Chapter Text
Time passes, but at a distance. Lan Zhan is underwater, watching through a blurred surface. No one stops him from drowning.
Lan Zhan goes back to work and stands in front of a classroom. He hears his voice speaking, but it feels removed, separate from himself. He sees some of the students glance at each other, whispering, as the classes go on. Lan Zhan knows he can’t be doing that good a job putting up a facade, but he can’t bring himself to care.
Back in his too-quiet apartment, stuck with only himself, Lan Zhan aches.
Lan Zhan rereads all of the old texts from that day at the Lan library over and over. His eyes no longer trip over unfamiliar characters. The one he reads most is Partial Soul Resection for Spiritual Weapons. Even the stiff title feels strangely welcoming. The heft of the book rests perfectly in his hand.
He reminds himself again. Not the real soul, only the imprint of a memory. A well-loved echo. He’s read this passage so often that the book itself is an act. Lan Zhan has these words memorized.
Well-loved, he repeats to himself, eyes stuttering over that word again and again. He curls his hands into fists along the edges of the book, then reminds himself of just how ancient and delicate it is. He gently shuts the book and sets it on the table.
Contrary to what Lan Zhan expected, the dreams don’t stop. These ones, however, are not like the ones he had before, of Wei Wuxian with bloodlust in his eyes and wind whipping through his hair as hundreds of corpses rose around him.
These are dreams from Lan Zhan’s recent past: Wei Wuxian rolling laughing in his bed, Wei Wuxian peeking through the bathroom door, Wei Wuxian’s ghostly body slowly draining of color and then disappearing. Lan Zhan wakes with his mouth dry as dust.
It feels like someone has died. With a humorless laugh, Lan Zhan reminds himself of the facts. Wei Wuxian was dead to begin with.
It strikes Lan Zhan that this, what he’s been feeling, is grief. He is grieving. The stark force of it has knocked him flat, left him gasping. With what he’s lost in his life, grief should no be stranger to him. But it’s too conspicuous an emotion, he thinks, for it to be allowed for a Lan.
It would be better if Lan Zhan could find solace in the return of his music. But the crush of relief he’d felt that night, like a dam bursting, has left him. He can still feel the music there, under his skin, throbbing in his fingertips. His head is full of it.
There’s a whole album’s worth of recorded material on his phone, maybe even two. It’s rough material, though. The songs need work. Lan Zhan has an armful of things he could do: structures to revise, ideas to follow deeper, melodies to tease out. A decade ago, Lan Zhan would have jumped to work on such an exciting project. Even two years ago, he would have rolled up his sleeves and waded deep.
But it’s too raw still, an exposed nerve. Lan Zhan can’t bring himself to touch it. Not yet.
The worst times are when Lan Zhan forgets. Just for a moment, he forgets. At the grocery store, unthinking, he finds himself in front of a wall of liquor bottles. Lan Zhan’s hand is already closed around the neck of the bottle before he remembers: Wei Wuxian is gone.
“Right,” he says, hand sliding free. Lan Zhan steps back, staring at the shelves in front of him, unseeing. “Right.”
Lan Zhan remembers that day that Wei Wuxian had asked him if he’d ever been in love, then told him with such certainty that one day he would be. Lan Zhan feels bitter, so bitter. How could Wei Wuxian say that? How naive Lan Zhan had been to believe Wei Wuxian, even if just for an instant.
He’d believed him. Fool that Lan Zhan is, he’d believed him.
But life moves on without Lan Zhan. Or rather, it drags Lan Zhan along with it.
Construction has finally started on the Lan library, and it has fallen to Lan Zhan to manage. He knows he has no one to blame but himself. After all, Lan Zhan had told his brother he would handle the library. But back then, he had thought only about finding out more information, gaining access to the texts they needed. Lan Zhan hadn’t stopped to think about what would happen after.
The library is precious; Lan Zhan knows that. He thinks of the gifts it has given him: all those books on cultivation they’d needed, sure, but also, Wei Wuxian’s hidden volume of pornography. How many other ways had Wei Wuxian left his mark on that collection? It should be preserved. It needs to be.
But handling this renovation project means frequent calls from his uncle. And every time Lan Zhan talks to Lan Qiren, the conversation inevitably pulls in one direction.
Today, the conversation has stretched on for nearly two hours, Lan Qiren insisting on going over the details of every decision Lan Zhan has made so far. They’ve reviewed floor plans, choice of dehumidification systems, and even the credentials of every worker designated for this crew. If Lan Qiren had intended to micromanage the whole thing, Lan Zhan doesn’t understand why he didn’t just deal with the renovation himself.
“I think that’s everything, Uncle,” Lan Zhan says, shutting his laptop. He tilts his head against the back of the couch, stretching out his sore neck.
“Before you hang up on me,” Lan Qiren interjects, “there’s one more thing.”
Lan Zhan knows where this going. His stomach sinks.
“You need to think about settling down. It’s time for you to have your own family. You’re getting older.”
“I don’t want to have this conversation,” Lan Zhan says, biting his tongue.
Lan Qiren keeps pushing, pushing. “Just meet this girl already. It’s a reasonable request. I don’t understand why you insist on being so intractable.”
“I—” Lan Zhan’s throat is choked up. It feels so unfair. After everything, after so many years of trying and trying to make his point or at least keep things at a baseline of civility, Lan Zhan just doesn’t have the energy. He’s always been reasonable. Far more reasonable than they deserve, he thinks. He’s been trying so hard to keep it together, and he’s tired.
“Lan Zhan?” His uncle sounds startled. “Are you crying?”
Lan Zhan lets go of the phone, and it falls onto the couch beside him. His chest feels tight. The sobs pull out of him, shaking his shoulders. Lan Zhan bends down, burying his face against his thighs, trying to black out the rest of the world.
He knows his phone is still on. His uncle can probably hear him. But he can’t bring himself to care.
Lan Zhan had hoped that things would get better with time, that he would get better at pretending. But he feels too broken to know a way to fix himself.
Even at school, people start to take notice. The principal pulls him aside one day with a weak smile. “You seem a little distracted lately.”
Lan Zhan apologizes immediately.
The principal waves him off. “No, no, I knew what we were getting into when we signed your contract. It’s not the same thing as hiring most teachers. And that’s why we built so many allowances into your contract.”
Lan Zhan nods his head. Certainly, the school had been more than generous with the terms of his employment contract, granting him flexibility that few other teachers received. Lan Zhan had been a rising young star when they hired him. They’d said he was good for business, since he’d attract more students. “I’m very appreciative of how well I’ve been treated here, thank you.”
“You have a gift for music, a rare one. Once in a generation,” the principal says.
Lan Zhan has no idea where this conversation is going. It’s not taking the route that he expected. He waits, silent.
“I think it’s best if you take a break for a while.”
“You’re firing me?” Lan Zhan says, shocked.
“Nothing like that,” the principal says hastily, waving a hand.
“A suspension, then.”
“No, no. It’s just a leave of absence. Plenty of musicians like you take them throughout their careers. It’s my job to make sure this academy runs well. I pride myself on looking out both for our students and our faculty.”
Everything the principal is saying blurs together. To Lan Zhan, a leave of absence sounds like, at best, prelude to a firing.
“We value you very much, and we would hate to lose you,” the principal says, smiling. “I just think this is for the best.”
