Chapter Text
Today would be exactly thirteen days since Wangji had been clean. Although constant anxiety and explosive irritation sometimes took over his system, he would say he was doing well. This was probably the longest he'd ever gone without using anything. Suddenly, all those sores that had accumulated on his nose were healing, as were the ones he'd hidden on his arms with longer sleeves.
In the early days, the feeling could only be described as depressing. Wangji often felt like he barely had the strength to even try to get out of bed; everything was an effort he didn't feel comfortable making at the time. So he spent a lot of time like that, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling he'd painted himself while trying to overcome a sobriety he'd never known until recently.
“Just one more day”, became his motto. After the fourth day of his stomach growling and aching with hunger, he decided it wasn't worth continuing in that state.
The first week he went without using anything, his uncle and brother came to visit his apartment. It was the first time he saw and spoke to his uncle after two years of the older brother cutting off all contact with Wangji, not after his younger nephew stole some family jewelry to buy whatever would last him the rest of the week; despite the large amounts he bought, Wangji used them all in less than two weeks. The hug he received from Qiren was so warm that he forgot about the withdrawal sensation until they left.
Little by little, his life was getting back on track, after which it had been off track for almost ten years. Things were beginning to take on a certain strange glow, one that only appeared when he was high enough to barely distinguish between his state of sadness and euphoria. Cleaning all the syringes in his studio was perhaps the strangest sensation he had ever experienced in his sobriety, because it seemed like the space was getting cleaner and cleaner, even though there was still paint scattered across the floor and tables.
He painted his first painting without being under the influence of anything, he discovered that perhaps the awareness of the paint filling the canvas was better than cocaine when injected directly into his veins.
"I'm glad you're recovering, Wangji," his brother confessed to him after he'd been off the drug for exactly a month. They met at a cafe not far from Wangji's place, as it was a neutral space that didn't require trust from either of them. The younger Lan didn't have to worry about seeing the results of his withdrawals, while Xichen didn't have to worry about any items going missing and his brother's progress being thrown in the trash.
Lan Zhan only visited his brother's house when one month sober quickly became four and his nephew's birthday arrived. It was a small family celebration, and although it would be held again on the same day the following year, Wangji was happy to be there, to personally deliver a gift he had chosen with such care. Wangji was no longer the uncle JingYi was forbidden to approach, and that made him happy.
The problems of his newfound sobriety only surfaced in his sixth month, when he began to feel the effects of his problems and realized he couldn't hide behind drugs. None of his paintings were sold, no freelancers showed up, and the rent was late. Not content, a child threw a rock at his kitchen window, causing him further damage.
He cried one night in front of a painting rejected by an old client, who claimed his paintings no longer had the same essence they once had. For a while, Wangji wondered if this old essence was just his mind failing to process anything other than the cocaine in his system. He couldn't answer, but staring at an old syringe lost in his studio drawer, he concluded it was something he no longer wanted to be.
On one of the many days when everything seemed to be going wrong, Wangji visited his uncle, simply to cry about his newfound frustrations.
"Wangji, our struggles are only our own; not everyone will or should understand. What matters is that it was a period that will never return. If he truly enjoys your art, he will return." That's what his uncle told him when he told him about the incident that hurt him.
He thought for a moment, only to agree with the older man's words. What mattered, in the end, was that his buyer returned a week later, taking not only the painting he had rejected, but also one Wangji had recently painted.
The hole in your window? It was simply fixed with some art and duct tape, disguising the previously obvious hole.
The celebration of problems that seemed to be resolving themselves was the first time Wangji drank again, just a bottle he bought at the convenience store near his home. It was also the only amount he allowed himself to drink, a single bottle, nothing more than to let him fall into the confusing tide of drunkenness. After all, the white powder seeping into his nose wasn't the only drug he was trying to shake off.
He drank in his room, in the comfort of his home, and while he allowed himself to watch a simple program, a moving film about the relationship between a mother and her daughter.
Mother. Suddenly his mind snapped away from the screen, his attention diverted from the cold, alcoholic liquid sliding down his tongue and throat. He'll remember, his mother wrote him a series of letters when his illness began to progress to the point where he could barely recognize her.
Zhan remembers that his idiotic teenage self, high on drugs and grief, simply hid them in some corner of the house he had been living in since he was kicked out of his uncle's house, the place he lived before sinking into his own vices.
Where were they?
Restless, he got up from his bed and wandered around the room, staring at every dresser. Had he hidden the letters in the closet? He rummaged through his clothes, finding items that should have been discarded long ago, but no sign of the letters he was looking for. He thought about the headboard, but remembered he'd sold everything he had there to buy more drugs.
He wasn't in his room; he expanded his search throughout the house, even into the most unlikely rooms, like the kitchen. He was nowhere to be found; anguish began to well up in his chest and take over his thoughts. Was this one of the prices he paid for all the years he spent under the influence of some substance? Losing the last memories of his mother?
His answer lay on the main table in his studio, in a drawer he hadn't opened in a long time. With a silent prayer to the gods, he trailed his fingers over the paper, somewhat fragile from all the years it had been stored away.
[...]
“Mom came from Yiling, did you know?”
"Yiling? No, I thought she was from Gusu. The death certificate also said she was from here," his brother replied, opening the biscuit package before handing it to his son, who stuffed a considerable amount into his mouth before grabbing the package and running out of the house.
As if it were an everyday occurrence, Xichen simply ignored Jingyi's actions.
“No, she’s from Yiling, she moved to Gusu only because she got a scholarship to one of the colleges here.”
“That’s nice to know, but how did you find out, Wangji?” Before his brother’s look of confusion could deepen, Wangji pulled out a handful of letters from the bag he carried with him, picking out the one with the oldest date in particular.
