Today Is a Day for Lying Around Doing Nothing
Custard Bun had sent the exclamation marks so fast that Fu Zhen's ageing phone couldn't keep up. It took a moment to render them all. Then came an avalanche of effusive praise.
[AAAAAAH A DIVINE ARTIST I AM GOING TO CRY]
[I JUST LICKED MY SCREEN FOR FIVE FULL MINUTES] [OUR SHIP IS SAVED MAMA IS WEEPING]
Fu Zhen stared at these messages with the expression of someone who didn't quite know whether to laugh or sigh.
[Any revisions needed?]
[Absolutely not, Artist, I love you to death]
The rough sketch Fu Zhen had sent was the most satisfying commission illustration Custard Bun had received in years. The other artists she'd hired had either never actually watched Shazhou Chronicles, or had watched it but didn't ship Custard Yellow,
or had the technical ability but not the feeling. Whatever the reason, none of the finished pieces had ever quite captured what she was looking for.
But Jian Wen's sketch was different. It gave her the uncanny feeling that she wasn't looking at fan art at all—she was looking at the original. Custard Bun was clutching her phone so hard she could barely sleep. Her only remaining hope was that the colouring would be as good as the linework.
Thinking this, she clicked over to Fu Zhen's profile to check again—and was disappointed to find that his gallery was still nothing but pencil sketches. Not a single coloured piece. Surely this divine artist wasn't only now learning how to colour?
Still. A hundred and fifty yuan for a sketch like this felt like a bargain.
She remembered how her friends had all told her she must have had water on the brain for commissioning a complete unknown. She immediately sent them the sketch.
[Rose is absolutely incredible]
[This is exactly my Custard Yellow, I am in tears]
[Twelve hundred yuan well spent, I declare Custard Yellow number one this year]
[The style feels a little different from Rose's usual work but it's even closer to the source material—Rose is seriously on another level]
Custard Bun watched her friends unanimously attribute the illustration to Palace Rose, a well-known fan artist, and had to rush to correct them.
[This was drawn by Artist Jian Wen.]
The response from her friends was immediate and unanimous: Who is Jian Wen?
Custard Bun had to explain that Jian Wen was the transparent unknown she'd told them about.
For the next minute, the exact same sequence of exclamation marks and effusive praise that Custard Bun had sent to Fu Zhen was recreated in the group chat. No one could believe that an unknown artist charging a hundred and fifty yuan could produce work worth fifteen hundred.
The next step for Fu Zhen was to import the sketch into the software and start colouring—something he genuinely hadn't done in over two years, which was exactly why he'd told Custard Bun five days. He went through all the steps, reacquainting himself with the tools, and by the time he was done it was late. He shut his computer, put down his phone, and went to sleep.
The following morning, Fu Zhen pushed open his bedroom door and found Jiang Hengzhu standing in the entrance to the living room with his luggage. He was wearing a black trench coat, holding a black suitcase, and he brought with him a cold that was part of the world outside—the wind and the snow following him in as though they belonged there.
Fu Zhen's heart lurched like a struck drum. For a moment he thought he was still dreaming. He raised a hand, rubbed his eyes, blinked. Jiang Hengzhu was still there, expression cool and composed.
Fu Zhen was beside himself with a joy he had no idea how to show on his face. He had already made peace with the idea that Jiang Hengzhu was never going to move into this flat—and now here he was, standing right there the moment Fu Zhen opened his door.
When the night is long, a single glance spans eternity.
Jiang Hengzhu viewed the room and then signed a three-month rental contract with the landlord—though he didn't expect to stay nearly that long. Once this particular business was concluded, he would return to the Jiang family and take over the family's affairs.
He took the key from the landlord, dropped his luggage into the room without ceremony, shut the door, and turned to leave for work—only to find Fu Zhen still waiting for him in the living room.
Fu Zhen broke into a smile. Both eyes curved into crescents, like someone who had just received a piece of very good news. He asked Jiang Hengzhu: 'Walk together?'
Jiang Hengzhu nodded. The two of them left the rental flat together. In the narrow, worn stairwell, the sound of their footsteps fell in and out of time, answered from somewhere above by the rhythmic thud of someone hammering a wall.
The morning bus was unusually packed. Fu Zhen's body was pressed almost entirely against Jiang Hengzhu's. Jiang Hengzhu's right hand gripped the overhead rail; his left arm rested along the back of a seat. Seen from a distance, it might have looked as though he had enclosed Fu Zhen inside a circle.
The bus grew more crowded still. The air turned heavy with the noise of commuters. Fu Zhen had spent every working morning like this for two years. But today, watching the high-rises receding outside the bus window, he felt—for the first time—something that resembled calm.
The bus stopped at another station. Jiang Hengzhu tapped Fu Zhen's shoulder. 'Sit there.'
