43. The Ladder Part 3

The whole way there, Lu Zhengming couldn’t take his eyes off Yin Yan. Yin Yan glanced back at him a few times from the corner of his eye, but Lu Zhengming didn’t even try to hide it. As they approached their destination, Yin Yan finally said, “What are you staring at?”

“You’re different now.”

Yin Yan stopped walking. “Different how?”

“You look more alive.” Lu Zhengming kept watching him. “Before, you always looked tired. Especially when there was no one else around, you barely even talked.”

“So I talk more now?”

“Your eyes are different.”

Yin Yan studied him for a moment, then smiled and started walking again.

He really was different, Lu Zhengming thought. There was something lighter in his eyes now. A brightness. A flicker of something that hadn’t been there before. He realized what it was, the glow of someone who was fully alive. Something much warmer than before.

And it wasn’t just his eyes. His whole body seemed looser, more open, like it had been replenished. Lu Zhengming thought back to the night before, or rather, early that morning. Yin Yan had wrung every last drop out of him. His legs still felt weak at the memory. It wasn’t entirely his fault either. Yin Yan had been insatiable, demanding him over and over, trying every new idea he could come up with. First it was not allowed to move. Then not allowed to come. Then not allowed to stop until he physically couldn’t get up anymore.

For once, Yin Yan hadn’t passed out right after. Lu Zhengming still remembered the way he had looked at him, strangely intense, burning. When he opened his eyes again, that same look was still there. It was like Yin Yan hadn’t slept at all, just stared at him through the night. And yet he showed no signs of fatigue. Lu Zhengming, on the other hand, felt completely emptied out.

A ridiculous thought suddenly crossed Lu Zhengming’s mind, and he smiled to himself.

“What are you laughing at?”

“You really remind me of those fox spirits from Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio. All seductive and feeding on people’s essence.”

He cracked up before he even finished the sentence. Yin Yan shook his head and let it slide with a small smile.

The 798 Art District used to be a state-owned factory complex for producing radio equipment. Designed by East Germany in the early days of the PRC, the buildings were built in the Bauhaus style. After completing its historical mission, the factory site was transformed in the 21st century into a cultural and artistic hub that now houses numerous art institutions.

The Tang and Song Contemporary Art Center was one of the more influential galleries in the district. It had made a name for itself across Asia, representing some of the country’s top artists as well as rising talents.

Lu Zhengming’s first collaboration with them was a large-scale solo exhibition. Gallery 1, with its ceiling over ten meters high and hundreds of square meters of space, had been entirely devoted to his work.

Some pieces were arranged along the outer walls, bathed in carefully calibrated lighting that lit the work without revealing the source. Layer upon layer of glass seemed to pierce through the walls themselves, creating new dimensions. Viewers standing before them would find their gaze drawn deeper and deeper, as though entering a shadowed, secret space. Other pieces were suspended from the ceiling using special wire, hanging in the center of the hall. Seen through dozens of translucent layers, the silhouettes of other viewers on the far side appeared blurred, almost as if they were part of the work itself.

The exhibition was deep and mysterious. The unique materials and hypnotic colors made the viewing experience unusually immersive. Lu Zhengming’s show stirred up discussion within the industry and made an impression even beyond it.

As he brought Yin Yan into the gallery, they passed a strangely dressed young man posing for a selfie in front of one of the works, striking a cold, aloof expression.

Yin Yan gave him a curious glance. Lu Zhengming didn’t react. He simply steered them farther away and murmured, “Influencer.”

“What kind of influencer?” Yin Yan was surprised. His own circles were mostly institutional and official, and his exhibitions rarely drew people like this.

“No idea,” Lu Zhengming said. He was used to it. “The so-called art bloggers. They use other people’s work as backdrops for their selfies and post them all over the internet. Last year, this place hosted an installation show by some European guy. These people lined up to take pictures.”

“Isn’t there a copyright issue?”

Lu Zhengming gave the photo-taker a sidelong glance. “Probably. I don’t bother with it.”