No one hears from Lan Zhan for weeks after that. He ignores every call: from his uncle, from his brother, and even from the construction staff. He cancels his private lessons.
He’s not sure where the days go. Lan Zhan doesn’t remember doing much of anything. Mostly, he sits in the music room and stares at the window. Or he sits on the couch and stares at the wall. It doesn’t make any difference to him.
A knock at the door interrupts Lan Zhan one day. He’s not sure what day it is. He hasn’t bothered checking in a long while.
Perhaps it’s a package. Or maybe a flyer’s been left around his door handle. Whatever it is, he’s not planning on moving to check.
The knocking resumes, more insistent this time. “Lan Zhan? I know you’re in there. Open up.” The sharp voice belongs to his uncle, clear even through the door.
Lan Zhan considers ignoring him. But he knows Lan Qiren won’t just leave, and so he hauls himself to his feet to open the door.
His uncle looks surprised to see him. Maybe it’s because Lan Zhan has so clearly given up on taking care of himself.
In both hands, Lan Qiren is holding plastic bags, tied off at the top and full of what looks to be takeout cartons. They look strangely out of place next to Lan Qiren’s immaculately pressed clothing.
Lan Zhan sits back on the couch while Lan Qiren puts the bags on the kitchen counter.
“You’ve been ignoring my calls.”
Lan Zhan says nothing, focusing on a random spot on the wall. Lan Zhan may have let the man in, but that doesn’t mean he has to make conversation with him.
“You’re not going to say anything?” Lan Qiren comes to stand near the couch. “Very mature.”
Lan Zhan doesn’t say a word.
Lan Qiren sighs exasperatedly. “Very well then. If you won’t talk to me, at least you’ll listen.”
Lan Zhan isn’t prepared for what his uncle says next.
“I’ve been worried about you.”
His uncle takes a breath, and when he continues, his voice is quieter. “You’ve been different lately. Not just the last few weeks, but longer than that. I thought maybe you were moving on from the past. You even agreed to help with the library renovation, and you never would have set foot in that building before.”
Lan Zhan hadn’t realized, but he can see it now, sort of. In the time that Wei Wuxian was around, his family thought they had seen something different about the Lan Zhan they knew: a thawing, an opening up. A hand extended. A man that was ever so slightly different than he had been for the last seventeen years.
But how can he explain any of it? And, Lan Zhan thinks, do they deserve an explanation?
“Please try to eat something, Lan Zhan. You don’t look well.”
Lan Zhan wants to laugh, hollow and echoless. He’s seen his reflection in the bathroom mirror, in the windows when the light hits them just so. His skin is sallow and bloodless, paper-thin. He knows he looks unwell, but he’s far beyond caring.
His uncle leaves.
Later, a few days later, Lan Zhan cracks his fridge and his eyes glide over the containers his uncle left, and he remembers that the part of the ache in his gut can be solved by the contents of the containers. Part, not all.
Later, a week later, Lan Zhan texts his uncle. Thank you. Dutiful, even if it’s belated.
His uncle shows up again, bags of food at his sides.
“Isn’t it a long drive?” They’re in the music room today. Lan Zhan stares out the window.
His uncle’s mouth is a familiar thin line. “Yes.”
“You don’t have to come.” Lan Zhan can do his part to free his uncle from any obligations he seems to feel toward his nephew.
“I know I don’t have to,” Lan Qiren says, but he sits in a chair to Lan Zhan’s side nonetheless.
They sit in silence for hours, Lan Zhan staring out the window, mostly, watching the sun trail through the sky, Lan Qiren staring at Lan Zhan.
Finally, his uncle checks his expensive watch and sighs. “I have to go,” he says, getting to his feet and brushing at his clothes so they drape right. “There’s more food in your refrigerator.”
Lan Zhan bows his head in thanks.
Lan Qiren leaves. But he comes back the next week, and the week after that. Lan Zhan gets used to the feeling of his uncle’s presence beside him as they sit, the sound of his careful, rhythmic breaths. It doesn’t feel heavy or oppressive after a while, the way Lan Zhan is used to it feeling.
Six weeks in, his uncle leans forward and takes his hand. Lan Zhan can feel his uncle’s pulse through his fingertips. Lan Zhan can’t muster the energy to flinch or draw back, so he continues to sit there, marking the passing seconds by counting the beats of blood through their skin.
Lan Huan has started to call him most days. Most days, Lan Zhan watches the phone ring till it stops. Once in a while, he can summon the effort to pick up.
Usually, Lan Zhan says very little, just listening to Lan Huan talk. He learns more about the Lan family business than he has known in years, even barely listening.
“Lan Zhan?” his brother says suddenly.
Lan Zhan makes a little sound to show that he’s heard.
“It seemed like you were… seeing someone.” Lan Huan’s voice is tentative, trying to tiptoe around it.
“Not really.” That’s the truth, as much as he hates it.
“Okay,” Lan Huan says. And they leave it at that.
Lan Qiren and Lan Huan must be talking to each other, because Lan Qiren starts to talk more during his visits.
Lan Zhan is usually content to let his uncle talk, following the same pattern as his conversations with his brother.
His uncle is talking about the family business this time, as he often does. Usually, it’s unimportant, the kind of day-to-day annoyances you might share with a friend. It makes Lan Zhan wonder if his uncle has anyone to talk to.
But today, his uncle talks quickly, pinching the bridge of his nose as he does. “The board of directors is being quite incessant on this issue. Lan Huan had better produce an heir sooner rather than later if he wants this to stop, though they’re also asking about you. Both of you—”
“Uncle,” Lan Zhan says, and Lan Qiren stops.
“I am not the heir. It should not matter. And you never married either. There is a precedent.”
Lan Qiren’s eyes narrow at the jab. He opens his mouth, probably an objection, but Lan Zhan holds up a hand to stop him.
“I will never marry a woman.” Lan Zhan’s voice is firm.
Lan Qiren’s mouth flattens, but he doesn’t say anything.
“You know this,” Lan Zhan says. “You’ve known. Since I was sixteen.”
Lan Zhan watches his uncle’s face. For a long moment, they stare at each other, Lan Qiren’s face unchanging. Then Lan Qiren nods.
He nods, and Lan Zhan can’t believe his eyes. That tiny bit of acknowledgement is enough to make Lan Zhan’s heart stop. Never, never has Lan Qiren even come close to this.
Lan Qiren has always been a man of traditions. He’s clung to them for his entire life. They’ve shaped how he acts, how he views himself, what he believes. His whole identity.
“It’s not easy to change what you believe,” his uncle says haltingly. “It takes time.”
Lan Zhan waits. He wants to hear what his uncle will say.
His uncle continues. “I’m sorry. I wish I could have understood better. Earlier.”
Lan Zhan exhales, his eyes trained on his thighs. An actual apology. He’s stunned.
When Lan Zhan was younger, seventeen, eighteen, he was sure that he would never speak to anyone in his family again. Sure of it. A line he wouldn’t cross.
But the years had passed, and Lan Zhan had found himself unable to avoid his interactions with his family. He’d compromised. It was his duty, he thought.
This feels different than that. His uncle’s words don’t feel like obligation, or duty, or responsibility. They feel honest. His uncle is trying.
Lan Zhan isn’t sure if he trusts it. After so many years, how could he? But he wants to believe in it. He so wants to believe. Lan Zhan doesn’t want to be alone.
