Axolotl Translations

Sesame octopus, steamed mini lobsters with garlic and vermicelli, poached sea snails, salt-baked mantis shrimp. And then, the tiny shrimp, meticulously cleaned, drained, and plunged into hot oil, emerging a perfect golden crisp—fragrant, crunchy, straight from the pan.

All the freshly cooked seafood was packed up and stored back into the space. By then, Gu Mengran and Liang Zhao were both so overwhelmed by the thick scent of oil and seafood that they felt slightly nauseous. For the foreseeable future, neither of them had any desire to smell shrimp, fish, or anything remotely ocean-related.

The days were long, and the nights short. Even after working until seven in the evening, the sky still hadn’t darkened.

After their lavish lunch, neither had much appetite for dinner. Gu Mengran whipped up a simple vegetable noodle soup and warmed the leftovers from noon—just enough to get by.

Cooking, eating, relaxing—life aboard Windwing had settled into a rhythm of unhurried ease.

The afternoon’s cleaning and reorganization had finally imbued the boat with a sense of home. A projection screen now graced the wall, blackout curtains hung at the windows, and the fridge brimmed with fresh fruits and vegetables. The once-empty, model-home-like interior of Windwing was gradually filling with warmth and life.

Since time wasn’t pressing, Gu Mengran decided not to rush like before, pushing forward day and night. Now, they sailed by day and anchored by night—prioritizing rest.

Perhaps, just perhaps, they were among the last few who could still afford a pre-apocalypse lifestyle.

Once Windwing was securely anchored, Grandpa and Zheng Yijie retreated to their cabins for an early night.

Gu Mengran, still wide awake, showered, slipped into his house slippers, grabbed a light air-conditioned blanket and his old laptop, and headed back to the living room.

Settling into the chaise lounge, he curled up comfortably. He plugged in a USB drive, connected the laptop to the projector, and scrolled through his folders. Scrolling past countless movies and TV shows, his eyes started to blur from all the choices before he finally settled on a film that seemed somewhat interesting.

But… just like those people who can’t eat without watching something, Gu Mengran spent ages picking a movie, only for the opening credits to barely finish rolling before he started nodding off. No, he didn’t even make it that far—he yawned, his eyes watering from exhaustion.

Tomorrow, as soon as he opened his eyes, it would be back to cooking again. He felt reluctant to waste his precious downtime on sleep, so he forced himself to stay awake. But before the opening scene had even finished, a sudden sound broke the silence—a soft set of footsteps echoing in the hallway.

Fresh from the shower, Liang Zhao appeared, clad in a casual short-sleeved outfit, his skin still radiating warmth from the water. He hadn’t bothered drying his hair, and droplets, like scattered pearls, traced paths from his temple down his sharp jawline, disappearing into his collar.

“Still awake?”

Gu Mengran’s thoughts drifted far away, his mind hazy, only snapping back when Liang Zhao was already beside him. Startled, he pulled up the air-conditioning blanket, covering half of his face, and mumbled a quiet “Mm.”

Liang Zhao didn’t say anything else. He grabbed a ceramic mug from the table, filled it with two cups of steaming hot water from the dispenser, then came back and sat down beside Gu Mengran—clearly not planning to leave. Holding his mug in both hands, he casually turned his attention to the movie.

The air conditioning hummed, chilling the living room.

Gu Mengran found himself completely distracted, his gaze drawn to Liang Zhao every few seconds, the film forgotten. It wasn’t for any particular reason—just that Liang Zhao’s hair was still damp. If he stayed in the cool air too long, he might catch a chill.

Of course, Gu Mengran could just turn the AC up a little… but he truly enjoyed the feeling of being wrapped in a blanket in the cool air. So… should he invite Liang Zhao to share the blanket?

A restless feeling stirred in Gu Mengran’s chest, like a kitten’s paw scratching at his heart. His thoughts spiraled, and he instinctively tried to focus on the movie. But no matter how hard he tried, his gaze kept straying to the sharp profile of the man beside him.

“Something wrong?”

Suddenly, Liang Zhao turned, catching Gu Mengran’s stare.

