Chapter 48 Rushing to (3) Never retreating even in death.

Wen Chen turned his head to look out the window at the churning clouds, which were as dense as cotton. This was a flight to Paris, and it was also his first long trip since he and Gu Moheng started over.

The man next to him had been acting strangely ever since boarding the plane. Gu Moheng sat upright, the financial newspaper open on his lap. Ten minutes had passed, and the corners of the newspaper were wrinkled from being gripped by his fingertips, yet he was still stuck on the same page.

"President Gu." Wen Chen turned her head, her gaze falling on his slightly trembling left hand, her voice laced with lazy teasing, "Is the plane about to disintegrate?"

Gu Moheng snapped back to reality. "No," he blurted out, his voice dry and forced. He hurriedly picked up the soda water beside him to cover it up, but his movements were so hasty that two drops of water splashed onto his expensive dark gray suit, spreading into a small, dark stain.

Disheveled and clumsy.

Wen Chen raised an eyebrow and tapped the back of his hand with her fingertip. "Then why are you shaking?"

Gu Moheng followed his gaze and looked down, only then realizing his lapse in composure. His long, slender fingers curled slightly.

“I…” He lowered his eyes, his voice so low it blended into the cabin’s hum, “It feels unreal. This is the first time… I’m going abroad with you.” His voice trailed off softly, like a sigh, “It feels like a dream.”

Everything was too beautiful to be true, like a delusional illusion he had conjured up during his countless sleepless nights. He was afraid that once the plane landed, he would wake up in the blink of an eye and still be in that cold, semi-basement apartment, with the perpetually overcast gray sky outside the window, and Wen Chen's figure would have long since disappeared on that rainy night eight years ago.

This fear is even more profound than when I lost everything eight years ago.

Wen Chen sighed and reached out his hand. His long, slightly cool fingers passed through the narrow space between the two of them and covered Gu Moheng's still slightly trembling left hand.

Palms touching.

Wen Chen's hands weren't warm; they even had thin calluses from years of drawing. But when they brushed against Gu Moheng's hand, they felt like a scorching hot iron, instantly scalding away the unease that was growing wildly in his heart.

"And now?" Wen Chen looked into his eyes, which held a glimmer of light, and gently pinched the space between his thumb and forefinger. "Is it still a dream?"

A distinct pain was felt.

Gu Moheng stared blankly at their clasped hands. The slightly cool temperature spread from their palms all the way to his heart, making his eyes sting.

It's not a dream.

Wen Chen's hand is right here, Wen Chen's warmth is right here.

“No…” He gripped it with his other hand, tightening his grip with all five fingers.

"It's not a dream." Gu Moheng repeated, but a light gradually gathered in his eyes.

Wen Chen adjusted her position slightly to make it more comfortable for him to hold her, and said in a gentle voice, "Take a nap. You've been working so late, and you've only slept for less than three hours. We'll land in seven hours. I'll wake you when we arrive."

-

Winters in Paris are bitterly cold.

The cold wind felt like an icy knife, seeping into his bones through his collar. Wen Chen buttoned up the last button of his trench coat, stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window of his hotel suite, and looked down at the gray city.

My three-day itinerary in Paris was clearly divided into distinct segments.

During the day, Wen Chen shuttles through the office buildings of La Défense, arguing with clients about every detail of the design proposal. Gu Moheng, on the other hand, is in a hotel suite or a makeshift business center, dealing with mountains of official business from across the ocean, with the sound of video conferences occasionally drifting into his bedroom.

They share a suite, but their real interactions don't begin until sunset and the neon lights come on.

Where to go tonight?

Gu Moheng's voice came from behind him. He had just finished a transoceanic video conference and was still wearing a crisp shirt with the cuffs casually rolled up to his forearms, revealing a section of firm muscle lines.

Wen Chen didn't turn around, her gaze fixed on the spire of the Eiffel Tower in the distance. "Eiffel Tower, flashing lights on the hour, I want to see it."

The weariness in Gu Moheng's eyes vanished instantly, as if he had been injected with vitality. "Okay, I'll go prepare the car."