Lan Zhan calls his brother that night. It’s the first phone call he’s made in ages.
His brother has barely finished a greeting when Lan Zhan starts talking.
The words spill out, unbidden. He’s never said these before. “Why did you never help me that year when I was sixteen? Why didn’t you stick up for me? You could have done something. Rescued me. Let me out.”
“I didn’t realize.” Lan Huan pauses, and there’s a long beat of silence. “I was distracted with other things.”
“You didn’t visit me for that entire year.”
Lan Huan sounds uncomfortable. “It was unforgivable. You don’t have to forgive me. I understand why you are angry.”
“But I still don’t understand why you didn’t.” And that’s the eternal, lingering question for Lan Zhan. How did his brother leave him there, alone, trapped inside an enormous prison? Lan Zhan has asked himself this time and time again. He’s never been able to come up with an answer that makes any kind of sense.
“I don’t think I can give you an explanation that will satisfy you. Sometimes we don’t live up to the expectations of the people who love us.” Lan Huan’s voice is careful, measured.
“But you never mentioned after. Not once. It felt like you were pretending it never happened.” Lan Zhan’s throat is tight, closing around the words as he speaks.
“I just didn’t know how anything I could say could make up for it. I didn’t want to make it worse.” Lan Huan lets out a long breath. “It was the wrong choice. I’m sorry.”
Lan Zhan feels like he must be on a different plane of reality today. He wants to laugh; his stomach convulses with it. Two apologies in a single day, and all it took was him completely breaking down. His eyes are filling now, and he wipes them roughly. He feels out of control, and he doesn’t want to feel this way.
“But I want to keep trying.” Lan Huan’s voice interrupts his thoughts.
“What?”
“You’re important to me. I hope you know that.”
The two of them have never been all that straightforward about how they feel. No one in their family is. But it’s strange. When Lan Zhan thinks about it, he knows it’s true.
“Yeah,” Lan Zhan says. “I know.”
When Lan Qiren visits next, Lan Zhan takes a deep breath. He’s been thinking.
“I know that you’re very busy. A lot falls onto you, and it’s probably too much,” Lan Zhan says slowly. “I can do some things. The Lan estate. I know you worry about who will manage it as you grow older. I can help.”
Lan Zhan thinks about the library, and his mother’s grave, and the tomb deep in the forest. He wants to prevent those things from falling into disrepair. He wants the grounds to be protected.
Lan Qiren takes his hand. It’s strange how Lan Zhan has grown used to this feeling. “Lan Zhan,” his uncle says, his voice quiet and sincere. “Thank you.”
The sun catches Lan Zhan’s face through the window one day. It’s time, he thinks. He should resume his private lessons. Lan Zhan can do this much.
His lessons with Lan Jingyi are the easiest. Lan Jingyi fills the apartment with a familiar clattering of noise. Lan Zhan had forgotten how much he missed this.
It’s clear during the lesson that Lan Jingyi has been practicing a great deal. There’s a sureness throughout his playing that was only present in flashes before. He’ll graduate this year, and it’s obvious that he’s thinking about his future. Lan Zhan is proud of him.
After the lesson is over, Lan Jingyi stops before he leaves, hesitating, hand around the door handle. “Teacher Lan, did you break up with your boyfriend?”
Lan Zhan is so startled that he’s at a loss for words.
“You did, didn’t you? That’s why you’re so sad.” Lan Jingyi looks down at his shoes, then back up. “I’m sorry. That’s really awful. I’ll make sure to keep my mother away from you at Visitors' Day.”
Lan Jingyi slips out into the hall, shutting the front door behind him. Lan Zhan stands there in surprise, motionless, long after Lan Jingyi has gone. He laughs. The sound echoes in the now-empty living room.
Lan Zhan had always thought that no one was paying attention to him, that no one really cared. But Lan Zhan was wrong. There are people who care about him, and there always have been.
Lan Zhan thinks of Wei Wuxian talking about Lan Wangji. He always did prefer actions to words, Wei Wuxian had said. And then Lan Wangji had torn out a piece of his soul as a gesture of love for Wei Wuxian.
Maybe, Lan Zhan thinks, the people around him express themselves the same way. It’s a gestural love. One that he’s slowly growing better at reading.
Lan Zhan lies in bed that night, lights off, and presses play on his phone. It’s the recording from that night. Lan Zhan wedges it under his pillow, resting his ear above. The sound is muffled, but strangely amplified. He places his hand along the bottom half of the phone, listening to the vibrations through his fingertips. It takes a long time for him to listen through. The recording finishes, and he presses play again.
He keeps listening to the recording: as he cooks breakfast, with headphones in during his lunch break, in the evenings as the last of the light bleeds from the sky. It’s like pressing a bruise, painful and tender. But the more he does it, the less it hurts. Or rather, the more used to it he gets.
Lan Zhan calls the academy and convinces them to let him start work again.
As the days go on, it occurs to Lan Zhan how much he had missed the rhythms of teaching, the separation of his day into distinct segments. It feels nice to put himself back to work, the light stretch of effort pushing Lan Zhan back into form. His students seemed relieved to have the old version of their teacher back.
Best of all, the music is there, waiting for him. Patient but demanding, it presses up against the surface of his thoughts in full volume as he teaches, as he dreams.
Lan Zhan starts to take notes. He writes down time stamps from the recording with names of sections or titles or themes. He organizes the long recording into smaller, more manageable parts. He sits down to begin notating the music.
Beat by beat, slowly, Lan Zhan listens and decides. In the smallest increments, he starts to revise. The songs go through many versions—he wants them to be perfect—but Lan Zhan works with a certainty that he’s surprised by.
The songs come together. Lan Zhan practices them in the fading light of his music room in the evenings after school. Once, at school, Lan Zhan struck by the perfect resolution for a tricky coda as he’s walking through the hallways, and he has to duck into an empty classroom to write it down before it disappears. After a lesson one day, Lan Jingyi stares at him, bewildered. “Are you humming?” Lan Zhan smiles at him, and Lan Jingyi blinks rapidly, as though he can’t believe what he’s seeing.
The songs become familiar under Lan Zhan’s fingers. When he feels like he’s given them enough time to bloom, Lan Zhan books a session at the recording studio.
But there’s one song Lan Zhan can’t stop thinking about: the duet he’d heard in his dreams, the song that Wei Wuxian had asked him to play on their last day together. It feels like it’s been lodged permanently inside his head. Lan Wangji’s song.
It’s not his own song, but that’s the thing about music—it becomes part of you. Lan Zhan wants to make it again, fresh, with his own two hands.
It feels like a silly way to assert his own pride, at first, like a childish attempt at staking a claim. But once the idea strikes him, Lan Zhan finds it hard to leave alone. His own set of variations on the theme. I was here. I was part of this story.
The more he thinks about it, the more it expands in his mind. Lan Zhan keeps finding bits of phrases stuck in his head, little parts he would want to weave in. A duet, he thinks. Of course.
It’s a long way from being finished. Lan Zhan will have to keep working on it. But it’s somehow reassuring, having something unfinished that he can keep toying with. Lan Zhan has missed this feeling.
Lan Zhan hands Lan Jingyi a USB drive at the end of a lesson one day.
“What is this? More recordings for me to try to imitate?” Lan Jingyi sighs at the thought of more homework.
“My new album.”
