Work Text:
Jingyi immediately starts scribbling on a napkin as soon as he gets a seat in the train. He doesn’t try to look inconspicuous, but to be truthful, it’s not many people that would care enough to spare him a second of their day only to stare.
His hands tremble ever so slightly
He favors his left leg
He doesn’t want anyone to notice that
I can see why people call him a witch
There was definitely something else, but so much more than it can fit on this napkin or on Jingyi’s vocabulary. He keeps repeating the information over and over and over in his head and he almost misses his stop, but fortunately doesn’t. Sooner than he’s able to process the last few hours, he’s stumbling into the hotel, the key to his room already in hand and the words on the tip of his pen.
It’s a wonder he has the maintenance to write an introduction to the letter before getting into the interesting part of the story.
Hello, Zizhen,
I’m sorry to say, but your concern about the birdsong encyclopedia will have to wait until my next contact. Something amazing just happened!
As you know, I am in the town of Caiyi. Here is the site of many things: the best wine I’ve had, the kindest people I’ve met, and also, it’s his hometown. Yes, I chose this not at all strategic stop just because of him, even though I had only the slightest hope I’d be lucky enough to see him, let alone meet him! You might know who I’m talking about by now, and might want to strangle me, but just bear with me!
So. I went downtown to buy this beautiful fountain pen I saw the other day, it was the most beautiful pen you couldn’t even fathom. You know I will describe it to you anyway. Its tip had the shiniest chrome, and the body of the pen itself was in the most elegant and eye-catching dark blue and silver I’d ever seen, and it also looked appropriately heavy, I could just imagine myself writing to you with it. And here’s the catch: it didn’t cost a fortune! Most of the shops only sell household and work related paraphernalia, no one comes here looking for fountain pens, so I figured the price would be in the clouds. I was wrong. I’d say that’s because Caiyi town isn’t really a tourist’s town, populated vastly by the elderly and their grandchildren.
Anyway, I went back to the store where I met the love of my life, and it had been sold. I was devastated! But I had to make the trip count somehow, so I dragged my sack of melancholy I call body through the streets populated by the younger people, hoping to find some place to eat — and I did!
There was this lovely teahouse on a corner street that caught my eye. It looked like a friendly place, so I walked up to it with the intention to sulk for a few hours before I had to get back to the hotel and sulk hard enough it gave me inspiration to write. I’ve been stuck in this part of the chapter. Despite my best efforts, I simply cannot think of enough words to describe that kind of sadness I need for it, and I wish you were here to guide me. You have always been better at the deeper feelings than I’ll ever be.
So I went into the teahouse. I don’t want to get into too much detail, but the curtains were of a lovely lilac color, and the tables gave this really good contrast to them in its deep wood color. I’m not sure what kind of fabric those curtains were, but it was sheer enough that the sunlight filtered through them and bathed the whole place in lilac. It was wonderful to look at, I bet Sizhui would salivate over it, and his hands would just itch to spend his entire evening trying to capture it in paper and paint. The servers were so nice that I think they’d let him — if he kept ordering that horrible tea he loves to gobble, that is.
Even before I sat down, I spotted him. There’s no way I couldn’t, it was HIM!
Fine. I’ll interrupt this story to come clean: that’s a partial lie, I didn’t “spot” him sitting at the teahouse, I already knew he’d be there. I elected to omit the part where I saw him at a distance on that street and followed him to the lilac teahouse because I didn’t want to sound obsessed. But I am, so I’ll tell you: I spotted THE Lan Wangji on a street in Caiyi town and followed him to a teahouse. You might say I could’ve gone up to him just as I recognized his face, but you know me, I really couldn’t, I’d make a fool of myself if I didn’t prepare!
Because I’m a very polite young man, I waited until he made his order, and I went up to his table. And heavens above, Zizhen, he let me sit down with him! THE Lan Wangji invited me to take a seat across from him on the table. Obviously, I did.