As night fell, a thin layer of frost covered the lawn of Ares Square, making a crunching sound underfoot. A cold wind swept by, carrying withered leaves, and tourists wrapped their coats tighter around themselves, but few were willing to leave.

Wen Chen was wrapped in a thick milk tea-colored scarf, with half of her face buried in the soft fleece, revealing only a pair of clear and aloof eyes, and holding a cup of hot coffee to warm her hands.

Gu Moheng stood beside him, subtly shifting half a step towards the wind to shield him from most of the chill. He held a Leica camera in his hand, the lens quietly pointed at him.

"Crack".

Wen Chen frowned, turned her face away from the camera, and said helplessly, "President Gu, are you here for vacation or to be a paparazzi?"

Gu Moheng put down the camera, but couldn't hide the smile on his lips. "Recording life."

The excuse was lame and unconvincing.

From the very first night, this person kept taking pictures of him with a camera.

The camera was pointed at him as he drank coffee;

As he looked at the road sign, the sound of a camera shutter rang out beside him;

Even when he frowned from the cold wind, he couldn't escape the camera.

"Look at the lights." Wen Chen didn't bother to argue and raised his chin.

The clock struck on the hour, its chimes carried by the wind.

The massive iron tower was suddenly illuminated by golden lights. Countless starlight danced and twinkled on its steel frame, as if the Milky Way had been shattered and scattered across the city's sky.

Gu Moheng looked up, but his eyes held no starlight, nor the dazzling sea of ​​lights; only Wen Chen. Wen Chen's profile, illuminated by flickering light, was more captivating than the tower itself.

"Click." Another very soft shutter sound.

Wen Chen finally turned her head, her eyes filled with helplessness and warning, "Gu Moheng."

Gu Moheng hesitated for two seconds, then hid the camera behind his back, softened his voice, and bargained in a low voice, "Just one. The lighting is very good."

He turned the screen towards Wen Chen. The background was a blurred sea of ​​dazzling lights. Wen Chen had half her face buried in her scarf, her brows slightly furrowed, and the corners of her eyes were reddened by the cold wind. Her eyes were hazy and tired, yet captivating.

There was no deliberate composition, and no staged shooting.

"Stop taking pictures, it's ugly." Wen Chen turned her face away, revealing half of her face with a slight blush.

“Not ugly.” Gu Moheng’s tone was serious to the point of being obstinate. He took a half step forward, stared into Wen Chen’s eyes, and said, word by word, “Wen Chen, you’re beautiful no matter what.”

A cold wind howled past, carrying away the whispers between the two.

A few playful words brought them closer together.

Wen Chen could smell the faint scent of cedar on him, mixed with the chill of the cold wind. He glanced at him with a half-smile, "Weren't you the most picky about composition and lighting before?" His tone was teasing, "When did Young Master Gu's aesthetic sense decline?"

Gu Moheng's eyes trembled slightly.

That was Gu Moheng eight years ago—picky, arrogant, and a perfectionist. But what does that have to do with the Gu Moheng of today?

“I was blind before. Now, as long as you're in the frame, that's the best composition.” His voice was low and hoarse, with a hint of self-deprecation.

Looking into the obsession in his eyes, Wen Chen's heart softened completely. She turned and walked back, leaving behind a casual remark: "Don't let it happen again."

"Okay, I'll do as you say."

-

The following evening, on the banks of the Seine.

The cruise ship cut through the dark water, creating ripples. The streetlights on both banks turned the river into a flowing gold.

Wen Chen walked ahead, hands in her coat pockets, her pace languid. Gu Moheng followed half a step behind, still holding the same camera. This time, however, he was more discreet, the lens always quickly lowering just before Wen Chen turned around.

"Gu Moheng."

Wen Chen suddenly stopped, turned around, and leaned against the stone railing on the riverbank. The evening breeze ruffled the corner of his clothes, and he turned his head to look at him.

"Huh?" Gu Moheng stopped immediately and reflexively hid the camera behind his back.

"What if I change too?" Wen Chen's gaze shifted to the shattered reflection on the river's surface, her voice carried somewhat by the wind.