“Your new— what?” Lan Jingyi gapes, eyes wide.
“I haven’t shown it to anyone yet,” Lan Zhan says. “You’re the first.”
“What?” Lan Jingyi’s hand wavers and the USB stick nearly slips through his fingers, but he catches it at the last moment. Lan Jingyi hugs it to his chest and closes his eyes as he breathes a sigh of relief. “I can’t believe I nearly dropped the secret recording of the next bestselling guqin album that’s going to take all of China—no, the world!—by storm.”
Lan Zhan is amused. The files are all safe on his computer, but it won’t hurt for Lan Jingyi to take a little extra care with his physical copy.
When the album releases some months later, it sells well. Lan Zhan receives a lot of good press. While Lan Zhan avoids reading reviews, Lan Jingyi makes him sit there and listen to some of the best bits of the nice ones. “This one says you have ‘the same deft touch that made him a rising star as a teen, tempered by wisdom of experience.’ ” Lan Jingyi’s eyes are practically sparkling. “What does that even mean? I don’t really know, but I bet that’s a compliment.”
Lan Zhan’s agent calls. “They want you to go on tour again. It’s been years since your last one.”
“Are people even still interested?”
“Of course, of course. We’ll start with eight dates, but I’m trying to negotiate that number up. Let me hash out more of the details and I’ll get back to you. But you’d better pack that suitcase.”
Lan Zhan hangs up the phone feeling like he’s just exited a tornado, the way he always does after talking to his agent.
Unstoppable force that his agent is, the tour is finalized, and Lan Zhan realizes that he’ll need to take more time off work.
When he goes to the principal to make the request, Lan Zhan is prepared with a long apology. He had been on leave for so long just recently, even if that wasn’t his choice.
But the principal cuts Lan Zhan off a few sentences in, smiling. “You know, I’m a big fan of yours. It’s a big reason why we hired you.”
Actually, Lan Zhan hadn’t known that. “Thank you, that’s very kind of you to say.”
Thoughtfully, the principal says, “When you took a leave of absence, I was hoping you might use the time to work on something special. It’s been so long since you had an album. And it is. It’s lovely.”
Lan Zhan hates that the principal was right, hates the paternalism of being forced to take a break. Still, he also acknowledges that he can’t have been doing the best of jobs teaching. He needed the time off.
“In any case, I’ll be able to make arrangements for substitutes. It’s no problem. All I ask in return is that you do a few special performances here and there for the school. Maybe at Visitors' Day? Or for some of our incoming students? I know they’ll love it.”
Lan Zhan isn’t expecting such easy acquiescence. He’d come in here prepared for more of a battle. Lan Zhan would have gladly done a couple of performances for the school regardless.
Lan Zhan is suddenly deeply grateful for how well he’s been treated, for the latitude he’s been allowed. Lan Zhan bows his head. “Of course. It would be an honor.”
Touring is exhausting, as touring always is. The hotel rooms, the airplanes, the venues—they all blur together.
In the past, when Lan Zhan had gone on tour, it had made no difference to him. At home, on tour, it was all the same. There was no one waiting for him to come home, no one who missed him. He enjoyed the anonymity of it, everything wiped clean each time.
Now, though, Lan Zhan misses home, and it surprises him. He misses his apartment, and his students, and even the strangeness of his uncle’s visits every two weeks.
But Lan Zhan finds he can ground himself if he just works on his unfinished piece: his theme and variations. When he’s working, everything around him falls away. All that’s left is him and the music. Lan Zhan loves trying to compose after the image in his mind.
Wei Wuxian had promised Lan Zhan that he would forget. In time, he would forget. Wei Wuxian had seemed so sure of it. But Lan Zhan doesn’t want that to happen. He needs to capture the memory before it’s gone forever.
Sometimes, there are interviews before the performances. Or his agent makes him talk to members of the press for publicity. Either way, one question keeps coming up over and over.
“You took a long time off between albums. What was your inspiration for this one?”
Lan Zhan thinks of a stolen guqin, of a ghost with a teasing smile. His heart aches—but less. A healed-over ache, like the skin has knitted together and scarred. A permanent reminder.
Visitors' Day happens annually right as the school year comes to a close. The students are tired of academics, ready for a break. It’s nice for them to focus on something a little more fun. There’s excitement in the air in the weeks leading up to it as the older students prepare for performances. Smaller performances happen with more intimate crowds in various music rooms across campus, while crowd-pleasers get scheduled to go on in the auditorium or on the makeshift stages set up in some of the larger rooms. The main stage is out in the courtyard of the school.
Lan Zhan stays in the shade of a tree as he watches the crowd ebb and flow in front of the main stage. It’s a mix of current students, proud family members, and faculty.
It’s almost time for his performance. The principal had asked him to take the stage around mid-morning, hoping to draw visitors out early. But Lan Zhan waits a moment longer before he heads backstage.
“Lan Zhan!” His brother makes his way through the crowd effortlessly, probably because people step to the side to move out of his way, eyes lingering as he passes. Lan Huan is far too overdressed for a day like this, in crisp business attire. He would look more at home in a boardroom, which makes sense given that’s the kind of place he spends his days. If Lan Zhan were the type of person to care about people staring at him, he would be very annoyed right now.
But all Lan Zhan can think about is how strange it is to have a family member here, excited to watch him. How unexpected. “You’re here.” Truthfully, some part of Lan Zhan was waiting to be let down. Still is.
Lan Huan nods. “My morning meetings ran a little long, so I really had to rush to get here. Uncle sends his apologies that he couldn’t make it.” Lan Huan checks his wristwatch, then gestures to the stage. “Don’t you need to go set up?” Lan Huan asks. “I don’t want to keep you.”
Lan Zhan nods and takes a step toward the stage. He stops, turning back.
“Thank you,” Lan Zhan says. “Thank you for coming today.”
By the time Lan Zhan takes the stage, the crowd has doubled in size. Lan Zhan scans the crowd. He can pick out Lan Huan’s figure near the back. His brother is taller than most adults and towers over the students, so he probably hadn’t wanted to obstruct anyone’s view.
Lan Jingyi is on the far right side of the crowd, shaking the shoulder of a woman who looks remarkably like him and pointing to the stage. When Lan Jingyi turns back to look at the stage, his eyes catch Lan Zhan’s. Lan Jingyi starts waving furiously and jumping up and down, as if this were some huge concert and not a small school performance being given by his own private instructor. Lan Zhan smiles. It is Visitors' Day, after all, and all the students are extra excitable.
The principal had requested that Lan Zhan play a few pieces from his newest album, especially given that this album is what has been most covered by press recently. Lan Zhan had no objections to that.
But Lan Zhan has decided that the last song will be a throwback: his very first single, the one that made his career.
When he plays the first few notes, a murmur ripples through the crowd. For a moment, Lan Zhan worries that no one will recognize the song, that he’ll lose the audience. But a cheer rises up, Lan Jingyi’s voice distinct within in, and Lan Zhan smiles.
He’d almost forgotten that this is a music academy. The students here have an encyclopedic knowledge of music. What’s more, the crowd hasn’t just heard this song before. They’re excited for it. Lan Zhan hasn’t played this song for a live crowd in over a decade, probably.
The notes are as familiar as breathing to Lan Zhan. He closes his eyes as he plays, losing himself into the melody.