I said I’m a huge fan. He asked my name, and I told him. I said I was just visiting Caiyi and didn’t expect to meet him. He asked what I’m visiting for, and I answered I was doing field research for my second novel — of course I wasn’t going to tell him I’m homeless and traveling the country by train under the profit of my poems on local newspapers —, and he wished me good luck. It felt like I’d been blessed by a deity. He asked what I’d like to drink, and I said I wasn’t hungry and didn’t want anything, but he insisted on sharing some of the tea he ordered with me. I’d been double blessed. Can you guess what kind of tea Lan Wangji likes?
We all have seen pictures of him, right? At public signings, at publication parties, at writing fests, any place you’d find a writer and publishing author as famous as him, he’s been there and photographed there and we’ve only ever seen him there. So, let me tell you, it is jarring to see THE Lan Wangji doing things any other regular person might — like visit a teahouse in the afternoon.
That said, I couldn’t take the way he looked out of my head. I still can’t.
I don’t want this to be any more dramatic than it is, but I’ve been crying since I left that teahouse. Not because I met THE Lan Wangji, but because I met Lan Wangji. I bet Jin Ling would hit the back of my head and yell at me saying I only speak nonsense, but that’s why this letter is addressed to you, Zizhen, not him.
You understand what I’m trying to say, don’t you?
Lan Wangji wore only white, as usual. I noticed as I watched him walk that he favored his left leg. I noticed as I watched him drink tea that his hands didn’t ever stop trembling. I noticed he didn’t look at me, or the server, in the eye. His movements were so slow that he almost looked like the pictures of him, and he never spoke more than two sentences at a time. It was almost hypnotic, almost hallucinogen to look at him, almost like he’s a character stepped out of his own novels. He feels intelligent, even when he’s silent, and I bet that’s why some believe he’s arrogant.
I can tell with utmost confidence: he’s not. I used to say this based on my own little perception of my idol that is him, but it’s delightful to now say that, by experience, Lan Wangji is one of the most terrifically earnest writers I have ever met. Hell, not just writers, people as a whole.
I never understood why he didn’t want to give lectures, despite the many invitations to do so, including our university’s, and despite his undebatable skill and talent. He’d be the perfect role model to any aspiring novelist, the perfect rival to any seasoned writer. But I think I might understand better now. Zizhen, how can you look at him and ignore his sadness? How could you sit through hour-long lectures without thinking about it even once?
Mind you, I use sadness as a broad descriptor; not necessarily equated to an absence of happiness or the presence of melancholy. Lan Wangji doesn’t look unhappy, that’s not it, and none about him indicated that today, specifically, he felt upset. He looks someone who rarely builds any expectation. He looks someone who’s tired, despite not doing much anymore — when was the last time he published? He is someone who listens to everything you have to say, but does not have a single word in response. And Lan Wangji is that way not obliviously. He knows how much you stare at him, and it’s so uncanny it makes you not want to be near him, but now that you are, you can’t look away.
I guess the word I’m looking for is loneliness. Lan Wangji doesn’t seem to thrive or feed off of loneliness, but he still lives on it.
And now that I have officially stopped crying, I can think better, so I’m able to tell you of the realization that hit me on the way to my hotel after this happening: have we missed something in Dead Poet of Yiling? I know what you are going to say, and no, I will not stop beating the dead horse that is Lan Wangji’s first, last, and most emblematic poem collection! You already know what I think of it, and I firmly stood by that.
That is, until I realized how painfully lonely Lan Wangji really is. That is, until I realized we never knew just who the dead poet of Yiling really is. Many just assume that Lan Wangji himself is the poet. Afterall, all the poems in the collection are his, right? But he is not from Yiling, he’s never lived in Yiling, he doesn’t have family in Yiling, he didn’t write in Yiling, why does that place hold the object of his grief?
It took me back to the very last poem in the entire collection. Open it up right now, reread it, then answer this question: doesn’t it look like a love letter?