Fu Zhen turned. Jiang Hengzhu was standing directly in front of him, the same clear, composed expression he'd had the very first day Fu Zhen had seen him.
* * *
Tang Wanwan had finally finished her filming location shoot and returned to Pinghai City that day. The moment she landed, she went straight back to the Fu family home.
Knowing she was coming home, Fu Ting had left the office early. By the time he got back, Tang Wanwan had already been waiting for a while.
She saw him come in and stepped forward to take his arm. 'Ting-gē, I missed you so much.'
A flicker of warmth crossed Fu Ting's face. He patted her hand gently. 'If you missed me, you should have come back sooner.'
'The production was so busy.' 'Don't wear yourself out,' he said.
She made a sound of agreement, then turned to him with a pleading look. 'Ting-gē, I really want to be in the Shazhou Chronicles adaptation—but I can't get through to the director anywhere. Can you help me?'
Fu Ting paused. A slightly dazed look crossed his face. A moment later he repeated, almost to himself: 'Shazhou Chronicles?'
'Yes, yes!' Tang Wanwan nodded enthusiastically. She hadn't actually watched the series—she'd always thought animation was for children—but if it had earned the title of the light of domestic animation, it must have something to recommend it. Besides, plenty of producers were already angling to buy the adaptation rights, hoping to leverage them for their own new talent. Tang Wanwan had no intention of letting that opportunity fall to someone else.
She had read the synopsis. If adapted well, it could make for a compelling prestige drama with a strong female lead. She wanted the role to cement her standing, and to use the project to win back the awards she hadn't taken home this year.
Fu Ting's expression, however, was noticeably strange. 'You're sure you want this one?'
'Can't I?' Tang Wanwan turned her wide eyes on him. The refusal died in his throat.
'…I may not be able to find the director of Shazhou Chronicles.'
Tang Wanwan pouted.
Before long, Fu Jianzhen came down the stairs—a man who didn't look his forty-odd years, the passage of time having done nothing to diminish him and everything to deepen his presence. He saw his favourite daughter's expression and smiled. 'What's all this? Who's upset my little princess?'
Tang Wanwan immediately let go of Fu Ting's arm and ran toward him. 'Dad, I want to be in Shazhou Chronicles—can you help buy the rights?'
Fu Jianzhen thought the name sounded vaguely familiar, but couldn't place where he'd heard it. He said casually, 'Just have your brother handle that.'
Tang Wanwan's mouth turned down. 'But Ting-gē says he can't find the director.'
'Have someone look into it.'
'Dad is the best.' Tang Wanwan stood on her toes and kissed his left cheek, then with a slightly sheepish expression told him, 'Dad, Qin Zhao asked me out tonight—I won't be home for dinner.'
Fu Jianzhen made a sound of approval. 'Go on, then. Come back at a reasonable hour.'
'I will!' Tang Wanwan clattered up the stairs in her heels to get ready for the evening.
Once she was gone, Fu Jianzhen descended the rest of the stairs and settled onto the sofa. 'If Wanwan wants it, put in the effort,' he said to Fu Ting.
'Shazhou Chronicles…' Fu Ting let out a quiet breath. 'Four years ago, we set up a small production studio for Fu Zhen. The animation he made there—that was Shazhou Chronicles.'
Fu Jianzhen clearly hadn't made the connection until now. For no particular reason he could identify, he had been experiencing a strange phenomenon lately—memories of the distant past surfacing at odd moments, and most of them had Fu Zhen in them.
He dreamed of a small Fu Zhen clutching a yellow rubber duck, sitting in the outdoor pool. Seeing him return from the office, the child flung the duck aside and came splashing toward him, only to slip and go face-first back into the water.
He dreamed of Fu Zhen on his first day of kindergarten, refusing absolutely to let go—both fists locked onto Fu Jianzhen's trouser leg, crying so hard he was hiccuping, while he and Fu Ting stood there laughing.
He dreamed of the years when Fu Zhen was very small and slept in the same bed as him. Every morning, without fail, the child would clamber up onto Fu Jianzhen's stomach, lift his pyjama top, and begin patting his belly with small hands while giggling, until Fu Jianzhen, exhausted by the harassment, finally opened his eyes and hauled the little menace into his arms.
And these dreams always ended the same way: Fu Zhen lying in a pool of blood, staring up at him with eyes full of hatred.
Fu Jianzhen's colour was poor. It felt as though someone had driven a nail into his skull—one careless move and it would draw blood.
The living room was utterly still. After a long silence, he said quietly to Fu Ting: 'Since Wanwan wants it, find someone to buy the rights from him.'
1191260380Author's note: Though there is a pool of blood, there is no miscarriage in this story—and there never will be!