He led Yin Yan through the exhibit, explaining a bit about the contemporary art scene and its latest ideas. Their professional spheres didn’t overlap much, but art was art. And they were on the same level. Yin Yan understood without needing much explanation.

When the gallery emptied out a bit, Lu Zhengming put an arm around his shoulder and grinned. “It’s nice, dating someone in the same field.”

Yin Yan didn’t respond. He was focused on the artwork, but from the look in his eyes, Lu Zhengming could see a trace of amusement. That trace was enough to fill him with energy from the inside out, sweeping away all his morning fatigue.

For that smile alone, he would be willing to give even more.

Lu Zhengming thought about how he used to treat others. Generous with material things, emotionally the complete opposite. If someone could give him what he wanted, he was willing to give affection in return. In that narrow circle they lived in, sex was easy. If you tried a little, even love wasn’t hard to fake.

The hard part for him had never been making others fall in love. It was learning how to love. Finding someone he could safely place his feelings into was rare.

Before this, the vessel that held his emotions had been his art. But art was indirect. It was cold. The moment a piece was completed, the connection between him and the work ended.

Because of his limitations in expression, and the limits of what audiences could understand, he got very little feedback from others. Just numbers from sales reports. Abstract figures reflecting how well he fit the market’s taste. Between him and the rest of the world, there were always layers of distance. Like layers of color on glass, one over another.

But wasn’t everyone like this?

If God existed, then ever since the fall of the Tower of Babel, humanity had been incapable of true communication.

Lu Zhengming knew exactly what he wanted. And he also knew that it was a rare luxury. But he had no other desires. If he couldn’t have it, he would settle for something close to it. If not love, then at least something that looked like it. If not that, then even meaningless sex could keep the hunger at bay.

That was how many people lived their entire lives—including his parents. There had been no understanding between them. No love. And now not even sex. All they had was a dull, stagnant life and a fantasy—that one day, he would give them a child. As for why they were so fixated on grandchildren, they always had some excuse.

“What are you thinking about?”

Lu Zhengming looked up and found Yin Yan watching him. He had asked him the same kind of question several times that day. What he was looking at, what he was laughing at, what he was thinking about. It turned out Yin Yan’s eyes had been on him all along.

A gentle warmth welled up in Lu Zhengming’s chest, though he was too shy to show it. Instead, he pointed at the piece in front of them and asked with a smile, “What do you think?”

It was a series of red spatial paintings. The texture of the pigment looked like mist, or like layers of rock. The whole group looked like a tunnel of burning red. The deeper it went, the darker the red became. Yin Yan thought of the massive red oil painting from a year ago, the one that stood two meters tall. It had left the same impression, like a tunnel descending straight into the molten heart of the earth.

He folded his arms and stared into the tunnel, a subtle expression appearing on his face, halfway between a smile and something more complicated. Then he turned and gave that same look to Lu Zhengming, who smiled in response.

“You saw it?”

Yin Yan let out a quiet breath through his nose, still smiling. “It’s not exactly subtle.”

His voice was soft. Lu Zhengming noticed a faint flush rising along his ear and neck. It wasn’t from the gallery lights. It was the heat in his body.

There was no doubt. Yin Yan had understood the It was Lu Zhengming’s desire, directed at him, burning and unspoken, sinking impossibly deep.

“I painted the inside of you.”

Lu Zhengming leaned in close and whispered something filthy in his ear.

Yin Yan’s ears turned fully red. He stepped casually to the side and moved toward another painting, as if nothing had happened. The air around them finally cooled.

In contrast to the piece before, this next set of paintings was cool and restrained. Blue glass stretched out like the deep sky, or like the surface of the sea, vast and silent. The blood rushing through Yin Yan’s body began to calm, and all he felt was an echoing emptiness in his chest. It was as if a black hole had opened up inside him, pulling everything inward.

He turned to look at Lu Zhengming. And once again, Lu Zhengming saw in his eyes exactly what he had been hoping for.

Yin Yan’s gaze softened. He reached out with one hand. When Lu Zhengming hesitated, he took his hand for him. Then, as if nothing had happened, he let go and walked toward the next set of paintings, leaving Lu Zhengming standing there, stunned.