“Eeeh?” you’re going to say, holding this page of my letter in one hand, and your copy of Dead Poet of Yiling in the other. I got you, right? I bet I did. And now you’re reading the poem one more time, aren’t you?
I know you too well, dear friend! (But if I’m wrong, it’s a sign I should visit you again. Let me know.)
Back to the matter at hand: I think the dead poet of Yiling is actually someone Lan Wangji knew, back when he was writing the poems in this collection. The realization made me elated. Finally, the shift in thematics and intensity halfway through the collection would make sense!
You remember that Lan Wangji revealed the poems are in chronological order, starting when he was thirteen stopping at twenty one. The collection begins with traditional rule-abiding poetry and ends with what we know today as Lan Wangji’s writing style of bending those same rules as far as he can without really breaking them, not yet absurdist. So, my hypothesis is that because of the Yiling Poet (what I’m calling the mysterious and possibly real subject), Lan Wangji changed his perception on poetry and writing as a whole. Maybe they met in teenagehood and the Yiling Poet was as frustrating and annoying as the tongue-twister poem in chapter three, but then sweet and funny as the melodical poem in chapter six. Maybe they had some kind of relationship different from the ones Lan Wangji had with his family, who, aside from his father, were also all writers. Maybe they changed each other for life. Maybe the Yiling Poet was from the actual city of Yiling, and Lan Wangji wanted to express this distance between them by calling him the Poet of Yiling.
Which brings me to the decline of my elation: the full name of the book is Dead Poet of Yiling. The Yiling Poet is dead. Lan Wangji, who many have said has the unchanging expression of a widow, is perhaps an actual widow. I don’t think there’s another way to justify the kind of loneliness I saw in him, Zizhen, back me up on this!
I can’t imagine what would have happened if someone hadn’t bought that fountain pen.
Irreparably Shaken Upon Meeting His Idol,
Jingyi.
P.S.: don’t write back to this address, I’m leaving Caiyi tomorrow. You bet your life I’m going to Yiling. I’ll send you a postcard when I settle and let you know when I find any clues on the damn birdsong encyclopedia.
P.S. 2: If you guessed Lan Wangji likes the exact same tea Sizhui does, you’d be correct! How crazy is that?
Hello Zizhen,
Can you guess where I found your so-desired encyclopedia? You’re not going to, so I’ll just tell you: in one of the shops at a train station. My problem was imagining it was some posh and vastly expensive work of research, and searching only through the renowned bookshops; in my hands, it looks more like a travel flier than it does an encyclopedia. But I guess it’s intentional, who is doing field research on birds with a big, heavy, hard-cover encyclopedia? I am an idiot.
I ditched the idea of the postcard and decided to just send another letter for three reasons. One, I got to Yiling faster than I thought I would — not making any stops helped. Two, Yiling postcards are not something that exists, apparently. Three, something amazing happened. Again!
You want to know what I found out about this town that they wouldn’t tell you in postcards and certainly don’t on state records? Yiling is famous locally for their funerary tradition and practice. A big site of land, bigger than the city itself, looks like a melancholic garden park, is actually a cemetery. Keep that in mind as this letter goes on.
So, as just said, I’m in Yiling now. It’s surprisingly accommodating here, the inns are cheap enough that I think I might be able to stay for a week and some days if I’m mindful of my resources, the populated part of the city is so small you can cross it entirely by foot. I’d call it cozy, if not for the obvious neglect to some aspects of public hygiene that are not at all the common people’s responsibility, but they apologize to me regardless, when I say I come from Gusu. You can imagine it’s not a very fulfilling life here.
