Drunk On The Night Breeze - Chapter 26

Chapter 26

Ruan Lingfeng hadn’t planned on being a performance director from the start.

The first eighteen years of his life were unremarkable: born and raised in a small county town, an ordinary family background, and a situation that grew increasingly dire after his father died of illness. Although he was now adept at dealing with people, back in school, he was like a glass of plain water—quiet, a bit withdrawn, and nursing a sense of inferiority.

Compared to the current Ruan Lingfeng, who was popular due to his good personality, competence, and handsome features, he was much more pitiable back then. Shortly after presenting as an Omega, he was diagnosed with two pheromone-related disorders that current medical technology couldn’t cure—and even if there were a cure, his family likely couldn’t have afforded it.

During those sensitive teenage years, while other Omegas discussed the scents of their pheromones, Ruan Lingfeng would put on his headphones and pretend to be listening to English recordings.

On weekends, he would glance at the perfume counters in the mall, only to be scared off by the prices and leave quietly.

He had no pheromones, and he couldn’t smell anyone else’s. Now, he felt it didn’t matter; his value didn’t need to be proven by such things. But back then, he was so young that he couldn’t help but wonder why everyone else had them while he didn’t.

Leaving the mall, he passed a black glass wall and saw his reflection: short hair buzzed by the old man at the barbershop downstairs—convenient and clean, but entirely devoid of style; black-rimmed glasses that didn’t suit him but were cheap; and a faded, oversized school uniform handed down from a neighbor’s older brother.

Who would want to hang out with an Omega like that?

Since he didn’t socialize much, he poured almost all his energy into his studies, aside from helping with chores and dealing with his mother. He was a standard “town test-taker,” and fortunately, he was bright. His hard work paid off with excellent grades, making it likely he’d get into a top-tier university.

But as for what he would do after university, he had never given it a thought.

While other students occasionally fantasized about the future, Ruan Lingfeng only knew he would leave his hometown. He had no idea where he would end up, and he felt that the vibrant worlds others dreamed of had nothing to do with him.

Back then, he was wrapped in layer upon layer of a thick cocoon.

Later, things went as he expected. He was admitted to a “211” university in the capital, choosing finance—a popular, versatile major. If nothing went wrong, he’d likely end up working at a bank.

He never thought he’d become a performance director; at the time, he didn’t even know such a profession existed.

In the second semester of his sophomore year, he took a part-time job as a ticket checker at a Livehouse.

After checking tickets, he would watch the performances from the doorway. Talking with a senior colleague, he realized for the first time that not all shows required a fortune to see. There were these “live” shows you could enter for fifty or a hundred yuan. The scale and production couldn’t compare to a major concert, but they allowed for a close-up collision between the audience and the music.

Ruan Lingfeng would peer through the crack of the back door. Once, it was a band performance; the lead singer looked like a madman, tilting his head back and screaming something, while the audience members were like madmen too, jumping and shouting without a care.

He had never heard this kind of music or seen this kind of performance. In fact, he didn’t listen to much music at all back then, limited only to the most popular hits.

He couldn’t describe how he felt. He didn’t know if he was tearing back a corner of reality to glimpse a world of surging emotions, or if the world was tearing back a corner of his soul, making him boil along with it.

He worked at that Livehouse for a long time, eventually seeing all sorts of independent music performances—bands of every style, folk, hip-hop, electronic…

He thought, Life isn’t that boring, at least I have music.

In reality, his life might be a dull cycle of classroom-library-cafeteria-dormitory, but on his work days, he could travel through time and space with those strange songs—sometimes flying to a galaxy light-years away, sometimes tunneling into the depths of someone’s thoughts.

He loved it.

But if you asked if this love influenced his career planning initially, it didn’t.

That changed when a small band, who often played for free, mentioned that the following week’s show would likely be their last.

Ruan Lingfeng usually didn’t talk much and never interrupted others’ conversations backstage, but that day, he uncharacteristically chimed in, asking why—their music was so good.

The lead singer was honest and sighing: they weren’t selling tickets, and several members were about to graduate and leave the city.

The band couldn’t go on.

For the first time, Ruan Lingfeng felt a strong desire to fight for something. Coincidentally, the school was having a Club Day. Ruan Lingfeng and his senior borrowed a stage from another club, stayed up all night making what now seemed like a crude VJ set, and used whatever props they could find to bring the nearly-disbanded band to perform at the university.

He also recorded videos. In an era before short videos were a trend, he edited the highlights into short clips and submitted them to various university public accounts with stirring captions.

Maybe it was a stroke of luck, but it was reposted by a big-name music critic, triggering a butterfly effect. The band didn’t break up; they were scouted by a management company. They aren’t superstars today, but they release a new album every year and always send a copy to Ruan Lingfeng.