The song comes to its final measures. When Lan Zhan stills the last string under his fingers, there’s a moment of total silence. He opens his eyes, and the crowd erupts.
People stop Lan Zhan afterward. When he was on tour, there was little chance for this kind of interaction. Lan Zhan would retreat backstage and be quickly ferried back to a hotel room.
But there’s no barrier between him and this crowd. It’s strange to hear effusive praise in person, with nowhere to retreat. Lan Zhan is at such a loss for what to do in these situations. He listens quietly, bowing his head in thanks.
One old uncle starts in on Lan Zhan. “That was nice, but I think the interpretation on the second piece was a little slow. But you know, I have a great idea for a song you could write.”
Lan Zhan listens politely, amused.
“Dad, please stop!” a young student says, looking mortified as she drags her father away. She calls over her shoulder, “I’m so sorry, Teacher Lan.”
Lan Zhan hears a gentle laugh from behind him. He turns to see Lan Huan.
“Congratulations,” his brother says. “That was wonderful.”
It’s strange to think that Lan Huan has never heard him play like this before. “How was it? The first time hearing me?”
“It wasn’t exactly my first time,” Lan Huan says. He looks away, watching the crowd. “I’ve been to a performance on every tour you’ve done.”
“What?” Lan Zhan is shocked. “You never mentioned.”
“I didn’t know if it was okay. I thought you might tell me not to come,” his brother says. “But I wanted to watch you.”
Lan Zhan’s throat feels tight. “Oh.”
Lan Huan’s phone starts buzzing then, and he sighs as he reads whatever messages he’s just received.
“I have to get going,” his brother says. “But thank you for inviting me to this. I’ll see you soon, Lan Zhan.”
When Lan Huan says this, Lan Zhan knows he means it. They’re not just empty words. Lan Zhan smiles. “Sure. Seen you soon.”
It’s the afternoon by the time it’s Lan Jingyi’s turn to perform. Lan Jingyi and Wen Yuan haul a bunch of different instruments and electronics onto the stage, directing some younger students they’ve enlisted for help to set things up just so.
Lan Zhan is intrigued when he sees the final set-up. There are multiple instruments—not just a guqin and a dizi, but also a bass guitar, a set of drums, and a keyboard—but only two of them.
When they start playing, it starts to make sense. The song starts out simple, each of them playing a single phrase. Then Wen Yuan presses a pedal near his foot, and the phrase loops. Both boys switch instruments. They play another phrase, and this time Lan Jingyi hits the loop pedal.
The crowd starts to catch on to what’s happening, cheering.
As Lan Jingyi and Wen Yuan perform, they keep looping the instruments and layering the sounds over each other. By the end, the song is richly complex, and the crowd is clapping in time.
Lan Zhan wants to laugh. Lan Jingyi is astoundingly good. Lan Zhan shouldn’t be this surprised; he’s always known how talented Lan Jingyi was. But this isn’t Lan Jingyi, his student. This is Lan Jingyi, musician, and Lan Jingyi is absolutely crushing it.
The crowd is clearly enjoying watching Lan Jingyi and Wen Yuan, shouting their appreciation every time one of boys loops a phrase or switches instruments.
Lan Zhan can imagine them in the future: on a darkened stage, intricate lights flashing over their faces, thousands of enthralled fans in the audience. Lan Zhan has never been more proud.
Lan Zhan tries to find Lan Jingyi afterwards, but before he can, Lan Jingyi’s mother descends on him, thrusting flowers into Lan Zhan’s hands. Lan Zhan has met Lan Jingyi’s mother before, but it’s been a long time. Lan Jingyi has been old enough to get himself to and from lessons for years now.
“I’m so glad I caught you. That was such a lovely performance earlier,” Lan Jingyi’s mother tells him. Her eyes are shining.
Lan Zhan thanks her for the flowers. “Is Lan Jingyi around here? I’d like to speak with him.”
“Still packing up all their stuff,” she says. “While we’re waiting, though, I wanted to say thank you. You’ve been so important to my idiot son all these years. We’re so appreciative that you stayed at the academy and continued to teach. Everyone knows that you have plenty of other opportunities, but you choose to stay here. I know Jingyi is deeply grateful.”
Lan Zhan shakes his head. “I am sure I learn more from teaching than the students learn from me.”
“Children,” Lan Jingyi’s mother laughs. “Speaking of children, are you seeing anyone, Teacher Lan?”
Lan Zhan is amused. Lan Jingyi had totally called this. Less than a minute in, and they’ve already pivoted subjects. What was it that Lan Jingyi had called Lan Zhan? Mr. Bachelor Teacher? Lan Zhan supposes that makes him an easy target.
“No, not seeing anyone,” Lan Zhan says. “I’ve been quite busy with the new album.”
“No time like the present, though, right?” she says briskly. “You should give me your phone number I can set you up on some dates.”
“I appreciate the offer,” Lan Zhan says. “But that’s okay. I think I can manage.”
“Better act sooner than later, Teacher Lan. You don’t want to end up alone!”
Lan Jingyi interrupts her. “Mom! I told you, cut it out!” He pushes at her arm gently. “Anyway, I want to talk to Teacher Lan for a second.”
Laughing, Lan Jingyi’s mother takes the hint. “I’ll leave you two alone. I need to find your dad anyway.” She looks around, trying to peer through the crowd. “I bet he’s at a food stall right now. I told him not to—” Whatever else she’s saying is lost as she walks off.
“Thank you for rescuing me,” Lan Zhan says with a little smile.
Lan Jingyi groans. “I’m so sorry you had to deal with that at all. I told her not to, but does she ever listen to me?”
“Jingyi,” Lan Zhan says. “I’m proud of you. You have worked so hard over the years, and you have grown so much. You will do exceptional things.”
Lan Jingyi looks like he’s frozen, face blank. He rubs at his ears a few times, blinking. “Did I— Did you really just say that?” Lan Jingyi turns around in a circle. “Is this a dream?”
Lan Zhan smiles wider. “It’s not a dream. It’s the truth.”
The day starts to wind down, and Lan Zhan decides to go put the flowers he’d received from Lan Jingyi’s mother in the staffroom, where all his belongings are. Inside, a few of teachers are standing near the door, chatting.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay another year or two?” one of the teachers is saying. “We’ll really miss you.”
Lan Zhan glances over to see Teacher Liu. There had been a farewell celebration for Teacher Liu just the other week, and some of his students had dedicated a performance to him on the main stage earlier.
Teacher Liu laughs loudly. “I’m going to retire while I’m still alive. I’m lucky enough to still be standing after that heart attack a few months back. I want to spend the time I have left with the people I love. But don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll manage to make it back for Visitors' Day in the future.”
Lan Zhan doesn’t want to interrupt the conversation, and he’s sure he’ll have another chance to say goodbye, so he steps out of the staffroom. It’s been a nice Visitors' Day, a success. But there’s undoubtedly still clean-up to help with.
Lan Zhan heads in the direction of the music rooms where some of the smaller performances were. The early afternoon crowd has dissipated, and he doesn’t want any of the youngest students to be stuck stacking dozens of chairs on their own.
Lan Zhan rounds the corner and smells it: that distinctive smell of lotus blossoms with an edge of ash running under it. Lan Zhan stops. Wei Wuxian, he thinks, but how could that be?