It was easy to find community. Not because I’m so friendly and approachable, but because certain someones stick out in a place like this. Unlike Caiyi or Moling, which I just visited and you have also been to before, Yiling doesn’t have the comfort of nearby schools or universities or even libraries — some of the people I’ve met cannot read if it’s not something in direct relation to their work. This town is somewhere whose people don’t have room to breathe between a shift and the other, so it’s no surprise there aren’t many people like us, artists, writers, journalists and whatnot. It’s depressing to have a child and know you can’t hope they have a better life than you had, the innkeeper said to me. I was heartbroken, and had to acknowledge that despite my dire situation, it really could be far worse. What if my parents hadn’t let me pick up a pen and paper? I’m sure Jin Ling would love that, but I wouldn’t!
I met a young artist, not even seventeen yet, and she pointed me to a gazebo which she promised me is an outdoors community center and said they have reunions every Wednesday, all day long. So of course I waited for Wednesday like it was payday. While that’s on hold, I have another story to jam in here.
The inn I’m staying at is kept by two families: one couple, childless, and another, with five children, one of which has moved out of town to go to university and doesn’t even visit or send letters anymore. I was told by one half of the couple that’s not parent to this child that their family relationship has always been rocky at best, dysfunctional at worst. I’ll try to paraphrase the conversation as best as I remember.
“He always wanted to leave, you know?” she said to me, stirring the deep pot with the broth for dinner to be served to the visitors — I’m helping because she let me and I had nothing else better to do. “But Xiang jie never let him. I never knew if the boy had any real talent or not, but the next time I checked, he was gone. Off to the train station in Yueyang before anyone could tell him no!”
I told her I found it admirable, that the child followed through with his convictions and trusted himself like that, and she snickered at me, clicking her tongue.
“Was it? Xiang jie says he couldn’t even sweep the floor to help, always playing frail when she asked anything of him. He always forgot to pick up his siblings in school, and almost made his meimei catch her death in the cold once, coming back on her own!” she scoffed, then sighed, then wiped the sweat off her forehead. “I mean. I know Xiang jie loved him a lot. Loves him. Her son, despite all, you know? But I say good riddance.”
Because I helped her make and deliver the meal, I got a little extra, the leftovers. She insisted, and I thanked her, retreating to my room while thinking of the innkeeper’s son that’s gone and the ones still by her side. If that’s ever something you do, I couldn’t pick a side.
I didn’t blame the child for following his dreams, but if what the other innkeeper said is true, that’s a deplorable man to be, as much as you hate where you are. I didn’t blame his mother for wanting a helping hand on the workload, but I’ve also heard far too many screaming matches for only a few days where she calls her children “useless” many times. It was hard to know who to believe like this.
I woke up on Wednesday and headed straight for the community center, right after breakfast. There was no one there when I arrived, but the artist girl warned me of that possibility, so I just waited. Sure enough, when it was about to hit an entire hour of waiting, a hunched figure approached, squinting when he saw me. The elderly man sat across from me at another park bench, not saying anything. I took this as a cue to introduce myself and tell him what I was there for. And then he looked at me, not any less grumpy and not offering me a name to refer to him as, but now understanding, as he pulled a stack of wrinkled papers from his lapels, resting it over his legs with shaky hands. He didn’t seem flabbergasted when I said I’m from Gusu, and I instantly liked him.
We exchanged works. I gave him the poem I was supposed to sell if I wanted to stay in Caiyi for another day or two, and he gave me the surprise of my life. The old man had gnarly calligraphy, barely decipherable, really. But then I was two words in, and couldn’t stop reading, like a parched man in the eye of a storm. Zizhen, when I tell you this elder had an otherworldly literary notion… I can’t even think of a good comparison to describe. I know he would, goddammit if he didn’t. Even the calligraphy seemed part of the performance now that I knew what lay behind it — though I knew it couldn’t be.
You know how older scholars are refined in the old-fashioned way they are? This was not it. This man was older than three of our professors combined, but it felt like his poetry transcended time itself, bent it with his very fingers, no matter how frail they looked. I second-guessed my capability to sense danger, and wondered if the person I was talking to was actually an ancient demon who took the form of a young girl, and now an unsuspecting elder to fool me and kill me as soon as I was done reading. What a skilled demon that would be, right?