Back then, his senior said he might be suited for directing and planning.

Only then did he realize that everything he had done counted as “directing.” Of course, since only the two of them were doing it, they had also done a lot of miscellaneous work outside of directing.

He thought to himself that this job was perfect. Good music needs packaging; even the best song is a “pearl covered in dust” if no one hears it. If he could use more attractive stage forms to “trick” people into the venue, perhaps he could help singers attract a few more listeners.

His work became known to others in the industry. Thus, in addition to checking tickets at the Livehouse, he took on another job: helping performers come up with interesting show concepts.

That was the beginning of everything for Ruan Lingfeng.

But he had been in the industry for a long time now, handling many shows of all sizes. Even though he was always trying to think of new things, most of the work had become so familiar he could do it with his eyes closed.

He hadn’t felt that excitement of seeing a show he directed come to life in a long time, because they were mostly the same. Furthermore, he discovered that once he became a somewhat famous director, the artists who sought him out were relatively well-known. Directing for them was merely “adding flowers to a brocade”; even if he did a perfunctory job, their fans would still show up. He rarely got that thrill of “helping someone present their music well and attracting more people to fall in love with the music itself.”

But because Tao Zhi’s ideas were so strange and his requirements so demanding, Ruan Lingfeng had truly been racking his brains recently to figure out how to perfectly present this show to the audience.

His heart had been in his throat until the end of the show.

During the performance, an intern told him the online response was excellent. For the first time in a long while, he felt a sense of accomplishment exploding in his mind.

That alone had already made him very happy.

Then, Tao Zhi stood on stage and said, “This is a work we completed together.”

Ruan Lingfeng had always considered himself an insignificant behind-the-scenes worker; his job was to serve the artist. No matter how good the stage was, it was an accessory to the songs or the performance.

But Tao Zhi called it a work.

It belonged to him; it was something they finished together. It might have been born from Tao Zhi’s songs, but it wasn’t a mere accessory.

On stage, Tao Zhi was still talking—unusually talkative: “When I went backstage to change and grab some water just now, my assistant told me that because this concert is so interesting, a lot of non-fans want to snag tickets for the upcoming shows. If it weren’t for Xiao Feng and his team creating such a great show, I might have lost a portion of the general public. I know most concerts these days are for the fans; rarely do non-fans just buy a ticket to hear a singer’s music. So this show made someone as famous as me even a bit more famous… Huh? What? Don’t say that? What does it matter?”

The last part was directed at the other staff through his earpiece.

Still, Tao Zhi restrained himself a bit and continued: “I’m really happy that more people are listening to my songs, but there’s actually something else that’s more important to me. I’ve never said this to Xiao Feng, but I’m a terrible client. Yet he knows exactly what I want; he understands what I’m singing about. So he materialized my songs, allowing my other listeners to know exactly what I want to express… Of course, I don’t know if you actually understood it; even if you didn’t, pretend you did.

“Anyway, I want to say that without him, there wouldn’t be today’s dreamscape… You all know that I really dislike this awkward, sentimental stuff, but I really love today’s performance. I have to tell him. If it were to his face, I might not be able to say it, so I can only say it here.

“This is so fucking cringey… Huh? Did I swear? You guys in post-production, bleep that out for me… I’m done talking. Let’s sing. The last song.”

Backstage, Ruan Lingfeng knew Tao Zhi wouldn’t see his phone immediately, but he left him a WeChat message anyway.

Ruan Lingfeng: You brat, don’t think saying those things will make me come work for you full-time. Ruan Lingfeng: Alright, thank you too for giving me such a great opportunity. If fate allows, we can continue to collaborate in the future.

The two hadn’t met for a while after that.

There was a celebration banquet the day the premiere ended, which Ruan Lingfeng naturally attended. However, as the protagonist of the dinner, Tao Zhi was dragged around by Chen Ping to socialize at different tables and handle the media. There was no chance for a long conversation, though there didn’t seem to be anything urgent to say.

After returning, Ruan Lingfeng stopped going to Tao Zhi’s studio. Tao Zhi had other shows scheduled, but Ruan Lingfeng wouldn’t be following up on them.

It felt like they hadn’t seen each other for many days, and he didn’t know when they’d meet again. One day, Tao Zhi was out running errands and passed the neighborhood where Ruan Lingfeng lived. He found a spot downstairs and sat for a while.

He didn’t know what he was doing, but thinking that since he was already here, he impulsively sent Ruan Lingfeng a message.

Tao Zhi: Are you free? Want to go out and eat?

Ruan Lingfeng replied after a good while.

Ruan Lingfeng: ?? That’s so sudden. What’s up? Tao Zhi: Don’t I owe you a lot of “next times”? I’m free today and want to fulfill one. Ruan Lingfeng: But I’m not free. [Tao Zhi: … Ruan Lingfeng: All those “next times” were just me joking with you. I didn’t actually mean for you to pay me back.

