Chapter Text
It’s not until the morning of the table read that Wei Wuxian realizes he’s made a huge mistake.
He should have known the moment he’d shown up—on a whim, if he’d been thinking at all he never would have done it, and wasn’t that the story of his life—to audition for the university’s production of Stoppard’s Arcadia. He’d sauntered into the audition room, grinned and waved to the familiar faces in the waiting room (“Mianmian! It’s been ages, where have you been?!?” “Right here in Gusu, Wei Wuxian. I never left. Which you know.” “Ah, why did you never come visit me out in Yiling? Never mind, you’ll see me all the time now!”), and breezed through his usual audition piece. (He’d realized a few years ago that having Don Juan’s “would you have a man bind himself to the first girl he falls in love with” as his go-to was probably responsible for starting that playboy rumour about him in his school days, but he kept trotting it out because he knew it like the back of his hand.)
Then, just for good measure, to show he could handle Stoppard, he did Henry’s speech from The Real Thing, and there was a moment—when he got to “Knowing, being known. I revere that”—where he locked eyes across the room with Lan Wangji (Lan Zhan, his Lan Zhan, and oh how he revered that) and felt his stomach bottom out, saw stars behind his eyes. Held them closed for a moment too long.
But it had worked, for the monologue. He could play it off (to the world; to himself) as an acting choice.
Of course, Wei Wuxian had known before auditioning that Lan Zhan was directing. To be honest, he hadn’t thought it would be a problem because he'd assumed he wouldn’t be cast. What were the odds that Wei Wuxian—university dropout, known for public brawling, a disgraceful public blemish on the sterling reputation of the University of Gusu School of Theatre—would be offered a role in this, the crown jewel in the school’s production schedule for the year? Not to mention what he’d done the last time he’d been in a play directed by Lan Wangji …
And so probably he should have recognized the danger when Lan Zhan did, in fact, call to offer him the part.
“Seriously?” he squeaked out. But Lan Zhan never lied; it had to be true.
“Mn. Rehearsals begin next week. Are you are available? I know you have just returned from Yiling.”
“Yes! Yes, of course. And it’s not like I’ve got anything better to do, Lan Zhan, I’ve just got back and Jiang Cheng and Uncle Jiang can only put up with so much of me hanging around, they’ll be glad to know I’ll be out of their hair for a few months …”
Lan Zhan hmmed, gave him a few additional details about schedule and location, and hung up.
Wei Wuxian sat staring at the phone in his hand for a long time, after. Getting cast in a show was old hat; he’d been moderately successful in the Yiling theatre scene, booked shows regularly, even gotten a role in a commercial for a big-name soft drink, which had objectively been far more exciting than this, because it meant no worries about rent for a few years. (Best not to think of the other commercial role he’d taken, a series of advertisements for a local escort service. He’d just thought it was good money—hadn’t thought about anything else at all—until it had gone viral and Auntie Yu and Jiang Cheng had taken turns calling to scream at him. “Have you ever noticed,” he could hear Jiang Cheng’s voice saying, “that ‘not thinking’ is the common denominator in all the things that go wrong in your life?”). So it wasn’t as if happiness about being cast could explain the thrill he felt on hearing Lan Zhan say, “I would like to offer you the part of Septimus …”
But still—even with all of that!—it doesn’t hit him until the table read.
He makes it through to Act One, Scene Three no problem, just enjoying the experience of being here again, of watching old friends (well, old friends plus Jin Zixuan, who doesn’t deserve to dirty the word, brother-in-law or no) and new faces begin the process of discovering their characters. His nephew, Jin Ling (all grown up, and when did that happen?) is glaring at him from across the table, eyes narrowed and teeth gritted, but that’s consistent with Ezra Chater’s feelings about Septimus Hodge, so maybe he’s just committed to his character. And even that can’t ruin his good mood. Wei Wuxian loves the very beginning of a show, relishes the act of carving out a space within himself for the character to live. Septimus, he already knows, is someone he would welcome in.
(A flash of memory: standing in darkness in the wings of the Cloud Recesses, Lan Zhan beside him, waiting for their cue. Tartuffe? The Injustice to Dou E? He can’t remember.
“Hey, Lan Zhan!” he’d whispered, picking at his friend’s sleeve in the darkness. “What’s a role you’d love to play if you had the chance? Surprise me.”
Beside him he felt, rather than heard, Lan Zhan’s gentle head shake.
“I am happy with whatever roles come to me,” he murmured. On stage some bit of business was wrapping up. “You?”