Lan Zhan takes a step, and then another, walking faster and faster as he follows it. When he loses it, he’s in the middle of a hallway.
He stares down the long, empty corridor, waiting for someone to appear.
A door along the far edge of the hallway creaks open, and Lan Zhan’s heart pounds in his chest, hope rising faintly.
“Teacher Lan?” Wen Yuan steps out of the classroom and closes the door behind him, hands full of what looks like sheet music. “What are you doing standing in the hallway?”
“Ah,” Lan Zhan says, but his mouth is empty of words and his chest is crashing with loss (stupid, silly hope) and all his brain can think about is Wei Ying, Wei Ying. He shakes his head. He says something indistinct.
“A-Yuan, is this everything?” A man, perhaps a little younger than Lan Zhan, emerges from the classroom. In his arms, he’s precariously balancing what looks to be a number of musical instruments and the electronic equipment Wen Yuan and Lan Jingyi had used in their performance earlier. The man has a concerned expression on his face as he takes a few careful steps forward, as though he’s seconds away from dropping something.
Wen Yuan hastily apologizes, straightening out the messy stack of music he’s holding and sliding it into a folder that he puts back in his bag. “You don’t need to carry all that yourself, Uncle.” Wen Yuan takes a couple of black-cased instruments from the top of the pile in his arms. Wen Yuan’s uncle lets out a relieved sigh.
Wen Yuan turns back to Lan Zhan. “Teacher Lan, this is my uncle. He and my aunt came to see us play today.”
Wen Yuan’s uncle bows his head in Lan Zhan’s direction. “Thank you for taking care of A-Yuan.”
Lan Zhan nods back. “Wen Yuan, your performance today was wonderful.”
Wen Yuan blushes, eyes widening. “There’s a lot left for us to still work on. Jingyi and I already took notes on everything we have to change.”
“A-Yuan, we’d better get going,” Wen Yuan’s uncle says, heading towards the doors out to the courtyard.
“Let me help you with that,” Lan Zhan offers, moving to get the door. “It’s too much for just the two of you.”
But Wen Yuan waves him off. “Oh no, that’s okay. We’ll manage for now. We’ve got more help right outside, anyway.”
The door shuts behind them. Lan Zhan is left standing in the hallway, alone.
Lan Zhan had managed to keep it together all day. More than all day—all throughout his tour, even. The songs he’s been playing are linked indelibly to his memories of Wei Wuxian. But he’s been pushing those memories to the back of his mind. Emotion is an important part of performing, but Lan Zhan knows better than to let himself get too overwhelmed.
Now, though, Lan Zhan can feel his expression crumbling. He wants to raise a hand to cover his mouth, to conceal his face. Lan Zhan knows there’s no one in this hallway but him, but he feels like he’s been flayed open, in public, and everyone can see him.
Lan Zhan stands there, stock-still, breathing deep until the scent of lotus blossoms and ash fades entirely.
The summer break is busy. Lan Zhan’s agent books him at a string of international venues, and before Lan Zhan knows it, the entire summer is gone. He flies back into China in the early morning on the first day of school. When Lan Zhan reaches his apartment, he showers, then decides to forego sleep entirely. Instead, he watches through the window of his music room as the dawn slowly breaks.
Lan Zhan has had no time to prepare for this school year, his schedule in total disarray. But he’s been a teacher for a long time now, and he’s sure he can handle this. Lan Zhan has dealt with much worse in his life, after all.
The principal has made a special request, anyway. Usually, Lan Zhan teaches a mixture of class types—guqin practicum, music history, and so on. But today, instead of teaching his usual first day classes, Lan Zhan will be in the guqin room all day, doing a special lecture and performance for the students. Lan Zhan supposes it’s because he’s freshly back from abroad, and there’s still an air of celebrity clinging to him.
The staff room in the early morning is much like it always is, save for the fact that it’s totally empty. Lan Zhan is here before anyone else. He double-checks his schedule, careful not to miss anything, then gets his papers in order. He bundles everything neatly together, grabs his instrument, and heads to the guqin room to set up.
There’s quite a bit of time before his first class, so Lan Zhan settles down with his notebook and his latest recording of a bit of his theme and variations project. He’s had so little time lately; it feels so nice to have a quiet hour like this to just settle in and focus.
His first class is a group of older students. They’re all used to him after years of being at the academy, so they slam the door open and arrange the seats into messy semi-circles. Half the class ends up flying by in a barrage of questions.
“Did they fly you first class?” a girl asks. “You should tell your agent to put that in your agreement.”
Another student cuts her off. “You went to a film festival, didn’t you?”
Lan Zhan nods. One of his songs had been featured in a film, and his agent had pulled some strings to get an invite. Lan Zhan hadn’t particularly cared to attend, but his agent had insisted.
“So you met some real celebrities, right?”
Lan Zhan laughs. “Do any of you even want to hear me play?”
The kids look at each other and shrug. “We heard you at Visitors' Day,” the first girl says.
The younger students are a stark difference. They tiptoe in, eyes wide, and sit silently in their seats as Lan Zhan introduces himself.
Some of the kids in a class of first-year students, the one he has right before lunch period, start tearing up partway through his performance, blotting at their eyes as he plays. Even once the period wraps, they leave the classroom still sniffling.
“I want to learn to play like that,” he hears a girl say to her friend wetly as they file out.
“Unlikely,” her friend says, and the first girl cries harder.
Lan Zhan can hear a cheerful voice in the hallway. “Don’t cry, don’t cry. It’s only your first day! Save your tears for when it gets really tough.”
Lan Zhan smiles. He can’t hear it clearly enough to make out whose voice it is, but there’s something comforting about the cadences of the speech. Even Lan Zhan feels oddly soothed.
Lan Zhan has a few more classes after lunch, and then it’s time to wrap up for the day. He makes sure that the guqin room is neatly put away, then puts his own instrument in its case.
As Lan Zhan walks down the familiar hallways, he’s a little sad to think that Jingyi is gone, than Wen Yuan is gone, that even old Teacher Liu is gone. Still, it’s nice to be back.
For half a second, there’s that distinctive smell of ash and lotus in the air. Lan Zhan turns his head a fraction, and it’s already gone, like it was never there.
He feels them stirring deep within him—his memories of Wei Wuxian.
Forget me, Lan Zhan can hear Wei Wuxian saying now. Let yourself forget me.
For as long as Lan Zhan has these memories, he’ll treasure them. He was lucky to have Wei Wuxian at all, however short a time it was. Lan Zhan has to content himself with this much. He doesn’t have a choice. If this is Lan Zhan’s life, if this is all he gets, Lan Zhan can accept that.
And then, just when he last expects it—
He’s nearly at the end of the hallway when he smells it again—ash mixed with blooming lotus. It’s faint but unmistakeable.
No matter where Lan Zhan has gone in the world, he’s never smelled anything quite like it.
Honestly, Lan Zhan has made his peace. He thought it was enough, that he could move forward. But here he is, supposedly healthy, restored, whole—and yet he’s smelling it again? Why now?
He breathes in deep but the scent doesn’t dissipate this time.
Maybe the haunting has left a permanent mark on him. Or maybe it’s the fact that he didn’t sleep at all, then spent all day playing songs for a ghost.
Lan Zhan realizes that he’s stopped walking. But instead of being in an empty hallway, like on Visitors' Day, this time he’s in a bustling corridor full of students heading to their after-school activities.