I was wrong, of course, because soon two more people joined us, one of them being the young artist, and the other a man I had not seen in town yet. It was sunny, so I could see the girl’s face more clearly, and also her enthusiasm to hand her work to everyone. If I’m not mistaken, the two older men called her A-Li. She, in turn, only called the elder by the appropriate address for their age difference, and referred to the other man as senior Wei.
That senior of hers didn’t say much. Not even after he read my poetry, not even after he read the girl’s prose, not even after he read the elder’s poetry. When I asked if he brought anything of his, he seemed to consider for a few seconds. Finally, he asked, “Who are you?”
I introduced myself again, and something shifted in the man’s face when I told him I was from Gusu, but it still wasn’t flabbergast. His eyes dove back down to the paper with my work, as if reading it for the first time again. Then, he smiled at me, and handed his own scrap of paper to me before everyone else, I was so honored! It was good, his writing. Very good — it was incredible, to be honest. Something about it left an itch in me, something about it was so familiar. I don’t mean it in a plagiarism way, of course, but it made some bells ring and distracted me from the work itself.
Just as the artist girl, the last one to get her hands on her senior’s work, beamed and opened her mouth to comment on the piece, someone came crashing through the park, belting a shaken scream of “Senior Wei! Senior Wei!”. We were all caught by surprise, turning in the direction of the desperate figure stumbling towards us at full speed, and only then I recognized the innkeeper — the one without children. For a moment, I thought she’d only apologize for being late and join us.
The elderly man just scowled at the interruption and at the noise, not bothering to ask what was the issue, the girl looked concerned, glancing between the innkeeper and her senior, who had immediately stood up as he heard his name being called. He asked what was wrong, putting his hands on the woman’s trembling shoulders. And, let me tell you, when she sobbed the words “Xiang jie’s son”, what I expected was not at all what had happened. The elderly man stayed behind as senior Wei fluttered after the woman, with the girl following him and I following the two of them — I’ll have to apologize later, I didn’t mean to leave him there like that. Somehow, senior Wei already knew what the innkeeper wanted with him, if I’m correct when I assume that’s what the sharp determination on his face and his rushed steps meant.
In a truly tragic and cruel turn of events, the innkeeper’s son wasn’t just playing frail, and all along the reason for his forgetfulness and why he never helped at home was an illness no one knew about, not even the son himself. The innkeeper asked me to read the doctor’s letter to her, and I got the heartbreaking sight of this mother’s devastated and rueful expression as I told her that her son was dead because none of them thought to bring him to a doctor’s visit. Of course that was not how the letter went, and of course that was not how life went, but I could see the breathless guilt on this woman’s and her husband’s expression.
The nearest hospital from Yiling was hours away, I heard when I asked after fearing the burn I gained from helping in the kitchen would cause a bigger problem — it didn’t, I’m alright, don’t ask about it. The pharmacy was never even thought of. Who would? No one knew what to buy, no one had enough to cover the cost. In his letter, the doctor accounts how the son discovered the illness only months after he got to the new, unfamiliar city, all those two and a half years ago. He says the son had a seizure during class and it mostly went downhill from there; he also says the son specifically asked to not alert his family, but also asked, if he died, that he was buried back at home, in Yiling. And I have to add, despite the great criticism she had to put to that man’s name, the innkeeper, friend of that mother, sniffed silently as she looked at the dead man’s face, rubbing circles between her friend’s shoulders and drying her own tears with her clothes.
I was surprised that the family asked me to attend the funeral too, but not unpleasantly so. I got to see the many faceless names at the countless gravestones. Some of them date to even a century ago. I got to hear the many things left unspoken as the mother looked at the now open lid of the coffin, where her baby laid motionless. Mom, I’m sorry for never helping you. Son, I’m sorry for never listening to you.