“Hmm? Oh, I’ve always wanted to do Septimus in Arcadia—”
And then they’d been charging onstage at the ASM’s cue—Importance of Being Earnest, third year, that was it—and it had never been mentioned again. Lan Zhan probably hadn’t heard him, or remembered even if he had.)
So the table read is going fine, absolutely dandy, until they come to Septimus’ monologue about the things lost in the Library of Alexandria (things lost, and Thomasina saying, “How can we sleep for grief?” and Wei Wuxian remembering the nights thirteen years ago when he had not slept, how his mind had circled back again and again to the thought that he was losing Lan Zhan, forever and ever). When he gets to “We die on the march,” Wei Wuxian looks up—he only means to glance across the table at Xiao Qing, the acting student playing Thomasina, but somehow instead he catches Lan Zhan’s gaze, the heavy heat and weight of those warm brown eyes pressing into him like an actual physical touch, almost like a caress—and stumbles.
“We die …” he stops. Swallows, audibly. It’s not fair, that Lan Zhan can just sit there, looking so beautiful, his long black hair tied back with a simple white ribbon that matches his immaculate white cashmere sweater, which drapes smoothly over those shoulders. Those shoulders are obscene, Wei Wuxian thinks. They should be censored.
Lan Zhan’s mouth opens, like it might if he gasped after being kissed. Wei Wuxian’s mind surges at lightspeed towards and then away from a certain memory, and realizes too late that he’s let the pause linger. From the seat beside him, Wen Qing kicks him in the calf. He coughs, stutters, tries desperately to restart his own heart and tongue.
“… die. We die on the march,” he manages, softly, and turns his face down to the table to hide a growing blush.
“We will take the morning break,” Lan Zhan says, when the scene is finally, thankfully done. “Very good so far. An interesting choice in the monologue, Wei Ying.”
That surprises him. While Lan Xichen in his theatre days was unfailingly polite when directing (saying nothing more than “You are very creative! But perhaps we should stick with the script, next time” after Wei Wuxian improv’d his way through an entire scene on opening night in order to cover for the fact that Wen Ning had forgotten his lines again), Hanguang-jun is not known for holding his tongue. He can tell an actor where they’ve gone wrong in four words, and make it sound like poetry, too.
But when Wei Wuxian looks up, Lan Zhan is giving him a look that he might almost describe as fond.
“You’re too nice, Lan Zhan,” he says, with a huff of laughter. “I just lost my place.”
“I liked it. There is more emotion in that moment in that moment than most actors know to bring to it.”
After that, it finally hits him. He is screwed.
###
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
Gusu — The Lan Centre for the Performing Arts and the University of Gusu School of Theatre present Tom Stoppard’s Arcadia, to play at the grand re-opening of the Cloud Recesses Theatre following a year of renovations. Award-winning Gusu School alumni and professor Lan Wangji, whose most recent production was The Chalk Circle at the Yunmeng Playhouse, will direct.
“I am honoured to direct this production in celebration of the renovations which have made the Cloud Recesses into a state-of-the-art modern theatre,” Lan Wangji said. “Even more, I am happy to be working again with some of the luminaries of the Gusu theatre community and the rising stars of the University of Gusu School of Theatre professional acting program.”
Fellow alumnus and design professor Nie Huaisang is the set and costume designer, while Wen Ning, head of the technical theatre program at the School, will handle lighting and sound design for the production. Third-year theatre student Lan Jingyi is the stage manager.
The cast list, released today ahead of the production’s initial table read, includes Gusu School acting alumni Wen Qing as Hannah Jarvis, Jin Zixuan as Bernard Nightingale, and Luo Qingyang as Chloe Coverly. Rounding out the cast are fourth-year theatre student Qin Su as Lady Croom; third-year theatre students Jin Ling as Ezra Chater, Lan Sizhui as Valentine Coverly, and Ouyang Zizhen in the dual role of Gus and Augustus Coverly; and second-year student Xiao Qing as Thomasina.
“We are extremely fortunate that our students are able to work with such big-name talents, and that our local theatre community is willing to put so much time and energy into the University’s productions,” said Lan Qiren, Department Head at the Gusu School of Theatre.
Tickets are available on the Gusu School of Theatre website.
###
[Group chat: Where There’s Two Wens, There’s a Wei]
Wen Ning
the press release got it wrong
Wei Wuxian
what? wrong how?
Wen Ning
it doesn’t say that you’re in the show!