After all these years of wandering, the thing he had wanted most had been right beside him. Lu Zhengming could only marvel at his own slowness, and at the same time feel grateful that he had finally found him.

He caught up and stepped beside Yin Yan. The latter was standing before a series of works with unusual tones, lightly pinching his chin, his expression a little lost, a little pensive. The colors in the painting were rich but lacked brightness. They were muted, almost dull, and completely unlike Lu Zhengming’s usual palette.

But Lu Zhengming didn’t mind Yin Yan’s reaction. This was a personal piece. The fact that Yin Yan could even sense its mood was already enough.

Yin Yan leaned in to check the label on the wall. The title of the work was just two characters—

Childhood.

He looked back at Lu Zhengming. There was no darkness in his eyes. But then why did the painting feel so heavy, like a grief that couldn’t be put into words, left to collect dust for years?

“The concept behind this one… kind of sounds like a joke.” Lu Zhengming seemed a little embarrassed.

Yin Yan waited patiently, gaze warm and open. After a moment, Lu Zhengming no longer felt the need to hold it back.

“I don’t really have any childhood trauma. I was never beaten. No matter how much trouble I caused, my parents never hit or scolded me. They were genuinely good to me. But… I don’t know why, I always felt like something was missing. Don’t laugh and call me spoiled.”

Lu Zhengming was about to explain, but Yin Yan shook his head. The tension in Lu Zhengming’s voice eased.

“When I was in primary school, the school took us to see a movie. It was a cartoon. I don’t remember the name. But I remember someone died in it. I loved that character so much. I cried my eyes out. When I got home, I was still crying while I told my parents about it. And they just laughed at me.” Lu Zhengming rubbed his forehead, awkward again. “It wasn’t a big deal. Just dumb. Even the most delicate girl in class didn’t cry. But when they laughed, I got so mad I cried even harder. And then…”

He let out a sigh and continued, “Then, to make it up to me, they bought me a whole stack of animated DVDs. And that was it. That’s the story. Go ahead and laugh.”

Lu Zhengming looked at Yin Yan, resigned, bracing for ridicule.

Yin Yan did laugh, but not with mockery. His smile held something else, something hard to define. “When you got those DVDs, how did you feel?”

“Nothing really. That’s not what I wanted.”

“So they never understood how sad you really were back then.”

Lu Zhengming turned his head lightly, his gaze falling back onto that muted set of colored glass. “It’s all in the past anyway. There’s too much of this stuff. If I let every little thing get to me, I would’ve been depressed years ago. Besides, I’m not some fragile kid. I’m a grown man. Holding onto stuff like this every day would just make me… one of those people.”

His work as an artist required him to stay sensitive, to notice every subtle emotion. But when it came to the rest of the world, to society at large, being an adult man meant he could only present the opposite. All those years of disappointment couldn’t be expressed through tears, nor put into words.

On the glass, Yin Yan’s face reflected back at him. He was smiling, too. And just like Lu Zhengming, there was a hint of bitterness under that smile.

They kept walking, kept talking. As Lu Zhengming shared more and more from the past, he felt something in his chest clearing. Those layers of dust were slowly lifting.

He had originally planned to take Yin Yan to a few other galleries, but their time at the Tang and Song Center had stretched into the entire morning. They had no choice but to head out for lunch. Lu Zhengming suggested a nearby private kitchen that served light Huaiyang cuisine. It was well-known. Yin Yan declined with an apologetic smile. He checked the time and said, “I don’t have enough time. I have to visit someone this afternoon.”

Lu Zhengming couldn’t hide his disappointment. “Who? Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“Sorry. I couldn’t find the right moment.”

Hearing him apologize made Lu Zhengming’s disappointment turn into guilt. “Why didn’t you just cut me off? If you’d said something earlier, I wouldn’t have gone on and on…”

Yin Yan lowered his head.

“Forget it, go on. I’ll wait for you at the hotel.” Lu Zhengming waved him off, but just as he was about to let him go, he called out again, “Dinner together?”

