidden metaphors—suppressed, sorrowful, or lonely.
Collectors often remarked his paintings possessed a magic: at first glance, one was dazzled by the masterful play of light and shadow; upon closer inspection, they provoked deep contemplation and overflowing emotion, leaving a complex mix of feelings after prolonged viewing.
Early that morning, Su Qingci mounted a fresh canvas and completed a new painting in just three hours.
When Annelise knocked, Su Qingci had already varnished the canvas. He was curled up in a beanbag sofa surrounded by lavender, sipping coffee from a rival brand.
Annalise wasted no time in approaching the tea station, only to exclaim in alarm, “Where’s my Wulin?”
Su Qingci: “Threw it away.”
Annalise: “…”
Su Qingci was a coffee enthusiast, yet he never drank coffee from his own brand. When asked why, he simply said he’d grown tired of it since childhood.
Annalise was a milk tea addict who couldn’t stand coffee—unless it was Wulin. To keep things neat with Su the painter, she’d deliberately left two tins of coffee beans in the studio for his visits. True to form, this jerk had tossed them aside as bothersome. Fortunately, she was prepared—she pulled out a can of instant coffee from her leather handbag, ready to drink. Just as she took a sip, her peripheral vision caught sight of a painting in the distance, and she choked violently.
It was a painting of sunflowers.
The colors are dazzlingly vivid, the petals taut with tension, the brushstrokes solid and vigorous, radiating a majestic, vibrant brilliance. Through his unique technique, he interprets the beauty of light and shadow, capturing the sunflower’s distinctive luster and contours with consummate skill.
Annalise held her breath: “When did you paint this?”
Su Qingci: “Five hours and seven minutes ago.”
“Holy crap, you’re the real deal!” Annelise saw not the painting, but glittering euros! Damn impressive. She instantly forgave Su Qingci for ruthlessly tossing her favorite coffee beans.
“Should we exhibit it at the show? It deserves center stage!” Annelise was beside herself with excitement.
But Su Qingci responded with a crisp, decisive: “No.”
Annalise was utterly baffled. Su Qingci sipped his coffee, eyes fixed on the painting, ignoring her completely.
The sunflowers in the painting seemed like pulsing flames, radiating a fervent passion for life, as if the entire canvas was ablaze for them.
To create such a painting revealed its special significance to the artist.
The inspiration for Impressionist painters often came from a fleeting glimpse, a sudden flash of insight. This sunflower painting embodied two words: intensity.
The intensity of emotion.
When Su Qingci declared it “not for sale,” Annelise wasn’t surprised, but her heart still ached. With her twenty years of experience in the art world, she knew this painting, if released, would propel Su Qingci to new heights.
Annalise pressed, “If the sunflowers aren’t for sale, what about the lavender? When will that be finished? Monet spent thirty years on his Water Lilies. What, are you aiming for forty?”
Su Qingci thought to himself, I won’t even make it to four: “Artists only become famous after they die.”
Annalise shot a sideways glance at this teenage prodigy who’d rocked the art world at seventeen. “You’re not famous enough? Versaille’s been struck by lightning.”
Su Qingci ignored her, calmly asking, “What’s my current market value?”
Annalise: “Three million per square foot.”
Su Qingci murmured, “If I die, how many times will it go up?”
If anyone else had said that, Annelise would have eagerly encouraged them, “Why not try it? I’ll convert the doubled money into joss paper and burn it for you.”
Annelise wasn’t sure if it was her imagination, but after not seeing him for a month, he seemed noticeably thinner.
“At least tenfold,” Su Qingci muttered to himself. “Those who adore my work will be heartbroken, but that’ll only make the art dealers rake in a fortune. Then they’ll exploit my death for all kinds of hype and sensationalism. Doubling or tripling the price? No problem. Heh.”
A wicked grin twisted his lips.
Annalise: “…”
Su Qingci: “I wasn’t talking about you. You’ve been pretty good to me.”
Annalise, drenched in sweat: “…Oh. Thanks.”
Su Qingci smiled: “You’re welcome.”
…………..
At 8 PM, Pei Jingchen came home from work.
Su Qingci played a movie in the living room as background noise, not paying the slightest attention to the content. When Pei Jingchen glanced at him, he smiled and said, “The movie’s great. Want to watch it together?”
To his surprise, Pei Jingchen sat down beside him.
Though the film was awful, the experience of watching it together was quite pleasant. The idyllic cohabitation he’d once fantasized about had long been shattered by reality. Now, even sitting shoulder to shoulder with Pei Jingchen, watching a movie in quiet, ordinary stillness, was enough to satisfy him.
After the phone-checking incident that night, they entered a cold war—one-sidedly initiated by Su Qingci.
Truthfully, cold shoulders only work on those who care. With someone like Pei Jingchen, it was pure self-harm with zero effect on the other party.