Wei Wuxian
oh yeah, I was expecting that! no way is the school advertising that the bad boy of Gusu Theatre is back
but I am! I’m back, baby
Wen Qing
“bad boy”
Wei Wuxian
what? I am!!! I am wounded that you would suggest otherwise
do you need me to catalogue my list of sins, in the eyes of the world
because I am pretty sure that Yao Zhiqiang has done a thorough job of that on his blog
Wen Qing
a friend of mine in Yiling told me you regularly gave free acting lessons to kids in foster care and directed shows at the women’s prison
Wei Wuxian
yeah so? I can do good deeds and still be a bad boy
Wen Qing
sure thing, yup yup
anyway, this is not to say that I mind working with you again, you’ll be great in the role (please do not let this praise go to your head) but I’m kind of surprised you auditioned
Wei Wuxian
I will treasure your praise, Wen Qing
and why wouldn’t I audition, I’ve always wanted to play Septimus
Wen Qing
because somebody (you) drunk-texted me after Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan’s wedding that you were, and I quote
“so glad i don’t live in Gusu anymore, couldn’t be round Lan zhan so much, would break me. Yiling good because no Lan Zhan in Yiling, Yiling good bc no heartbreak in Yiling”
and yet here you are, not only back in Gusu, but booked to spend 10 weeks working closely with one Lan Wangji
Wei Wuxian
mistakes were made, Wen Qing, mistakes were made
but I will survive
it’s fine, everybody, nobody panic, I’ve got it under control
Wen Qing
literally nobody but you was panicking
what I’ve never been able to figure out is why you’re so certain he wouldn’t be interested
Wei Wuxian
bad boy, remember? not his type
###
That he had auditioned at all was entirely Nie Huaisang’s fault.
“It was absolutely not my fault,” Huaisang mutters from behind him, mouth full of pins, hands busy with the fabric swatches of the black tail coat he’s fitting to Wei Wuxian. “I didn’t tell you to audition. I didn’t even suggest you audition. All I did was say, Hanguang-Jun is directing Arcadia and there’s an open call tomorrow.”
He sounds offended at the suggestion that he had meddled, but then Nie Huaisang is a very good actor, for someone who has always refused to appear onstage.
Wei Wuxian laughs. “You knew what you were doing.”
“I know nothing,” Huaisang shrugs, coming around to inspect his work. The costume designer, casual in a charcoal silk tank top and parachute pants, hasn’t aged much in the thirteen years since they were in school together. Only his hair, the long braid chopped in favour of a swooping idol cut, is different. His face is still that of a twenty-something. “Hmm. I wonder if I should do the coat in grey, instead?”
“No, black,” Wei Wuxian says, thinking only of the character and not at all of his own fashion sense. “And can we do a scarlet cravat?”
Huaisang nods and begins carefully removing the pinned coat. “It must be nice for you to see everyone again, after thirteen years. I seem to recall there were certain people here you asked me about every time you remembered to text me from Yiling.”
“It hasn’t been thirteen years since I’ve seen any of these people,” Wei Wuxian protests, stepping down off the fitting platform. “I saw all of them at Xingchen’s wedding three years ago. And before that at the big Lan gala, and like twenty other times besides. But who’s keeping count?”
Wei Wuxian is, in fact, keeping count. He knows exactly how many times he has seen Lan Zhan over the last thirteen years (seven) and how many times they’ve spoken (four). Inconsequential conversations: comparing the weather in Yiling with Gusu, the shows they were each doing, the health of their families.
He can also picture exactly where they were standing the last time they truly saw each other, the last time they truly spoke. That had been thirteen years ago: just outside this building, in the small stone courtyard outside the Cloud Recesses green room. It had been winter, the first snowfall of the season blowing around them, their feet carving caesuras in the even carpet of white.
“If you say so,” Huaisang says, fanning himself with a sheaf of costume sketches. The costume room in the Lan Centre—the sprawling glass-and-concrete structure that houses the School’s classrooms, faculty offices, workshop, black box studio and the Cloud Recesses, the traditional proscenium arch theatre—is always hot.
“You know what surprises me? That the school okayed my casting,” Wei Wuxian says, coming around to admire Hauisang’s set model for Arcadia where it sits on the back counter. The set is simple, abstract swooping arcs in blue and white and green that hint at French windows, at panes of glass, of light and sky and endless lawns. It’s nothing on the ingenious set Nie Huaisang did for Romance of the Western Chamber in their school days—an enormous, stage-spanning fan that opened and closed to reveal each scene—but it feels assured, welcoming. “I mean, it’s a Gusu School production, Lan Qiren’s still Department Head, he could have vetoed.”
