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Lan Xichen had never been adept at painting.
It was not an art generally encouraged among the members of the Lan clan, and his uncle had a particular distaste for it, due to some truly petty grievances that Lan Qiren had kept close to his chest for literal decades. In any case, they were more highly praised for their skills in poetry and music, both of which Lan Xichen felt suited him much better. Words and notes were more efficient mediums through which to convey understanding and emotion, in his opinion.
Visual memory, however, was not their forte.
Jin Guangyao had always had the defter hand. Before his father had acknowledged him, bringing him into the Jin family fold as both invaluable asset and expendable middle manager in their European business, Jin Guangyao had spent his youth entertaining and directing the younger son of the Nies; days of indulging in a passion that wasn’t his for india ink on long scrolls of paper, in order to persuade the boy to do absolutely anything else.
Even after the Jins purchased a camera and associated operator to document their “official” lineage, Lan Xichen knew that Jin Guangyao kept up a mostly-secret habit of capturing whatever felt important to him on paper by hand. Lan Xichen had never asked, allowing Jin Guangyao the pretense of secrecy for something he did not want to admit he took pleasure in. That had been something of an unspoken rule.
Once, on a train from Lisbon to Madrid, Jin Guangyao had stared out their cabin window at the setting sun and asked, “Have you ever been photographed, Xichen-ge?”
Lan Xichen had shaken his head, looking at Jin Guangyao’s hands folded neatly across his lap before noticing he should answer verbally. “No, I haven’t. We’ve never visited a studio, and Uncle refuses to spend the money to hire one. I fear Wangji wouldn’t like it much, as well.” It was unlike Lan Qiren to be superstitious, though Lan Xichen was almost certain that his reasoning had more to do with thinking the practice to be an exercise in frivolity.
“Pity,” Jin Guangyao had replied, his gaze shifting across the cabin without turning his head. If Lan Xichen was a weaker man, he might have felt his cheeks warm. “They’re doing very interesting things with cameras these days,” He said, still keeping most of his face turned away. Lan Xichen couldn’t get a grip on his expression through only one eye. “In England, it’s become very popular to photograph your deceased loved ones.”
Lan Xichen had frowned. “That seems… a bit in poor taste.”
Jin Guangyao finally faced him, his gaze sharp down his delicate nose. “It’s mostly popular among the middle and lower classes. It seems when you can only afford one photograph, you need to make it count.”
“Well, then, that makes more sense.” Lan Xichen knew he hit a nerve without even realizing where it existed in the first place. He knew that Jin Guangyao had a weak spot, the soft underbelly to his every vicious word and decisive action, and Lan Xichen had blindly trampled all over it.
Jin Guangyao did not speak again for the rest of that trip. That night, Lan Xichen had had to beg his forgiveness with more than his words.
Thinking back on it, it was a very good way to remember the people who had left you forever, especially if you were, as Lan Xichen had always accepted, less than accurate with a brush. At the time, he had privately supposed that it did fill a very good niche, to help the living to cope with their memories of the dead, since the human mind’s capacity for clarity and verisimilitude were subject to many more whims than that of just time. Lan Xichen had filed it away as a curiosity of culture, and of people attempting a minute semblance of immortality.
It haunted him now.
Jin Guangyao had died, crushed under the rubble of a mansion he had built with others’ blood and claimed as his own. There was no body left to photograph.
Lan Xichen wondered, what was he supposed to do then? It’s not like he would be allowed to keep a memorial of him, even if Jin Guangyao had passed in his sleep, but Lan Xichen had found a beautiful rendering of his own face hidden in Jin Guangyao’s private study, every line knowledgeable and practiced and caring. Lan Xichen had nothing.
Meng Yao, the beautiful boy he had wanted so desperately to keep for himself for nearly twenty years, had died with the name; now Jin Guangyao had followed, and all Lan Xichen could think of was that thrice-damned conversation on a train in Portugal that he had filed away as another topic to steer clear of.
Lan Xichen knew how Jin Guangyao looked as he slept - it was the only time the wrinkles between his brow unfolded and the knots in his shoulders unfurled - but for how long would that image stay with him? He had tried, desperately and perhaps slightly maniacally, to commit it to paper, but that had ended in embarrassment one night when Wangji had visited him with tea and music and found him ink-stained and drunk on the floor.
The worst part of all, Lan Xichen didn’t want to want this memento so badly. Jin Guangyao had hurt so many people, would leave a legacy far worse than the one he had planned, and yet he had never hurt Lan Xichen.
Finally, possibly, he understood those morbid photos they had once discussed.
Memory could be fantasy, if one captured the right shot.