But Su Qingci kept trying anyway, because he had no other way to express his dissatisfaction. Argue with Pei Jingchen? Sorry, that was impossible. After all, arguing takes two.
Pei Jingchen’s mother was highly educated, while his father, though lacking in ambition, possessed a warm, easygoing nature—a renowned doormat.
Pei Jingchen had been raised on sincerity, humility, reason, and treating others generously, believing that suffering loss was a blessing.
Unlike Su Qingci, who exploded at the slightest provocation, he was accustomed to restraint. No matter how furious he grew, he never resorted to cursing or throwing things.
A man with stable emotions held immense appeal, and this was precisely what drew Su Qingci in deeply.
Yet he also reaped the bitter consequences. Whenever he lost his temper, Pei Jingchen merely listened, rarely retaliating. A man with steady emotions held a certain charm, and this was another aspect that deeply captivated Su Qingci.
But he also reaped the bitter consequences. Whenever he lost his temper, Pei Jingchen would simply listen, rarely responding. Su Qingci’s fists felt like they were punching cotton, utterly powerless.
He resented Pei Jingchen for being like a block of wood. Sometimes he genuinely wanted to have a proper, heated argument with him, followed by a fight.
All these years, there had been only one instance of real friction between them.
Pei Jingchen had grabbed the back of his head, pinned him against the doorframe, and unleashed a barrage of words. His deep voice carried an intensity that didn’t quite fit his usual demeanor: “Must you always be like this?”
The mournful film ending theme snapped Su Qingci back from his drifting thoughts. This cold war, too, ended with Su Qingci’s surrender.
It was half past ten. Leaning against Pei Jingchen’s shoulder, Su Qingci asked, “Tired?”
Those two words had somehow become their secret code. Tired? If not, then let’s do it.
Even if passion left behind bone-chilling coldness and endless emptiness, at least during the act he was held tightly, kissed, and mutually possessed.
His body was parted. It had been too long since they’d done this. Su Qingci bit his lip in pain, then pressed his lips to Pei Jingchen’s.
Kissing was something only lovers did. But after years of Su Qingci’s persistent teasing and training, Pei Jingchen had grown accustomed to it.
He was skilled in bed, not merely capable of sending Su Qingci to heaven, but mindful of his feelings, treating him with tenderness.
Except for their first night together, every subsequent time they shared a bed, Pei Jingchen’s approach was gentle—ensuring Su Qingci reached ecstasy without causing him any harm. Su Qingci could simply lie back and enjoy the ride.
Su Qingci was the delicate flower, while Pei Jingchen was the gardener—the one who bore the burden. The usually disciplined man had slept in late, but fortunately, today was Saturday.
As he descended the stairs, Su Qingci bustled about in the kitchen: “Have a seat, it’ll be ready soon.”
Turning off the stove, Su Qingci carried breakfast to the table.
Pei Jingchen’s eyes widened slightly in surprise.
Two bowls of seafood soup noodles.
Su Qingci handed him chopsticks, and Pei Jingchen ate quietly, one bite after another. After breakfast, he volunteered to wash the dishes. Su Qingci stood beside him and said, “Tomorrow is Christmas. Want to go to International Plaza tonight?”
She’d heard about the light show there and had been looking forward to it for ages.
Pei Jingchen dried his hands as he replied, “I can’t miss the company annual party tonight.”
“Oh.” Su Qingci was used to it. Every time he suggested something, Pei Jingchen always had a perfectly valid reason to decline. If he protested, she’d be the unreasonable one.
Su Qingci had never been the sensible type. Even though nine out of ten suggestions were shot down by Pei Jingchen, nine times out of ten, Su Qingci still got his way. He was stubborn, unreasonable, and selfish.
“Never mind. Work comes first. You go ahead,” Su Qingci said.
Pei Jingchen stared at him in sudden bewilderment, unable to process the young master’s unexpected display of “consideration.”
Suspecting a hidden agenda, Pei Jingchen pressed, “What did you say?”
“I said I’ll celebrate Christmas alone and watch the light show by myself,” Su Qingci offered a genuine smile. “It’s fine. I need to try… to get used to it.”
Su Qingci prepared for the light show, intending to pick out an outfit. But when he opened his wardrobe, it was filled with monotonous blacks and grays—nothing much to choose from.
His walk-in closet and Pei Jingchen’s wardrobe were polar opposites: one cold, austere, and subdued; the other bright and vibrant.
Su Qingci stuck to cool tones like black and gray, occasionally wearing white but rarely. Pei Jingchen, however, had always dressed in bold, eye-catching warm hues since childhood, effortlessly pulling off soft, fresh colors like creamy yellow and mint green.
Su Qingci casually grabbed a tea-dark wool turtleneck and slipped it on.