Gu Moheng was silent for a moment, then walked up to him and blocked the wind blowing from the river. He raised his hand, his fingertips hovering in front of his cheek, hesitated for a second, and finally just gently tidied his wind-blown hair.

He raised his camera, the screen's dim light illuminating their faces. Wen Chen in the photo had a cold expression, yet he looked exactly like the boy in his memory who turned back and smiled at him in the art studio.

“Wen Chen, look.” Gu Moheng pointed at the screen, “No matter what you become, in my eyes, you will always be the person who turned around and smiled at me in the art studio.”

"Physical appearance or personality, it doesn't matter." He tilted his head slightly, his gaze level with Wen Chen's. In those deep, imposing eyes, there was only one person to be seen at that moment, "As long as your soul is yours."

I love them all.

Wen Chen stared at him for a long time. So long that the Seine seemed to stand still. He could see through all of Gu Moheng's pretenses, his unease and forbearance, but he couldn't see through this deep affection—was it atonement or instinct?

Or perhaps, the two have long been intertwined, inseparable.

Wen Chen suddenly lowered her eyes, chuckled very softly, and said in a reproachful tone, "You're so glib."

He turned around and continued walking along the riverbank, his steps becoming lighter. "There's a mulled wine stand up ahead."

He waved to Gu Moheng with his back to him, "Mr. Gu, it's your treat."

Gu Moheng stood there, gazing at that slender, upright figure, his heart filled with a sweet, burning sensation. He took a deep breath of the cold winter night air, yet his lungs felt a surge of warmth. Gripping his camera tightly, he quickly followed.

As long as Wen Chen is still willing to move forward.

Even if he looked back every few steps, even if he walked and stopped frequently, Gu Moheng would always be half a step behind him.

-

Parisian winters are always gloomy, like a long farewell, and this gloom reaches its peak in front of Sainte-Chapelle.

Gu Moheng was unusually silent today. From the moment he stepped into this Gothic building, his usually decisive and ruthless eyes never dared to look Wen Chen in the eye, as if he was avoiding something, or as if he was brewing something.

As you ascend the narrow spiral staircase, the sound of your footsteps echoes in the open space.

Until you take that final step, your vision suddenly opens up.

Even Wen Chen, a professional who was already immune to architectural aesthetics, couldn't help but hold his breath for a moment.

One thousand one hundred and thirteen stained-glass windows sliced ​​the bleak sunset into countless magnificent fragments. The deep purple of violets, the fiery intensity of crimson, and the serene tranquility of cobalt blue were splashed like ink on the stone floor, flowing into a colorful river.

Here, light is no longer a tool for illumination, but a frozen miracle.

Gu Moheng didn't look at those shocking glass windows. He just stood there, with his back to the huge rose window, backlit.

The dappled sunlight fell on his dark gray coat and on his high, straight brow bone, illuminating the deep, unyielding darkness in his eyes.

"Wen Chen".

Gu Moheng spoke, his voice hoarse, as if he were holding a handful of rough sand, which was blown apart by the wind.

Wen Chen, with her hands in her trench coat pockets, looked at him calmly. "Hmm?"

Gu Moheng looked up, his gaze wandering over the intricate stained-glass window displaying biblical stories, as if searching for something to hold him back. "Eight years ago, it was also a winter like this."

Wen Chen raised an eyebrow but didn't interrupt him.

"In the school library, in the corner by the window, I saw you drawing. You were drawing here, a sketch of the St. Chapel."

Wen Chen was stunned for a moment. That period of time was too long ago, so long that he could hardly remember it himself.

“You had a lot of classes that day, and you were too tired. You fell asleep while you were drawing.” Gu Moheng lowered his head, his gaze finally returning to Wen Chen’s face, his eyes surging with turbulent emotions. “The afternoon sun shone through the window and fell right on your face.”

His fingers curled slightly, as if he wanted to touch that memory, yet was afraid of shattering it. "Back then, I thought, one day, I would bring you here. Let real, ten thousand times more beautiful light shine on your face."

Wen Chen's heart felt like it had been hit hard by something, a sour feeling instantly welled up in her nose, and her eyes felt slightly hot.