Looking at Ruan Lingfeng’s words on the screen, Tao Zhi felt an inexplicable surge of anxiety.

Tao Zhi: Didn’t I hear you’re on annual leave recently? How are you not free? Where are you out partying? Ruan Lingfeng: How do you even know I’m on leave? Ruan Lingfeng: I am resting. Since I have time during my break, I’m packing my things to move. I’ve been putting it off for so long.

Tao Zhi: . Tao Zhi: Why didn’t you tell me you were moving? Ruan Lingfeng: ?

Tao Zhi retracted the sentence “Why didn’t you tell me you were moving.” As soon as he asked, he felt stupid—why would the man need to tell him?

But he had specifically passed by today to ask Ruan Lingfeng down. If Ruan Lingfeng moved, this behavior wouldn’t make sense anymore.

It seemed there wouldn’t be a “next time” to happen to pass by.

Tao Zhi sent another question.

Tao Zhi: Do you need help? Ruan Lingfeng: No, I called a moving service. Tao Zhi: …

Being rejected several times in one conversation, Tao Zhi was truly annoyed, and an indefinable emotion was brewing in his heart. What, so there’s just going to be zero contact from now on? Are we just going to be “friends who like each other’s Moments”?

That wasn’t necessarily bad. They weren’t that close to begin with.

Tao Zhi stood up to leave when the screen lit up with another message.

Ruan Lingfeng: I’m really sorry, Didi. Once I’ve finished moving and settled in, if you’re free, I’ll invite you over for a meal.

The corners of Tao Zhi’s mouth curled up again. That’s more like it.

But he replied:

Tao Zhi: We’ll see. Tao Zhi: Don’t call me Didi. We aren’t related.

Seeing that Ruan Lingfeng was truly busy and not just making excuses, Tao Zhi was no longer annoyed. Of course, he had no intention of telling Ruan Lingfeng he was currently downstairs; that would make him look like… something.

This time he was really ready to go. Before leaving, he glanced toward the building where Ruan Lingfeng lived and saw a somewhat familiar figure. The person was looking around, holding a phone—it seemed the call had been declined, but the person persistently tried again.

Tao Zhi frowned and walked a few steps forward.

The person finally got through. The voice was fairly loud; Tao Zhi could hear it from nearby.

The person said: “…I know you always rest for a while after finishing a project. You must be home now, right? Can you let me up? I just want to say two words to you; I won’t disturb you. “I miss you very much.”

Tao Zhi remembered now—this unlucky piece of work was Ruan Lingfeng’s ex-boyfriend.

He thought after that last incident, this guy would have backed off. How was he still clinging to Ruan Lingfeng like sticky dog skin plaster?

Tao Zhi couldn’t stand it. He thought about whether there would be consequences if he snatched the guy’s phone and hung up by force, but seeing the guy’s expression, it seemed he had been hung up on again. And when the person tried to call back, the call wouldn’t go through.

Likely, even the number had been blocked.

The ex-boyfriend, Xu Mao, sighed and turned around. He was startled by Tao Zhi standing silently behind him. He knit his brows and stepped back: “You’re that celebrity? …What are you doing here?”

Tao Zhi was fully armed as usual, but from this close, he could still be recognized.

Tao Zhi said in an unfriendly tone: “Save your effort and don’t come back. Xiao Feng has moved.”

“How do you know?”

Tao Zhi: “Why wouldn’t I know? Of course I know.”

The truth was he had only just found out himself, but to drive this eyesore away, Tao Zhi had to be righteous and confident.

Xu Mao said suspiciously: “If he’s moved, then what are you still doing here?”

Tao Zhi was momentarily stumped, but his mouth moved faster than his brain, and he quickly invented a reason: “None of your business. I’m taking some things to the new house.”

“…Why are you taking them?”

Actually, it was just a casual remark from Tao Zhi; helping Ruan Lingfeng carry something wasn’t strange. But perhaps because he spoke ambiguously, or because Xu Mao’s thoughts were wandering, Xu Mao clearly thought of something else, his expression shifting repeatedly.

Tao Zhi couldn’t be bothered to talk to the man any further and simply warned: “If you come to harass him one more time, I’ll hit you again.”

Xu Mao was actually intimidated by Tao Zhi, but he didn’t quite believe Tao Zhi would hit him again. After all, he was a celebrity, and he had already made the trending searches for hitting him last time.

And…

Xu Mao hesitated for a moment and asked: “Could Ruan Lingfeng really take a liking to a simple-minded, hot-tempered little boy like you?”

Tao Zhi narrowed his eyes. He was completely different from his previous lazy, indifferent self; a dangerous aura radiated from him: “Say that again.”