“Ah, I don’t know about that, I don’t know! I mean, I did hear a rumour, but.”
“What rumour?”
“Oh, well, it’s probably nothing, but I heard Hanguang-Jun said he wouldn’t do the show if the School vetoed your casting.”
Wei Wuxian wants to ask a million questions. He wants to never speak about this again. The two instincts grapple, and the second wins out.
“How’s your brother?” he mutters, turning away to hide a faint blush.
“Ah, Da-ge … he’s been better, I guess. The breakup hit him pretty hard. That’s a big hole in his life to fill, you know?”
Wei Wuxian nods. To have had one of the Twin Jades of Lan, and lose him …
“Yeah. I do know.”
###
[Group Chat: Junior (S)Quad]
Ouyang Zizhen
Sizhui! My friend! My pal! My bosom companion!
Lan Sizhui
What’s up, Zizhen?
Ouyang Zizhen
what do you know about
the great and illustrious Yiling Laozu
he of the rumours and mystery and *romance*
he of the glorious sweeping ponytail
he of the ripped jeans and the just-tight-enough anime t-shirts
do I need to go on?
Jin Ling
shut the FUCK UP, Zizhen
[Jin Ling has left the chat]
Ouyang Zizhen
what’s with him???
Lan Jingyi
that’s his uncle you’re describing like he’s a pin-up
they’ve got a bit of a strained relationship, I think
Ouyang Zizhen
oh right! he stares daggers at the Yiling Laozu during rehearsal breaks
anyway, back to the question at hand: what’s the gossip, Sizhui?
Lan Sizhui
I … nothing? why would I know any more than you? we have almost no scenes together, I’ve only seen him at rehearsal a couple times
and don’t call him Yiling Laozu, it’s not nice
Ouyang Zizhen
it is not my fault that he starred in the most epic series of commercials for an escort service ever recorded
when I call him Yiling Laozu, I am paying him homage! I am showing the greatest of respect!
and I ask you, Sizhui, because it is extremely clear to this humble observer that Hanguang-Jun and the great Yiling Laozu have a history of some sort, and I assume you are knowledgeable about what’s going on with your dad
Lan Jingyi
shut up, Zizhen
you know gossip is forbidden in the group chat
###
Jingyi finishes up with the shop crew, having confirmed that set construction is on schedule and the bump-in is marked on everyone’s calendar, and trudges reluctantly up the dark stairs towards the prop room. He never relishes making a visit to the prop room; sure, Xue Yang’s a wiz with prop construction and special effects, but he has a shit attitude that everybody is forced to tolerate because of Meng Yao’s weird-ass patronage. Plus, there was that awful rumour about him catfishing Xiao Xingchen a few years back.
But it’s not like he can avoid the visit; that’s the lot of a stage manager, isn’t it? There are rehearsal props to take over to the rehearsal hut, progress on the real props to check up on, etcetera etcetera, and if he doesn’t do it, nobody else will …
“Jingyi!”
A breathless Sizhui falls into step beside him on the stairs.
“You’re a hard person to catch up with these days, Jingyi,” his best friend says, smiling. “I ran all over the Lan Centre looking for you and every place I went, they said I’d just missed you.”
Jingyi smiles, secretly pleased Sizhui had gone to such lengths to find him. “Yeah, the show is keeping me busy.”
“Can I talk to you about something?” Sizhui sinks down on the top step and Jingyi joins him, digging around in his backpack to pull out a takeaway container of chicken wings. Might as well get dinner in before rehearsal. “I mean, it’s gossip, but I …”
“It’s not gossip when it’s just you and me, Sizhui.”
“Right. Well … what do you think about Wei Wuxian?”
“I like him,” Jingyi says, around a mouthful of chicken. “I mean, he’s no Hanguang-Jun, but he’s a good actor, and he treats the student actors like they’re his peers.” He knows from experience that isn’t always the case. “Why? Zizhen didn’t get to you, did he?”
“No, it’s not that.” Sizhui ducks his head, playing nervously with the cuff of his long-sleeved white T-shirt, pushing his glasses up and down his nose. Jingyi gets through another three chicken wings in the pause that follows, trying not to think about how cute Sizhui looks when he’s flustered. “I mean, it kind of is about that, I guess? Dad has this picture that he keeps in a drawer in his room—I don’t think he knows I’ve seen it. It’s of him years and years ago, sitting with another man on a bench down in the Back Hill Gardens, and the other man has his arm around Dad’s shoulders, and Dad is smiling. I didn’t know who the man in the picture was until we showed up to the table read and I saw Wei Wuxian.”