Remember I said to keep in mind Yiling’s funerary tradition? Well, senior Wei, the poet, is also a mortician and the current owner of the city’s funeral home. That is why he knew what was wrong when the innkeeper came screaming for him. All throughout, senior Wei was like a friendly shadow at the innkeepers’ side, speaking words of comfort and reassuring he’d take good care of their child. I heard they gave him clothes from the time the man still lived in Yiling and had left behind on his escape, and I heard he promised to bring the boy they knew home for the last time.
I know I’ve hopped on a big tangent, but isn’t that so tragic? I can’t imagine the kind of frustration and sadness this family is going through. I’ll steer you back to the main reason I’m writing this letter. Trust that it’s not the encyclopedia, it will never be the encyclopedia, only you are ever so fond of the encyclopedia.
Senior Wei asked me to help him with some of the preparations for the funeral, because his coworkers were out of town to visit family and the locals were visibly too shaken to help. I briefly wondered why someone would leave their family behind to move to Yiling willingly, but then I remembered it’s exactly what I’m doing. I said yes, of course, then followed him to his house, on the second story of the funeral home. Senior Wei is a strange man, I’ll admit I thought he’d live in a strange place too, but his home was moderately normal, with predictable furniture and only vaguely weird decorative items. As he disappeared down a narrow hallway, I was left alone to inspect the place, which you know by experience isn’t a good idea. I swear I didn’t break anything, but I did snoop through every shelf I found interesting. One of them had books on a vertical, like at a library, one after the other until it ended on a strange stack of yellowed paper.
Can you guess what it was? No you can’t, and I’ll tell you again: it was Dead Poet of Yiling. Of course I didn’t recognize it at first glance, it was not even recognizable as a book in the first place, I thought it was some documents of the funeral home, but I was curious anyway. When I tugged it off of the shelf, it was there, in the very first page, the title of Lan Wangji’s first poem collection, in Lan Wangji’s glorious and unmistakable calligraphy. And that’s not all! Right there in the bottom right corner, in that same calligraphy, was written a couple of words. “For you”.
Zizhen, if by now you are not kicking your feet and screaming, I don’t know you anymore.
Unfortunately, life is not a thriller novel, and I did not manage to put the papers back on the shelf before senior Wei was back, so when he did, I was the target of those dangerous eyes of his. I haven’t talked about him enough, have I? I got so invested in the innkeepers’ story that it detoured me from the main characters of my turmoil. So let me tell you now anyway. It is tempting to make the comparison of senior Wei to a grim reaper, but I just know that’d be something our professor would demand I scrap from a first draft, laughably obvious as it is. The man’s a mortician, he dresses in dark clothes, when people call his name, he knows what mortum affair they expect of him, it’s only obvious the man is a grim reaper! But he’s not and I’ll tell you why.
From the moment he appeared at that park in the morning, I knew the real demon wasn’t the poet girl or the elderly man, it was him. Senior Wei doesn’t have the wicked seductive face or the horns and pointed tail or the snake skin or any renditions of a demon you might be thinking about. His eyes are perpetually red rimmed and half lidded, his skin is unnaturally pale and ill-looking, and there’s not an inch of it from the neck down that’s exposed, always cloaked in dark fabric as I said before, his wrists and hands are slender and bony and even paler than his face, almost green, his back slouches when you’re not looking at him, I’ve seen him smile. I’m sure that you’re picturing him like a grizzly, icky, old man. He’s not. He’s like a demon. He’s terrifying. And he was looking at me like he knew what I was thinking about him.
What could I do except play dumb? I swear to the heavens I was this close to impersonating a countryside boy who’s never had a thought in his life when I asked if he appreciated Lan Wangji’s work too. I thought he was going to jump me, but thankfully he didn’t, and he gave me a nod in response. I asked him how he got such a rare item — I don’t think Lan Wangji ever gave away his manuscripts, and I think he heard me accuse him of something, even though I wasn’t and just wanted to shift focus from my immediate person.