“I’m sorry.” Yin Yan gave a bitter smile and shook his head. “There’ll be drinks at the dinner.”

Lu Zhengming pressed a hand to his shoulder. “At least eat something before you start drinking. Otherwise I’ll end up with stomach pain too.”

Yin Yan smiled and touched his hand. “Okay.”

Lu Zhengming’s afternoon passed in a haze of boredom. After scrolling through his phone for a while, a wave of drowsiness crept in and pulled him under.

By the time he woke up, night had fallen completely. The window glowed with city lights.

It looked just like that day at the beginning of the year, when he and Yin Yan had stood by the window holding each other, watching the snowfall, their hearts warm and full. But now, he was alone. Waking up like this, in this kind of silence, made it all feel unbearable.

Lu Zhengming looked outside. The streets in early summer were even livelier than in winter. A line of poetry flashed across his mind—“This beautiful scene is wasted. With all its charm, who is there to share it with?” The line lasted no more than a second before he wrinkled his nose and pushed it away. Too sentimental. Not like him at all.

Still, he really didn’t want to be the only one staring out this window. Not when he had that memory.

He turned on every light in the room. Then he picked up his phone. A message had come in from Yin Yan half an hour earlier:

Sorry, Zhengming. I’ll be a little later. Don’t forget to eat dinner.

It was already late.

He had no appetite. He turned off all the lights except one warm-colored lamp and sat dazed in the reclining chair by the window. Just as sleep began to pull at him again, a disorganized knocking came from the door.

The moment it cracked open, Yin Yan stumbled inside.

He still looked presentable. His clothes were tidy. But his eyes had already begun to blur. He smiled and called out “Zhengming” before bolting into the bathroom with a hand over his mouth.

Lu Zhengming followed the trail of alcohol in the air. The bathroom was thick with the pungent smell of baijiu.

He had never seen Yin Yan drink like this. Not once when they were together. He didn’t even touch brandy or whiskey, afraid it would upset his already sensitive stomach. Lu Zhengming rarely went to dinners where people drank baijiu. In his experience, only one kind of person liked organizing those: people in official circles.

He quietly held Yin Yan by the waist. The body in his arms was convulsing with each wave of nausea, and each spasm felt like a small rip in his own heart.

After throwing up, Yin Yan staggered toward the sink, looking for water. Lu Zhengming caught him and guided him to the basin, unbuttoning his shirt and wiping his face with a hot towel. His forehead was burning, but his hands and feet were ice cold. Eyes shut, he struggled to stay upright, still trying to hold himself together, trying to remain composed.

That was when Lu Zhengming’s anger ignited.

But he didn’t ask right away who the other person was. Instead, he helped Yin Yan out of his shirt, wiped away the sweat and the stench of alcohol, and carried him to the bed.

“How much did you drink?”

He kept his voice calm, burying the fire in his chest.

“A whole bottle?” Yin Yan didn’t open his eyes. He smiled and wrapped his arms around Lu Zhengming’s neck. “Feitian Maotai. Fifty-three percent… what a waste, such good liquor…”

Something flared in Lu Zhengming’s gut. He couldn’t even tell whether it was hunger or rage. Even he would have a hard time downing that much, and Yin Yan’s tolerance was barely half his. This wasn’t drinking. This was slow suicide.

He pried Yin Yan’s arms off and laid them neatly by his sides, then pulled the blanket over him. “Why did you drink so much?”

Yin Yan let out a weak laugh. The warmth of alcohol laced his breath, brushing softly over Lu Zhengming’s skin.

“Zhengming, you’re really something… flying higher and farther every day… you’ve never changed. You’re still so good. And I still… like you just as much…”

Lu Zhengming rested his forehead against his, gently brushing against him. His heart softened so completely he didn’t even want to kiss him, afraid it might hurt.

But Yin Yan seemed to feel that tenderness too. He tilted his head up and kissed him, then murmured, voice slurred and dazed:

“But not yet. I still don’t deserve it… not yet…”