He opened it, revealing its contents to the older man. Could you show this to other people? He didn't know; after all, his mother had left it only for him. "That's what she says in the first letter, that she only left Yiling to go to college, or she would have stayed and founded one..." The ears turned a faint shade of red. "A brothel."
In disbelief, Xichen blinked, then finally burst out laughing. “That’s so like her.”
Was it? Wangji can't remember exactly; he was always too busy drinking and using drugs in secret during class time. And when he was at home, he tried to hide his mental confusion and avoid any conversation involving his increasingly debilitated and ill mother.
Honestly, when he thought back to that period of his life, he wondered how he hadn't overdosed or gone into an alcoholic coma. The coma never actually occurred, but about two years ago, his brother found him in time to save him from the severe overdose he'd suffered.
Dark times that were six months ago, he could still remember with anguish every sensation and effect that these things had on him.
The next few times he continued to visit his brother, his mother's letters remained the main topic of conversation between them (and a curious Jingyi, who had never met his grandmother in person). For the month he spent reading them, they were his small source of happiness and distraction from everyday life. Each piece of paper filled with letters and events he would never know from anyone else was unique, with both symbolic and emotional value.
Personally, Zhan remembers seeing his mother only ten or eight times in his entire life, and participating in a conversation when the woman was not drugged by intensive medication or too tired to stay awake was at most two or three times.
But through the letters, it was as if the two were close friends, able to share their deepest secrets with each other. Like the ones her mother described in her daily life, Canse Sanren and Wei Changze. The chaotic trio who seemed to drift apart after each went their separate ways.
The problem came when he got through half the stack. It was as if his mother's spark had faded from one letter to the next, her mischievous and daring spirit forgotten, giving way to a sick person, always burdened by a marriage that still seemed insecure, even after the first child. Yiling was left behind, as were the people who cared most for her mother.
As he approached two months of reading the letters, the remaining ones were nothing more than the ravings of a frail woman. The perfect handwriting gave way to careless scribbles, crumpled, and torn pages. Wangji felt sad and even betrayed at the loss of the letters, especially the ones that were just smudged paper.
“Sometimes she was no longer in a position to write,” Xichen replied, ignoring his son who was hanging upside down on one of the park’s rides.
"I thought that was it too, but I feel like there's more to it. Like she just purposely erased what she had." As much as she wanted to work on her own theory, she didn't have any exact explanations that weren't simple: I feel that way.
When the boy seemed to be getting dizzy enough, his brother lifted him from his position and placed him on the ground. "Wangji, it's hard to say. The state she was in was truly... sad."
"I know, I just can't accept that it's just that. Xiongzhang, you should have seen the way she talked about Yiling, Canse Sanren, and Wei Changze. There's no way she could have forgotten everything so quickly."
With a sigh, Xichen simply patted Jingyi clean of the dirt on the child's knee. "Sorry, Wangji, I can't remember a single time she mentioned any of those friends to me."
This was the first sign that something was wrong. How could their mother never have told at least one of her children about their best friends from childhood and adolescence? Something must have happened.
“Have you thought about asking your uncle? He might know something.” He saved his brother’s suggestion for when he met his uncle again.
Which didn't take long, about two days after the conversation in the park. As a plan for his recovery and also to ensure that his nephew wouldn't resort to drugs again, Qiren visited him constantly, never going more than four days without seeing his nephew.
One of those times when his uncle went to his apartment to check on Wangji, besides complaining about the window that remained broken, the younger Lan took the opportunity to bring up the subject with his uncle.
"Uncle, did you know Mom was from Yiling?" he asked casually, just letting the topic come naturally to the table. As he did so, he poured the elder a cup of tea.
Humming, he replied, combing his goatee with his fingers. “Hmm, I heard her talking. But she didn’t seem to like it there very much.”
Wamgji had to work hard to hide his surprise. How could the same person who described his hometown so fondly be the same person who seemed to hate where he came from?
“Did she also talk about Canse and Changze?”
“Wangji, where have you been getting these names? Well, no, I’ve never heard you mention any of them.”
“It’s nothing, I was just reading some letters. Nothing much.” He smiled small at his uncle.
Perhaps his mind was stuck on that phantom friendship he'd forged with his mother while reading her letters, or perhaps his mind was searching for some other distraction from the lack of drugs. But when he bought a ticket to Yiling about a week later, the satisfaction that washed over him was overwhelming.
Yiling, that name was stuck in his head.
[...]
The falling rain slid down the glass, fogging up the window, creating a distorted view of everything outside the small cafe.
Wuxian poured himself a generous cup of coffee, complete with whipped cream and a marshmallow on top. The city's climate rarely changed, the ever-present heat making the scorching sun a common friend. However, when the temperature began to drop, the weather cooled to the point of making lips tremble.
"Wei-xiong, are you closing already? It's been such a tiring day!" Huaisang whined, complaining about how tired he felt just watching Wuxian work. The cold weather was boosting business; the café was packed with people and orders all day, everyone wanting a hot drink and a cozy place to warm up.
“Not yet, I’ll wait and see if anyone else shows up.” He replied, sipping some of his coffee, humming as the warm liquid touched his tongue.
“More!? You spent the whole day running around, not even paying attention to me!”
"Why are you being so dramatic? I still have bills to pay!" Despite the small grimace he made toward his complaining friend, he just smiled at the end of the joke. "I swear I'm leaving now, just…"
Ever since he started work, his chest had been pounding strangely, something that prevented him from closing the doors and turning the sign that marked the end of the day. A wait for something that never came, but which he continued to insist on because, throughout his life, he had learned to trust
his feelings.
But when he turned in the direction his friend was, he found only a blank void.
“Already!? How ungrateful!”