In order to avoid another strange interaction like the one he’d had with Wen Yuan on Visitors' Day, Lan Zhan ducks into an empty practice room nearby to collect himself.
Lan Zhan wants to laugh, wildly, when he notices this is the last practice room in this hallway—Jingyi’s haunted practice room. The one that’s always empty because no one wants to deal with the dead body in the ceiling.
It’s a small mercy today because at least that means no one will disturb him. He can break down in peace.
Breathe, Lan Zhan reminds himself, heart pounding. But with every breath he takes, the familiar scent fades a little further. It makes him wish he could stop breathing entirely, just to hold on to the scent. In the end, just like everything else, the smell vanishes.
Lan Zhan sighs, squeezing his fingers. He can feel his guqin solid against his back. Lan Zhan thinks of the way it felt that day as he’d walked through the forest, two qin across his back, the usual weight doubled.
It’s too much for him. Usually, Lan Zhan would wait to play until he got back to his apartment, but today, his control feels particularly tenuous.
He unstraps his guqin and pulls a folded chair from against the wall, setting up on the side of the music room opposite the piano.
Lan Zhan lays the qin out his lap, running his fingers along the familiar wooden body. Just the sensation of his instrument in his hands and the faded smell of lacquer and silk is enough to ground him.
He plays a few songs, breathing, calming.
He has made his peace, Lan Zhan reminds himself. He can be alone. He has already been given so much. His students, his music, Wei Wuxian. Painful as the memory may be, and the sense of loss, he is grateful for it.
As he plays, he traces the emotions out with his fingertips, spinning them from the intangible into rich sound.
The door swings open with a bang, hitting the wall beside it. The last string Lan Zhan plucked wavers, a note vibrating through the air as Lan Zhan turns, brows furrowed, to explain that the room is (obviously) occupied. He finds, though, that no words will come out.
A man stands there, a small dizi case in hand, with short black hair and a silky black button-down tucked into his pants. He’s stylish, and even just standing there, he exudes confidence. There’s a red bracelet encircling his wrist just below his sleeve and a red ribbon tied around the handle of his dizi case.
“Oh, sorry,” the man says, leaning against the doorway. “I didn’t properly check to see if anyone was in here. I just assumed it was empty. No one ever uses this one.”
“Yes. It’s haunted.” Lan Zhan’s heart is thudding in his chest.
The man laughs, loud and bright and familiar. “But you don’t mind? Immune to ghosts, are you?”
“Something like that.” Lan Zhan’s voice is dry, too dry, the words cracking in his throat.
Lan Zhan panics for half a second, expecting that the man will turn around and leave. He searches for something to say. “I think its the piano that’s haunted, so I’m pretty sure the ghost doesn’t see me as competition.” Lan Zhan motions to the guqin in front of him.
To Lan Zhan’s relief, the man grins and takes a step forward into the practice room, letting the door shut behind him.
And here it is again—lotus blossoms, ash. Before, Lan Zhan was parceling out each breath. Now he breathes deep, as though each breath will bring him closer. He wants to imprint it into his fibers, to make it permanent.
The man leans forward. “What is it that you’re playing? A new composition?”
A new composition—that implies that he knows that Lan Zhan has old compositions. The man must recognize him. But he doesn’t fall over himself, starstruck, the way some do when they meet Lan Zhan.
“It’s not new, but…” Lan Zhan trails off, unable to form the words. His mind is all white.
“A work in progress?”
“It’s supposed to be a duet,” Lan Zhan shakes his head a little, “but it hasn’t fully come together yet.”
“Since I’ve already interrupted, I should introduce myself. I’m—”
“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, swallowing hard around the glass lodged in his throat. His chest is thundering so loudly that he can barely hear his own words. He can hear the name echoing across a dreamscape battlefield, falling from his own lips. He can see those two characters carved in wood in a blurry picture. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Wei Ying looks at him for a long moment, curious. Then he returns Lan Zhan’s smile, and it’s like the sun breaking across a lake. There’s nothing shy about the smile. It’s wide and genuine, but somehow still soft around the edges.
“Wow, what an honor!” Wei Ying says sunnily. “I could say the same thing!”
Wei Ying leans against the wall. “I thought I was going to meet you ages ago. You’re one of the reasons I moved to this area in the first place. I was skulking around, hoping to get a job at the academy, only they had enough flute teachers and you really only need one dizi specialist. So I just contented myself with private lessons—you know how it is. But when Teacher Liu retired earlier this year, the academy called me up and offered me a position.”
That’s right, Lan Zhan thinks. Teacher Liu had been the dizi specialist at the academy.
“And I missed you at Visitors' Day, too.”
Lan Zhan has to squeeze his fist to stop himself from physically reacting.“You were at Visitors' Day? I… I didn’t see you there.”
“Wen Yuan told me you were performing for the students, and I was supposed to come watch his performance, anyway. I was so excited. Only, you know how things go. By the time I got there you were totally done. I was going to track you down, but then my sister called urgently needing babysitting services, and I had to leave early.”
As Wei Ying chatters on, he strides through the tiny room, taking stock of Lan Zhan with a keen, interested eye. It’s all Lan Zhan can do to nod and shake his head, to cut out monosyllabic answers. His brain can’t seem to get up to full processing speed, is lagging far too far behind.
“Anyway, I didn’t even see you in the staff meeting this morning,” Wei Ying says, poking at Lan Zhan’s shoulder with his index finger. “You missed my self-introduction. It’s very good. I have great fun facts.”
Lan Zhan shakes his head. “I was doing a special lesson today in the guqin room.”
Wei Ying pouts, pouts. It’s such a familiar expression that Lan Zhan’s whole heart aches at the sight of it. Lan Zhan wants to grab his cheeks and bring Wei Wuxian’s face close to his, only— Only, how absurd would he look if he did something like that?
A flicker of realization sparks through him. Lan Zhan had been so angry at Wei Wuxian for keeping things from him. But he gets it now. Finally, he thinks he understands what it must have been like for Wei Wuxian, knowing something about a person you love but not being able to say it, waiting for them to catch up to you at their own pace.
“I would have liked to see that. I ran into a bunch of girls crying in the hallway right before lunch hour, and I was wondering what the big fuss was. Now I understand.” He pats at Lan Zhan’s shoulder affectionately, as though they’ve known each other for a hundred years. “Start the school year off with a bang. Not what I would have expected of you, but I like it.”
“Would you like to hear?”
Wei Ying tilts his head. “You wouldn’t mind? I know you’ve been playing all day. Your fingers are worth a lot of money; no need to trouble yourself for me.”
“I wouldn’t mind. Plus no one will bother us in here. Except maybe the ghost.”
Wei Ying laughs brightly, and it feels like Lan Zhan’s chest is so far past an easy thaw that it’s nearly overflowing, spring streams babbling. It feels like a desert sun is blazing in his heart, sending a flush along every inch of his skin. “You’re unexpected, Teacher Lan. Not what I would have thought at all, based on the stories.”
Lan Zhan takes a deep breath and readies his hands. But his heart, trembling and tremulous, leaves his fingers unsteady above the strings. He makes mistakes like a first-year student. He can barely stand to look away from the man in front of him. He still can’t believe his eyes.
Wei Ying claps when Lan Zhan finishes, cheering loudly as though he’s part of a large audience and not the sole listener. “These are great songs. Of course, you know that, seeing as you wrote them. But they really are great.”