It felt like being caught red-handed. Gu Mengran panicked, his mouth working faster than his brain. Before he could stop himself, the words tumbled out: “N-nothing. I was just wondering if you were cold. The blanket’s big—we could share, if you want.”

The moment he finished, he realized what he’d said. His ears burned, and he scrambled to recover. “No, I mean—you should dry your hair first, or you’ll… you’ll catch a cold.”

The more he tried to explain, the worse it got. His confidence completely crumbled.

Liang Zhao’s eyes crinkled, amusement sparking in his expression. Seeing that smirk, Gu Mengran knew he was beyond saving. He gave up, flopping back against the couch, pretending he’d said nothing.

Then, Liang Zhao set his mug on the coffee table, a small smile playing on his lips. “Okay,” he murmured.

Gu Mengran assumed he meant, okay, I’ll go dry my hair, and was about to sigh in relief—until Liang Zhao casually lifted the edge of the blanket and slipped underneath, settling naturally beside him. He bent his knees, curling into the warmth of the chaise lounge.

The chaise lounge was barely big enough for one person—practically the size of a single bed. Now, with two grown men lying side by side, it was cramped, to say the least. And in the middle of summer, with both of them in light short-sleeved shirts and shorts, there was no avoiding the contact of skin against skin.

Liang Zhao’s body radiated warmth. The moment he got close, Gu Mengran felt like he’d been scalded. Instinctively, he shifted away, just a little.

But Liang Zhao didn’t seem to notice—or perhaps he was being deliberately provocative. He even brushed his calf against Gu Mengran’s foot, a soft chuckle escaping him as he said with feigned sincerity, “So cold. I’ll warm you up.”

Warm up your ass—it’s the middle of summer! Damn straight guy! Gu Mengran thought, inwardly cursing his straight-laced companion.

Gu Mengran, already flustered, felt his face burn even hotter. His thoughts spiraled, drifting back to his past life.

Back then, when he was crippled and disfigured, it was Liang Zhao’s meticulous care that had given him the will to live again. It was Liang Zhao who had pulled him from despair and reignited his desire to survive.

They had been even closer than they were now. Liang Zhao had fed him, brought him water, wiped his face, bathed him. In the cramped confines of their tiny cabin, sharing a bed was inevitable, their legs pressed together through the long nights.

Call it the suspension bridge effect, call it clinging to the only lifeline—whatever the reason, Gu Mengran couldn’t deny his feelings.

He had fallen for Liang Zhao.

But with his broken body and scarred, disfigured face, Gu Mengran was painfully self-conscious. He lacked the courage to confess. Yet, he also refused to remain stagnant, unwilling to settle for a lifetime of mere companionship.

So, in that dark abyss, Gu Mengran made a desperate decision.

He decided—to seduce Liang Zhao into sleeping with him.

They already shared a bed, a blanket. Both were young, brimming with pent-up energy, and every morning, Gu Mengran saw clear evidence of Liang Zhao’s natural reactions. Desire left unchecked for too long—it wouldn’t matter with the lights off.

He didn’t care about being a mere tool. He didn’t care if Liang Zhao reciprocated his feelings. He simply wanted to prove his worth, to feel needed by Liang Zhao in some way—any way.

The rain poured relentlessly for days. Then, on one silent, pitch-black night, Gu Mengran used the cold as an excuse and shamelessly nestled into Liang Zhao’s arms.

Back then, Liang Zhao must have been exhausted, because he didn’t push him away. Instead, he generously offered an arm, pulling Gu Mengran into a tight embrace, letting him rest his head there.

But Gu Mengran had ulterior motives—there was no way he was just going to sleep. He pressed close against Liang Zhao, feigning restless sleep, scratching an itch here, shifting an inch there—squirming like he had ants, unable to stay still.

No one knows a man better than another man.

Gu Mengran convinced himself that he wasn’t actually doing anything, yet in the silence of the cabin, he could hear Liang Zhao’s breathing gradually grow heavier.

With their bodies so close, Gu Mengran felt every subtle shift, every change.