“It was for me.” was the answer he gave me, in absolutely chilling cadence without moving a single muscle and looking at the papers in my hands instead of at me. I took the hint to shove them back in their place. He gave me some money and a tiny square of paper with an address, asking me to tell the florist that they were for a funeral so they’d give a discount, but not to tell who the funeral is for, or else they’d give the arrangements for free. I left his home, so sad for him that it almost physically hurt in me.
I don’t have to spell it out for you, do I? Great news is, the Yiling poet is not dead. Bad news is, I don’t think Lan Wangji knows that.
Deeply Invested on a Love Story That’s Not Even Mine,
Jingyi.
PS: no, there’s not a way you can convince me to stop, in case you were thinking about that.
PS 2: later that Wednesday, I went back to the park, and a different group of artists helped me get the wheels turning for my next chapter. The people of Yiling are a strange bunch, in a good way.
Greetings, Mr. Lan,
I am unsure if you remember me. My name is Jingyi, you gave me your mailing address when we met briefly in Caiyi so I could send back the book you lent me. I thank you once again for letting me borrow it. It was a very wonderful read, just as you said it’d be, and I write you this letter knowing it may be a crossing of boundaries. Apologies in advance if that’s the case. If it isn’t, there are some things here that I’d really like you to hear about.
I’m not in Caiyi town anymore. I’ve been in Yiling for exactly a week now, and when this letter finds you, chances are I’ll be packing my things to leave. One of the things we discussed was the making process of my novel, and how stagnant it had been. Thankfully, not only I’ve felt inspired just by your presence that day, but I’ve met some people right here in Yiling who have helped me find myself again. The community of writers is warm to every newcomer and incredibly talented, I’ve been impressed by them time and time again.
There are three people in this small city and even smaller community that have caught my attention more fiercely than others. One of them is a young girl. She’s naive in the way only teenagers are, but has an incredible eye for visual arts and such a sharp attention to detail it makes you question if you have been looking at a lake in the wrong way your entire life. Despite her age, her prose reminds me a lot of your earliest columns in Every Day Today for the Cloud Recesses Post, Mr. Lan. The other is an old man. Please, do not get me wrong when I refer to him like this, he never offered me his name and sometimes even tells people that he “is but an old, tired man”. I’ve told this to one of my peers and dear friend in a letter also, but this man’s poetry is otherworldly, transcendental of time itself, and a delight to happen to its reader.
The other one is such an emblematic figure, Mr. Lan, you can’t even imagine! If demons were real and someone told me this man was one of them, I’d believe them in a heartbeat. His words have such a ferocity, yet a bleeding heart that cloaks itself with a sadness that’s hard to even grasp. I’d say he longs for something if I could ever tell what it is, this man doesn’t seem unhappy to live the way he does and be the way he is, what change could he yearn for?
Coincidentally, I got to know something else about this man: he is also a fan of your work, Mr. Lan! I told him of our accidental encounter in Caiyi, and he told me he’s also met you, but made it known that you’d never remember him. Do you have any memories of meeting a man named Wei Wuxian?
I think I’ve already taken up far too much of your time, so I’m wrapping this letter with one more thank you for the book, for your guidance, and with the hope the package with your belongings and this letter find you well.
Thank you,
Jingyi.
Wei Ying halts on his way around the reception desk of the funeral home when his eyes catch on something atop of it. He narrows his eyes, reaching out to the square of paper.
I stopped by before leaving, but didn’t find you here. Hope you don’t mind me borrowing some paper and a pen.
Thank you for taking care of me, senior Wei. What I’m leaving you is not a thank you gift or a goodbye gift, though. It’s only a gift! Please accept it and don’t worry, I have another copy back at home!
I hope we meet again someday. Jingyi.
A slim book with a dark cover and title written in a haunting shade of red lies under Jingyi’s note, and all the air leaves Wei Ying’s lungs when he takes it in his hands. “What,” he says out loud, to himself, turning the book over, then again, reading the title again. “Why…”
He brushes his fingertips over the words of the title, just above the author’s name, afraid it’ll disappear in the blink of an eye. Some things just won’t go away, and some things just won’t stay, as much as you want them to. The memory comes to him faster than he can will it away.