“I think you should play for me,” Lan Zhan says, seized by a sudden flash of inspiration. “Fair’s fair.”
“All right, if you insist,” Wei Ying says affably, opening his case. “What should I play for you, hm?”
Wei Ying plays a phrase, mimicking the melody of the song that Lan Zhan had played. He pauses, waiting for Lan Zhan to laugh, probably, but Lan Zhan is enthralled. “Go on,” Lan Zhan says.
Wei Ying keeps playing, and Lan Zhan closes his eyes. He could listen to the sound of Wei Ying’s dizi forever.
A phone starts ringing explosively, loud enough that Lan Zhan can feel the vibrations coming from Wei Ying’s pocket, given how close they are.
Wei Ying pulls it out and makes a face at it. “My pest of a younger brother,” he explains. “I should take this.”
He leaves his dizi balanced precariously across the top of the piano lid and steps out of the practice room to take the call. Lan Zhan has never felt fonder at such a display of total disrespect toward one’s instrument.
Wei Ying returns a moment later. “Where were we?”
It should feel like the spell is broken, like Lan Zhan is back to reality. But it doesn’t. Wei Ying is here, really here, and Lan Zhan’s head is full of only that.
“I suppose I should leave you to it,” Wei Ying says, but even after he runs a spit rag through his dizi and puts it away in its case, he doesn’t leave.
“I was pretty much done,” Lan Zhan says.
Lan Zhan has just met this man. By all conventional measures, he should let this man off, let him go, try another day. But Lan Zhan can’t help the electric pull that seems to keep him tight at Wei Ying's side. And to Lan Zhan’s credit, Wei Ying seems equally reluctant to part ways.
“Do you— Would you like to get dinner?”
“Yeah,” Wei Ying says, sunshine smile back. “I would really like that.”
There’s something important here. Wei Ying isn’t looking through Lan Zhan, looking for someone else. He’s not searching Lan Zhan’s face for something that cannot be there. Wei Ying is focused on him, interested in him, listening to him with that clever, sharp look of pleased humor.
Lan Zhan wants to kiss him already. But. He can be patient. He has practiced it for so long.
“Actually,” Lan Zhan says, “You know that piece I was playing when you came in? I’ve been working on it for a while now. It’s a duet for guqin and dizi, but I haven’t been able to get it right. I haven’t found the right person to play it with.”
Wei Ying smirks. “And you think that person is me?
Lan Zhan nods. “But I don’t have the sheets—” Lan Zhan hears what he’s saying, then, and stops short. It’s far too much to ask of a person he’s only just met.
“Let me guess,” Wei Ying says, amused. “They’re at your apartment?”
Lan Zhan nods once more.
Wei Ying leans on the edge of the piano, grinning. “I guess we could always order takeout.”
Wei Ying knocks on the door of Lan Zhan’s apartment, and Lan Zhan’s heart knocks in time with it.
“It’s just in here,” Lan Zhan says, leading Wei Ying toward the music room. He opens the door, rifling through his desk files until he finds the sheets and hands them to Wei Ying to peruse.
Impressed, Wei Ying says, “Wow, you really did have a guqin-dizi duet written?”
“Why else would I would have asked you?” Lan Zhan falters. In the safety of his own mind, there’s a clear desire behind the invitation, but it’s enough to make Lan Zhan blush even just thinking about it. He hopes Wei Ying hadn’t assumed that was all he wanted.
But Wei Ying grins wickedly at him. “It’s not the first time I’ve been around a celebrity musician. I’ve seen all the moves.”
Flustered, Lan Zhan shakes his head. “I’m not a celebrity. It’s not a move.”
“Oh?” Wei Ying leans in a little. “You’re definitely a celebrity, though. That’s an indisputable fact.”
Lan Zhan grabs the sheets out of Wei Ying’s hand, thrusting them onto a music stand. “Let’s just play.”
“Sure, sure,” Wei Ying says, pressing closer to look at the music.
They play, and Lan Zhan could cry. This is the way this song is supposed to sound. It’s so right that Lan Zhan can feel it deep within him. Not the solo sound of the guqin, Lan Zhan playing in the near darkness of his music room all alone.
Lan Zhan thinks about how similar this Wei Ying is to Wei Wuxian, but how different, too. Wicked, but without that edge of raw power that seemed to singe at the edge of Wei Wuxian’s robes, without that balefire he’d seen burning in Wei Wuxian’s eyes as he strode across a blood-strewn battlefield. Wei Ying, yes, but a separate entity. He feels too precious to be near, too precious to touch.
He thinks about the cool kiss of Wei Wuxian’s fingers along his forehead, versus real-life Wei Ying warm at his shoulder now.
“Wow,” Wei Ying breathes, lowering his dizi. “That’s beautiful. I didn’t hear that one on your latest album, not even as a solo piece.”
“No,” Lan Zhan agrees. “This one is special.”
Wei Ying looks at him curiously, then leans closer, bumping his shoulder solidly against Lan Zhan’s. “I’m glad you shared it with me. I feel very lucky.”
Lan Zhan can’t bear it any longer. His blood is pulsing under every bit of skin. “Wei Ying, I—” He breaks off, realizing that Wei Ying has leaned in. There are only a few scarce centimeters between them.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying whispers, wetting his lips. “I was joking earlier about why you invited me over, but it’s not just me, right? You feel this, too?”
Lan Zhan nods. Wei Ying puts his dizi down on the table, then takes Lan Zhan’s guqin and sets it down gently. Wei Ying grabs Lan Zhan’s hand and tugs Lan Zhan to his feet.
“Good.” Wei Ying’s gray eyes are laughing at him. Lan Zhan could cry at how right it feels.
Lan Zhan raises a hand to Wei Ying’s cheek, smooth and firm to the touch. He leans in.
They kiss and Lan Zhan can’t quite process it. It’s not the coolness of Wei Wuxian’s lips ghosting against his forehead, awakening him from a sweat-soaked nightmare. There’s no sharp pain in his gut.
Instead, he feels a soft press of warmth, Wei Ying's tongue quickly parting Lan Zhan’s lips, leaning forward against Lan Zhan’s body until they’re gasping against the wall. It tingles throughout Lan Zhan’s entire body. He doesn’t want to stop; he wants more.
Lan Zhan flips them around, and this time it’s his turn to deepen the kiss. It’s sweet, so sweet, his blood singing through his head. He wonders if he’s ascended, if there is any sweeter pleasure in the whole world.
They part, gasping, still held close.
“Back in that practice room,” Wei Ying says, peering at him curiously. “You already knew my my name.”
Lan Zhan nods, letting his head tip forward, forehead to Wei Ying’s, reluctant to give up even a moment more of skin-to-skin contact.
Wei Ying laughs, reaching a hand up to scratch at the back of his head. “Ahhh, I guess my reputation preceded me. Well, don’t listen to Wen Yuan or any of the others. I’m not as bad as they say.” He smirks then, fully wicked, and licks along Lan Zhan’s earlobe. Wei Ying's eyes are sharp but soft, and most of all, very, very, amused.
“No,” Lan Zhan says, and finally, finally he can feel the smile breaking across his face, so wide that his cheeks hurt. Wei Ying looks startled to see it. “I had wanted to meet you. I’ve been waiting for a long time.”