It turns out that this journey, which was eight years overdue, was never just a simple trip, but a promise that had been kept hidden for eight years.

"Wen Chen." Gu Moheng's eyes reddened, his voice trembling uncontrollably, "I'm..."

His Adam's apple bobbed, and his question sounded as heavy as a boulder: "Am I worthy to stand beside you?"

As soon as he finished speaking, even the dazzling lights and shadows around him seemed to dim a little.

Wen Chen sighed softly and took her hand out of her warm pocket. Her slender fingers covered Gu Moheng's angular profile, gently caressing his slightly cool skin.

"Gu Moheng," he said softly, "I've figured it out."

He looked into his eyes, his gaze clear and bright. "Back then, you used the clumsiest, most self-righteous, and most hurtful way to protect me."

Gu Moheng's breathing quickened instantly, his lips trembled as if he wanted to say something, but Wen Chen gently pressed his lips against hers.

"Shh." Wen Chen placed her index finger on his lips, silencing the unfinished apology. "No need to apologize."

He withdrew his hand, but instead of stopping, he pressed his fingers down, forcefully digging them into Gu Moheng's stiff fingers.

Their fingers intertwined, palms pressed together. Like two hearts that had wandered for eight years, finally finding their home.

"You paid for eight years of loneliness, and I paid for eight years of hatred." Wen Chen looked up, facing the dazzling holy light, and a faint but relieved smile appeared on his lips. "Now, we're even."

Wen Chen didn't give him a chance to continue his self-torture through his own thoughts. "Now that we've put the old issues behind us, let's talk about the new testament."

Gu Moheng's throat tightened. "You speak."

As light and shadow shifted, the setting sun shone through the stained glass windows, bathing most of the church in a deep cobalt blue and crimson hue.

Wen Chen stood in the light, looking at him calmly, "Do you still remember the three conditions we agreed on?"

Gu Moheng answered without hesitation, "Honesty, trust, and equality."

“I’m adding a fourth point now.” Wen Chen’s eyes shone with an astonishing light.

Gu Moheng's heart skipped a beat. "...What?"

"forever."

Wen Chen spoke each word clearly and firmly: "Together forever, never apart, always honest and trustworthy."

He closed the distance between them, his gaze intense, "Whether you are rich or poor, whether you are President Gu or a penniless nobody, no matter what storms you encounter in the future."

He stared into his eyes and spoke each word as if making a vow: "This treaty is for a permanent term."

Do you accept it?

Gu Moheng's lips moved, his voice broken, "...Accept."

"Alright." Wen Chen smiled with satisfaction, reached into his trench coat pocket with his right hand, pulled out a small black velvet box, and gestured with his chin towards him, "Give me your hand."

The box was opened, revealing a pair of simple wedding rings. There were no elaborate patterns, no dazzling gemstones, only flowing lines—a testament to the architect's unique aesthetic. The cool metallic luster shimmered in the dim light, and two fine engravings were faintly visible on the inner ring—the initials of their names.

Wen Chen took out a ring, lifted Gu Moheng's hand, and gently but firmly pushed the ring into the base of his ring finger.

“I designed it myself.” Wen Chen looked down at the ring, her fingertips gently stroking the surface, a smile in her eyes. “The size should be just right.”

He raised his head, looking at Gu Moheng with a half-smile, his tone cunning and domineering: "Even if it's not suitable, you can't back out."

"No refund." Gu Moheng's voice was thick with a nasal tone. He took the other ring from the box and took Wen Chen's left hand.

His fingertips trembled violently, and the first time, the ring even brushed against his knuckles. He let out a suppressed sigh, steadied his breathing, and with his fingertips still trembling, finally managed to slip the ring securely onto Wen Chen's ring finger.

Wen Chen didn't move, letting him do as he pleased, her eyes filled with subtle smiles.

The two plain rings pressed tightly together, shimmering with a steadfast light under the dappled light.

Gu Moheng gripped his hand tightly, his eyes red-rimmed, as if using all his strength to swear an oath, word by word:

"I will not retreat, even if it means death."

Gu Moheng held Wen Chen's hand, and under the dazzling holy light, he lowered his head slightly and gently kissed the ring.