Axolotl Translations

Chen Feng, baffled by Ruan Zhao’s reasoning, simply replied, “OK.”

Ruan Zhao flipped his phone over, exhaled, and decided to ignore him.

The morning passed uneventfully, save for Gu Xingyan’s constant shifting in his cramped corner. Ruan Zhao had relegated him to the farthest corner, leaving him barely any desk space. His arm couldn’t even rest properly—targeted oppression at its finest. Gu Xingyan, all long limbs, was practically wedged against the walls, looking miserable.

Even this wasn’t enough for Ruan Zhao, who continued encroaching on his space. Gu Xingyan had no choice but to squeeze further against the cold wall. His sleeve brushed against the chalky surface. He paused. His uniform had just been washed—he didn’t want to get it dirty. Carefully dusting off his sleeve, his lips tightened. He looked displeased.

Without a word, he gathered Ruan Zhao’s scattered books, pens, and other items, neatly stacking them on Ruan Zhao’s side of the desk. His voice was quiet but firm. “Keep your stuff on your side.”

Ruan Zhao, engrossed in his notes, didn’t look up.

The notebook bumped Ruan Zhao’s wrist, instantly transforming his neat formula into a chaotic mess—a long, uneven black streak across the page.

Ruan Zhao: “……”

Before Gu Xingyan could speak, Ruan Zhao attacked. “You don’t like me, do you? You did that on purpose.”

Gu Xingyan: “…I didn’t.”

“Oh, really?” Ruan Zhao said, jabbing a finger at the black line. “If you have a problem, just say it. Why resort to these petty little tricks? Look, my entire page of notes is ruined because of you.”

Gu Xingyan, ever composed, offered, “I have correction tape.”

Ruan Zhao had his own. He didn’t need Gu Xingyan’s. This was just another opportunity to mess with him. Rolling his wrist, he felt a slight ache in his fingers. Then he glanced at Gu Xingyan. Why bother when I have a perfectly good set of hands here?

Without hesitation, he shoved the notebook in front of Gu Xingyan and placed his pen in his hand. His tone was perfectly natural, as if it were the most reasonable request. “My hand’s sore. You write it.”

Gu Xingyan instinctively wanted to refuse. But then he looked up and met Ruan Zhao’s gaze. And whatever he was about to say remained unspoken.

If Gu Xingyan resisted—even hesitated—Ruan Zhao would likely throw a tantrum about his disobedience, perhaps even creating a scene that would attract the teacher’s attention. Not worth the hassle.

So, Gu Xingyan took the notebook and pen without protest.

Ruan Zhao leaned back, arms crossed. “Copy everything the teacher writes. I’ll check later. And if there’s even one mistake…” He smirked. “You’ll see.”

Ruan Zhao was good at threats, not so much at follow-through.

Gu Xingyan raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “And if I don’t?”

Ruan Zhao didn’t hesitate. “Then you write it ten more times.”

Gu Xingyan: “Oh.”

That’s it? Compared to the threats he’d received in the past, this was nothing. He was accustomed to punishments like buckets of red paint thrown at his door, hateful slurs scrawled on walls—wishing him dead, cursing his family, condemning him to eternal suffering—and insults laced with every obscene word imaginable.

After school, they’d corner him in dark alleys, grab his hair, smash his head against walls, and demand money.

Gu Xingyan copied the teacher’s notes, his mind elsewhere. He’d done this before—in elementary school, tutoring classmates for a fee. He was so skilled at mimicking handwriting that, after a couple of lines, his script was indistinguishable from Ruan Zhao’s.

The afternoon breeze drifted through the window, warm and gentle. Ruan Zhao, having stayed up late, was starting to feel tired. A yawn escaped him. One advantage of sitting in the back? The teacher rarely noticed anything. He stacked his books into a small tower—just high enough to conceal him—rested his arms on the desk, and let his head fall forward. The classroom was quiet except for the physics teacher’s monotone voice. It wasn’t long before Ruan Zhao’s breathing evened out, his body stilling. Asleep.