Jingyi almost drops a chicken wing. “Hanguang-Jun, smiling? Are you sure we’re talking about the same person, Sizhui?”
“I’m serious!”
“Okay, well, I mean, I don’t know what to make of the picture in the drawer thing, but it wouldn’t surprise me if they were friends when they were in school. They definitely worked together. You know about what happened with Wei Wuxian and your dad’s directing thesis, right?”
“…. no? And how do you know?”
“You know I’m a Hanguang-Jun fanboy, Sizhui. Keep up.”
“Right.”
“So Wei Wuxian got in a fight with Jin Zixun onstage one night after curtain call—”
“I did hear something about that, I think.”
“—and I guess the faculty wanted to kick him out for it. But apparently your dad went to Professor Lan and argued he should get to stay, probably because Wei Wuxian was supposed to be acting in your dad’s directing thesis. He was doing Rhinoceros in Love, Wei Wuxian was Ma Lu, they were two weeks away from opening night.”
“Lan Qiren agreed?”
“Yes. But then two days later Wei Wuxian dropped out of school. Just, like, said ‘fuck it, I’m done,’ and walked out. It kind of ruined Hanguang-Jun’s show; he had to play the part himself with almost no rehearsal, but it was that or cancel the show. So if Hanguang-Jun and Wei Wuxian were friends before, I bet they weren’t really after that, because Wei Wuxian really screwed him over.”
Sizhui frowns and absently plucks the last chicken wing from the container. “We don’t know what happened. We shouldn’t judge.”
“Well, we’d live in a better world if it hadn’t happened, because Wei Wuxian had just been cast as Hamlet in the spring show, and after he dropped out the role went to Meng Yao, and that was the star-making turn he coasted on all the way to tenure.” (The fact that Professor Meng is dating Sizhui’s uncle doesn’t mean Jingyi has to like the obsequious bastard and his so-obviously fake smiles.)
“But my dad wouldn’t have cast him in this show if he didn’t trust him, right?”
Jingyi stands and pulls Sizhui up by one hand. “Maybe. Come on, I’ve got to go to the prop room. Why all this worry about Wei Wuxian?”
“Dad’s been a bit weird lately, I guess? He has this song that he sometimes plays on his guqin. He used to play it, like, once a year, after the first snowfall. But now he plays it every night after rehearsal, and so I thought …” he shrugs. “I guess I just worry.”
“Is he still seeing that guy from the Classics department?”
“No, that only lasted like three months, same as usual. I’d kind of gotten my hopes up for that one, it seemed like they had a lot in common.”
In the prop room Xue Yang has, predictably, failed to put aside the rehearsal props that Jingyi requested, and so Jingyi and Sizhui are subjected to one of his strange, leering rants as he climbs up and down the ladders along the high shelves and pulls down crystal glasses, a decanter, various papers and leather portfolios, candlesticks, a fake flower in a pot, and some folded newspapers. Jingyi has long ago learned to tune him out—this time the rant is something about candy and, like, a finger injury?—but Sizhui, who as an actor is rarely exposed to the quirks of Gusu’s techies, is watching with his jaw hanging open, his face a picture of rapt confusion.
It’s one of Sizhui’s many charms, Jingyi thinks, how open he is to the world, to all its surprises and mysteries.
“Right, that’s all of it,” Xue Yang says, closing the top of a big cardboard box. “Oh—almost forgot.”
He flips the lid off a shoebox and shoves something green and round-eyed into Sizhui’s hands.
“What is that?” Jingyi says.
“A tortoise. Your prop list included a tortoise, right?”
“That’s a turtle.” It blinks owlishly at them, waving its legs as if swimming in air.
“What’s the difference? I went down to the Back Hill Gardens last week and caught this little fellow. Name’s Xuanwu. Watch out, he’s a bit of a biter”—
In the chaos that follows Jingyi very narrowly misses punching Xue Yang’s smug face, and only because Sizhui uses his bloody hand to pull him back. He subsides in his attempts to grab the slippery fucker when Sizhui loudly announces that his hand is fine, it’s not bleeding badly at all, and that Xuanwu had just been scared.
“You watch out,” Jingyi mutters to Xue Yang, scoops Xuanwu back into the shoebox, and then—with Xue Yang’s cackling laughter chasing them down the hall—the two of them make good their escape from the prop room.