The memory of a day with him, when Wei Ying regretted spilling his sorrows all over like intestines, horrible and unsightly and unwanted. “Sometimes,” he’d said, voice strangled as if it was coming out against his will. “I feel like I’m already dead. How can I be surrounded by so many corpses if I’m not one of them?”
And still, that strange man looked at him like he was worthy to. He’d looked at him like that until the very end, until even he couldn’t take any more. A moment Wei Ying always waited for with bated breath, the one he’d be truly alone, and somehow wasn’t prepared for when it did happen.
There was no such a thing as having said something against his will, when it came to Lan Zhan. Nothing he ever told Lan Zhan was “against his will”, and he was silly to think so, just because it was hard to say it. Something about him made Wei Ying want to let every single word out, let him know exactly what was on his mind at all times.
Perhaps it was the fact that he rarely knew what was on Lan Zhan’s mind. What is he thinking about, when I tease and ask him to look at me? What is he thinking about, when I say I’d invent an accolade to give his poetry? What is he thinking about, when I say we’re perfect rivals? What is he thinking about, when I say I could kiss him right now?
What is he thinking about, when I say I wish I was dead?
He always just looks at Wei Ying, and looks at him, and looks at him, and he always says nothing. Does he like looking at me? Does he think about getting real accolades? Does he wish to one up me next time? Does he want me to kiss him? Does he wish I didn’t say that? Does he wish I was dead, too?
How could he know? How could Wei Ying fucking tell? Lan Zhan always looks at him, and just looks at him.
He looks at him now, even when he’s supposed to be lives away, through the paperback cover of a poem collection with Wei Ying’s name. Wei Ying never knew Lan Zhan published it — thanks to Jingyi, he knows now.
Thanks to Jingyi, who gave him a recent, reprinted edition of the poem collection, Wei Ying is allowed to know what Lan Zhan has been up to these last years when he flips past the entire hunk of pages that he has already read and reread every fucking day of these same years; when he finds the About the Author section.
Wei Ying skims through the words — name, age, occupation, hometown, a renowned writer, accolades, he never wrote poetry again, mystery fiction novels, reputation of a widow — and he slams the book closed with a thud. It takes much willpower to not chuck it across the room.
Sometimes, Wei Ying wishes he was still begging a stoic face to look at him just for the sake of it, and he wishes he was still getting frustrated to receive the attention he asked for. Sometimes, he is a teenager again. Sometimes, Wei Ying still wishes he was dead.
Most times, he’s stubbornly refusing to regret the time he shut himself off.
Wei Ying sets down the book back on the counter at the same time the door opens, so he looks over his shoulder.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” is definitely not what he thought he’d say first when he saw Lan Zhan again after tortuous years, but there it was, coming out before he could decide against.
Only Lan Zhan has that effect on him.
“Wei Ying.” is all he pants in response. His shoulders heave and his face looks red. The thought of Lan Zhan running all the way from the train station is a silly one and, somehow, a very real one.
Once again, Lan Zhan only looks at him. “Lan Zhan,” but this time, a dam is shattered, and Wei Ying is flooded with the way Lan Zhan looks at him. “Hey, Lan Zhan.”
“Yes?”
Suddenly, Wei Ying thinks, how could I not know? How could I not tell?
He thinks about asking Lan Zhan to hold him, decides against it, and elects to just do it himself, crossing the reception in large steps and launching himself into his arms. Lan Zhan catches him gladly, squeezing tight with trembling arms.
“Don’t you dare pass out on me.”
“I won’t,” Lan Zhan laughs. “I won’t.”
“I might,” Wei Ying doesn’t resurface from Lan Zhan’s neck. “Catch me if I do.”
“I will,” Lan Zhan says. “I promise.”