Gu Xingyan’s pen hovered over the page. He turned, glancing at the boy beside him. He’d assumed Ruan Zhao was simply resting. He hadn’t expected him to actually fall asleep. Then again, perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised. For the past two nights, Ruan Zhao had called late, complaining about insomnia, and each time, he’d made Gu Xingyan read him a bedtime story.

Each time, Gu Xingyan was pulled from sleep. Annoyed, he’d even searched for sleep aids online and recommended several professional sleep-streamers—people with warm, soothing voices designed to lull listeners to sleep. Unlike his own.

Each time he read, Ruan Zhao complained he was too stiff, too robotic—no emotion, no immersion. And when Gu Xingyan suggested listening to someone else?

“I only want your voice. No one else’s.”

Ruan Zhao’s voice was smooth, like a gentle stream flowing through the quiet night. Gu Xingyan wasn’t sure how to describe the feeling. Perhaps, for the first time, he felt needed. Even knowing, logically, that Ruan Zhao was likely manipulating him…his heart still skipped a beat. Because, for once, he was someone’s exception.

The feeling was fleeting. Then, Ruan Zhao’s voice came through the phone again, softer this time. “Gu Xingyan, are you really going to let me stay up all night?” Perhaps it was the distance, the disembodied voice, but Ruan Zhao sounded different. Not arrogant, not sharp, but soft. Like a quiet complaint. Or maybe…a plea.

Ruan Zhao had no idea what Gu Xingyan was thinking. All he knew was the image in his mind—a tiny devil perched smugly on Gu Xingyan’s shoulder, complete with small red horns, a wicked grin, and a giant pitchfork. That’s right. I’m just that bad. If I’m not sleeping, neither are you!

Aside from the first night, when he genuinely struggled to sleep, every other instance was deliberate. Determined to make Gu Xingyan suffer, he’d forced himself to stay awake until midnight, calling precisely on the dot. To avoid accidentally falling asleep, he’d even pinched his thigh to stay alert. Now that’s dedication. A strategy that hurt both the target and the perpetrator.

Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating Ruan Zhao’s dark hair before slowly sliding down to his forehead. Gu Xingyan watched the light flicker across his features, his eyelashes catching the golden glow, his hair softly illuminated. As if sensing the disturbance, Ruan Zhao’s brow furrowed. To escape the light, he shifted, burying his face in his folded arms, his cheek pressed against his fingers.

Gu Xingyan hesitated, then subtly pushed the desk forward and reached out to close the curtain. Only when the last ray of sunlight vanished did he stop.

Ruan Zhao woke up refreshed, stirring only when the bell rang. Sleeping on his arm had left faint red marks crisscrossing his cheek, and a stray lock of hair stuck up at an odd angle. The overall effect was a little comical, perhaps even…endearing.

Catching Gu Xingyan staring, Ruan Zhao instinctively checked for drool or an embarrassing sleeping position. He wiped his lips—nothing.

“What are you looking at?”

Gu Xingyan silently looked away. Ruan Zhao was accustomed to his quiet, unreadable demeanor.

“The teacher didn’t notice, did they?”

“Notice what?”

Ruan Zhao gave him an exasperated look. “Are you dumb, or just pretending to be?” He mouthed the last words silently: —That I was sleeping.

“No,” Gu Xingyan replied. “Those books were stacked high—almost half a meter. No one could see you.”

“But,” Gu Xingyan said, his deep eyes meeting Ruan Zhao’s again, a hint of suspicion in his voice, “didn’t you say you had trouble sleeping? That you needed a bedtime story? Why did you fall asleep so quickly today?”

Of course, Ruan Zhao’s “insomnia” was just a convenient excuse. How else could he justify his nightly calls?

For once, Ruan Zhao was speechless. Unable to think of a plausible excuse, he did what came naturally—deflected and attacked.

“What are you implying?” he asked, narrowing his eyes. “Are you calling me a liar? If you feel so deceived, then don’t answer tonight.”

Gu Xingyan was silent.

Ruan Zhao scoffed. “You’re the one who answers. I never forced you. Now you’re twisting things and blaming me?” Classic Ruan Zhao—playing innocent and shifting the blame.

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