EGRV 3 | Paradise

“Nothing is eternal—not joy, not love, not even the highest peaks.”

Wang Nan’ou finished his second drink, and Liang Muye was about to call for the bar menu when he noticed someone entering the dimly lit bar. The figure, vaguely familiar, walked straight toward him. The corner by the window where they sat was secluded, and Liang Muye hadn’t expected anyone to recognize him.

It was Xu Xiaochen, bundled in a coat, black cap, and mask, fully disguised from head to toe.

“Teacher Liang’s here too.” His mask hid his mouth, but his eyes crinkled with a smile. After a quick greeting to Wang Nan’ou, he turned his back to him and chatted with Liang Muye.

“What… are you doing here?” Liang Muye asked, intrigued.

“Continuing to ‘experience life,’” Xu Xiaochen said with a grin, clearly at ease in such settings. He left his friends’ table to approach Liang Muye, acting as if they were old pals. “The roasted sweet potato was great, thanks. Let me buy you a drink.”

Liang Muye raised his wrist, showing his glass. “I’m off alcohol—drinking virgin, sorry.”

Xu Xiaochen leaned closer, whispering in his ear, “There’s gotta be something you haven’t quit.”

With that, he turned and left, leaving Liang Muye chuckling. Good thing Li Xiangwan wasn’t here—she’d have teased him mercilessly.

After three beers, Wang Nan’ou was getting sleepy. Seeing someone approach Liang Muye, he tactfully checked his watch and said he had to catch a flight. Liang Muye hugged him goodbye at the bar’s entrance, arranged a car for him, and watched him leave before heading to the underground parking garage near the studio.

Checking his phone, he saw Xu Xiaochen had sent him a location pin—a discreet, luxurious hotel nearby, along with a room number.

Liang Muye smiled. Persistent kid. He tapped the address, starting navigation.

When the door opened, Xu Xiaochen wasn’t surprised to see him, greeting him politely. “Teacher Liang.”

“Drop the ‘teacher.’ I’m not that much older than you,” Liang Muye said, stepping inside, bringing a chill with him.

Xu Xiaochen grinned, turned his back, and slipped off his bathrobe, revealing nothing underneath. His skin, pale and lean, looked fragile enough to break with a touch.

By looks alone, Xu Xiaochen was Liang Muye’s type—but that was it.

Liang Muye shed his coat and sweater, still in the black tee from the afternoon. He wrapped an arm around Xu’s waist, pressing him against the wardrobe. “You prepped?”

Xu Xiaochen nodded, murmuring a soft “mm” and arching his hips to graze the metal buckle of Liang Muye’s pants.

Liang Muye placed a rough, warm hand on Xu’s tailbone. “Alright, just this once. No whining, no regrets.”

Xu Xiaochen had no regrets—he was eager. Turning his head, he whispered, “Brother.”

Liang Muye didn’t undress fully, only removing his belt because Xu complained about the cold. Then, parting Xu’s pale cheeks, he pressed his strong thighs against Xu’s knees, slowly easing himself in.

Moonlight spilled over Xu’s trembling shoulders.

The peach-colored wardrobe rocked rhythmically with their movements. Xu Xiaochen alternated between crying out and moaning loudly, one moment saying “no” and the next begging for more. Liang Muye had warned him, but Xu found him far from rough—almost considerate. Within five minutes, Xu’s legs gave out, and he pleaded to move to the bed.

Liang Muye couldn’t tell if the tears were real, but the pleasure was unmistakable.

In the end, Xu Xiaochen lay on the bed, taking the impacts in the least taxing position. Liang Muye’s tanned arm, veins bulging, reached over Xu’s shoulder to cover his mouth. His hips kept moving, and Xu climaxed first, collapsing into Liang Muye’s arms as he continued.

At the height of desire, Liang Muye gently squeezed Xu’s nape. But from start to finish, he never kissed him.

Afterward, Xu poured a drink. Liang Muye declined, so Xu joined him for a cigarette instead.

“Why’d you open the door to let everyone freeze, brother? Really got a problem with me?” Xu Xiaochen asked, basking in the afterglow of their intimacy.

“Not really,” Liang Muye replied casually. “I’m not used to studio shoots—portraits, headshots, that stuff. I always lean on the environment, real and natural things. That street felt like my childhood, so I wanted to bring that vibe into the studio. You helped me out.”

Xu Xiaochen ate up the flattery. “It was cold when you opened the door at first. But then I smelled the roasted sweet potato, and it hit me—the last winter that cold was when I was a kid. My grandma pulled a cart to the evening market, and I sat in the back. Thinking back, I don’t know if it was the winter or just that we couldn’t afford warm clothes.”

“You’re a good actor,” Liang Muye said. Xu’s empathy was strong, slipping into character instantly.

Xu Xiaochen turned to him, smiling. “I wasn’t acting just now.” He took a drag and handed the cigarette back. “I feel like the last set of photos wasn’t very ‘innocent.’ Not sure if they turned out okay.”

“I think they’re great. Adult work needs an adult’s interpretation,” Liang Muye said, taking a couple of puffs before stubbing out the cigarette.

His idea of a “playground” wasn’t limited to childhood. Once, the world itself was his playground. His closest friends remembered that version of him. He and Chen Nian met when they were nobodies, driving a beat-up pickup, crashing on friends’ couches, climbing most of China’s 6,000-meter peaks. Years later, he learned the term dirtbag—a wandering, penniless, yet infinitely rich lifestyle.

That was his youth. Now, he’d made different choices, signing up for benefits under Li Xiangwan, sitting in her studio, watching waves of big-name clients come and go, waiting alone for sunset after sunset.

The closer his friends were, the less they believed he could truly let go. It was like abandoning an Everest summit at the Hillary Step—so close, yet he refused to reach out. Wang Nan’ou tested him with playful jabs over the years, and Liang Muye could read the subtext. But he seemed determined to prove them wrong, selling off all his climbing gear and declining photography exhibits that wanted to showcase his work.

The cigarette smoke faded quickly. Liang Muye sat up on the bed.

Xu Xiaochen lowered his voice. “Brother, stay a bit longer?”

Liang Muye replied politely, “Gotta get home.”

Xu Xiaochen teased, “Someone waiting at home?”

He just smiled, didn’t answer, and put on his coat to leave.

No one was at home—not even a dog. Just a floor lamp left on, casting a warm yellow glow over the living room. In a corner sat a dusty gray safe. Liang Muye grabbed a cloth to wipe it clean before opening it.

Inside was an ordinary Nikon D750, scarred with dents and scratches. He could recount the story behind every mark. He couldn’t fully let go—any claim otherwise was self-deception.

Beneath the camera was an issue of China National Geographic. The cover featured a striking photo, shot from a low angle, of Chen Nian, China’s renowned mountaineer, during his no-oxygen speed ascent of Mustagh Ata. It captured the final technical climb, a 42-degree slope. He’d conquered most of the ridge, one hand braced on the glacier wall. From this angle, the path ahead was open, no ropes, the summit before him, a sheer drop behind.

The photo was titled My Last Breath. It was Chen Nian’s final climb, his life frozen in that frame, captured by Liang Muye’s camera.

He stared at it for a while before tossing the magazine back into the safe. It was a ritual, each viewing calming the ripples in his heart. Nothing is eternal—not joy, not love, not even the highest peaks.