Taking advantage of the darkness, he wrapped his arms around Liang Zhao’s neck, inching closer—until he pressed a tentative kiss against the man’s Adam’s apple, feeling it bob under his lips.

Liang Zhao trembled slightly but didn’t pull away.

Growing bolder, Gu Mengran kissed his cheek, then his eyelids, the bridge of his nose—and finally, his lips.

In the next instant, the arm around his waist tightened suddenly, squeezing the air from his lungs. Before he could hesitate, a cool tongue slipped past his lips, and Liang Zhao’s scent enveloped him.

The tables turned.

Liang Zhao kissed him with urgency, gripping Gu Mengran’s chin, not allowing him to retreat—his lips demanding, his hunger palpable.

It was going even better than Gu Mengran had anticipated. He tilted his head back, responding eagerly to the kiss, his hands wandering down—brushing over Liang Zhao’s chest, his waist, lower and lower…

The balance of power shifted again.

Liang Zhao shuddered violently, his whole body tensing. A low, strained groan escaped his lips.

And just like that, the aggressive kiss ended abruptly.

Foreheads pressed together, Liang Zhao’s voice was husky, laced with an unreadable tone. “Enough. Go to sleep, alright?”

“No,” Gu Mengran’s grip tightened, his thumb lightly tracing patterns on Liang Zhao’s skin. He leaned in again, pressing another kiss to his lips, his voice low and insistent. “Don’t push me away, Liang Zhao. I want this. If you really object, then… just pretend I’m someone else—”

That sentence seemed to shatter Liang Zhao’s composure. His eyes turned glacial in an instant.

Before Gu Mengran could finish, Liang Zhao forcibly pried his fingers apart and shoved him away without a moment’s hesitation. The fleeting intimacy dissipated like smoke.

Still dazed, Gu Mengran barely had time to react before the arm that had been his pillow was ruthlessly withdrawn. Liang Zhao didn’t stop there—he deliberately turned his back to him.

Silence descended, thick and heavy. A silence that stretched so long that the warmth in Gu Mengran’s heart faded, leaving behind an unbearable chill.

Then, finally, Liang Zhao’s voice—low and gravelly—broke the stillness. “You don’t have to do this. I won’t leave you.” A pause. “And you’re not ‘someone else.’ You’ll always be you, Gu Mengran.”

A sharp sting pricked behind Gu Mengran’s eyes. He reached out, wrapping his arms around Liang Zhao’s back, his voice barely a whisper, as if speaking to himself. “I’m not afraid of you leaving. I just… I just—” Like you too much to say it aloud. The words lodged in his throat, suffocating him.

Liang Zhao sighed softly. “Is this… your way of repaying me?”

“No.” Gu Mengran didn’t understand Liang Zhao’s rejection, nor did he know how to defend himself. All he could do was deny it.

Then, with the last dregs of his courage, he steeled himself and asked, “Then if it’s just me, as I am—would you… be willing?”

A brief silence. Then Liang Zhao said, “Go to sleep.”

The tension snapped like a string pulled too tight—then suddenly cut. Tears welled up and spilled over, Gu Mengran staring at Liang Zhao in despair, his voice cracking, raw and almost hysterical. “You do look down on me, don’t you? You think I’m ugly, crippled—you’re disgusted by me! You felt something just now, and the moment I opened my mouth, I made you sick, didn’t I?”

Liang Zhao answered immediately. “Mengran, I’ve never thought that.”

“Then why?” Gu Mengran refused to back down. He needed an answer—he knew the moment had been real. That everything had changed the second he spoke, ruining it all.

Liang Zhao sighed, long and weary, as if he’d exhausted all patience. Then, slowly, he turned back, meeting Gu Mengran’s gaze in the dim light. With utter sincerity, he said, “I wasn’t thinking clearly just now. I overstepped. I’m sorry.”

“You’re not ugly. You look good. Your injuries weren’t your fault. Don’t diminish yourself like that. But this—this between us—it shouldn’t be like this.”

His voice lowered, deliberate and cautious, as he added, “I’ve always thought of you as family. As a younger brother. And besides… I’m straight. I like women.”

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