Chapter Text
There’s a part at the beginning of Rachmaninoff’s Symphony No. 2, 3rd movement, just before the clarinet begins its solo, where the strings sing an achingly beautiful motif that hangs in the air like the soft mist on an early autumn morning.
The phantom melody clings to Lan Wangji’s soul like the mist does to his skin. It’s September, and the leaves have just begun to turn color in GuSu, and Lan Wangji feels his heart stutter to life.
There’s a young man sprawled on the front steps of the main lecture building. An elbow supports him as he reads from the music book he balances in the same hand. In his other, a pen spins deftly between his fingers.
In a different time, different place, the same fingers used to draw out melodies that weaved themselves into Lan Wangji’s understanding of music.
“Wei Ying.”
The name floats from his lips. He’s too far for the man to hear him, but maybe the chilled breeze carries his words, because he lifts his head.
He doesn’t look surprised when his eyes find Lan Wangji. He smiles, and Lan Wangji’s heart lurches.
“Lan Zhan.”
It’s September, and the leaves have just begun to turn color in GuSu. Lan Wangji can hear the winds and brass join the strings. The melody soars, and his soul follows.
--
Movement I, Allegro.
Lan Wangji’s earliest memory is of the piano. He’s two years old, climbing into his mother’s lap. There’s a ring of bright laughter, and he snuggles close as she carries him to the baby grand sitting in their living room.
She plays for him simple Mozart minuets until Lan Wangji begins to babble and wriggle in the cradle of her arms. He grabs at the air, like he’s trying to coax the music into his palms, and when his mother stops playing, he slams a pudgy hand down, right between the E and F above middle C.
He’s three when he plays his first scale. His uncle hovers closely over his right shoulder, and his fingers trip over the C major scale, like he’s running up a ragged, unfinished staircase.
“When your thumb turns to play the F, your wrist and elbow has to follow the movement,” his uncle says, pulling his elbow along. “Make sense?”
Lan Wangji nods.
He’s six when he plays in his first recital.
He in the third row, amongst his uncle’s other students, and cranes his neck to catch a glimpse of his mother from the audience. He wipes his sweaty palms against his navy slacks. His mother smiles at him, and he breathes.
Mozart’s Piano Sonata No. 16 in C Major, 1st movement, Adagio.
His fingers are light as they fly over the keys. He thinks of his mother in the audience and lets the warmth travel from his core to his fingertips and into the hammer and strings, until it floods the music.
He still plays the Sonata, sometimes, when he needs a reminder of what that warmth felt like, the golden glow of a soft ember that expanded until it filled every crevasse of his life.
---
Lan Wangji is twelve when he hears Wei Wuxian play for the first time.
He is sitting in the Lotus Pier Concert Hall with his older brother, waiting for the YunMeng 19th Annual International Classical Music Competition to begin. Two seats down, a pair of parents are whispering frantically to each other, nervous fingers twisting the paper program. Farther along, a young girl sprints down the aisle with her violin case clutched in her arms.
The competition is a relatively prestigious one and the only one of its kind in the region, being held specifically for woodwinds and string instruments. Lan Wangji had tried to avoid the affair, given that he has own performance in a little under a month and he’d stayed up late practicing the night before, but his brother had insisted he come along since it was their yeaerly routine to attend. It’s their brotherly bonding activity, Lan Xichen had exclaimed, a little wounded when Lan Wangji mentioned he wanted to stay home instead.
Purely out of love for his older brother, Lan Wangji allowed himself to be tugged out of the practice room on a Saturday afternoon, stuffed in the underground metro, and pushed into the Lotus Pier Concert Hall to listen to Lan Xichen’s best friend perform.
Lan Wangji briefly scans the program his brother hands him.
“Anything you find interesting?” Lan Xichen asks as he flips open his own program.
“Not really,” Lan Wangji replies. He continues reading through the program. It’s a youth competition, so all the performers are absurdly young and playing absurdly difficult pieces. Since the performers are lined up by age, he finds Lan Xichen’s friend on the second page.
Sarasate: Zigeunerweisen, Op. 20 ---- performed by Nie Mingjue, 16 years old
Of course it would be Zigeunerweisen, Lan Wangji thinks. It’s a piece technically difficult enough to stand out in a competition like this, and lacks neither drama nor flair, two characteristics of music that Nie Mingjue particularly enjoys.
In all fairness, Nie Mingjue is an incredible violinist and can probably play the Zigeunerweisen in a manner far beyond his age, but Lan Wangji would never say it to his face. Lan Xichen strokes his ego enough as it is.
Lan Wangji’s eyes travel back up the list of pieces again and lands on:
Ibert: Flute Concerto, 1st movement ---- performed by Wei Wuxian, 12 years old
His brother finds the listing the same time he does and nudges Lan Wangji.
“Every year there’s an Ibert, and every year, the performer gets younger and younger. Last year it was… Song Lan, wasn’t it? 14 years old?”
It’s an inside joke amongst the classical music community that every year, there will be a young flautist attempting the Ibert Flute Concerto at the YunMeng Competition. It has been a staple ever since the competition was first founded. The only differences over the years were the movement being played and the age of the performer, which had steadily been decreasing.
Lang Wangji hums in agreement and shuts the pamphlet.
The competition takes another ten minutes to begin, during which Lan Wangji goes over the fingering for Bach’s Italian Concerto, which he is set to perform at the upcoming GuSu Bach Festival. It’s not a particularly difficult piece, but it’s fast, and there’s a run in the 1st movement that doesn’t sound as natural as he’d like it to. His fingers tap against the armrest of his chair, and he catches his brother’s eye when he begins the 2nd movement. His brother smiles, and he tilts his head in response.
He’s practicing the trill at the end of the 2nd movement when the house lights begin to dim. He folds his hands in his lap.
There are 20 performances in total—the performers ages ten and under in the first half, and those between the ages of eleven and sixteen in the second half, with a fifteen-minute intermission in between. The first half passes by quickly, with only an eight-year-old Xue Yang, violinist, who plays a particularly good “Por Una Cabeza,” that grabs Lan Wangji’s attention.
During intermission, the contestants and family mill around him, and even his brother gets up to use the restroom and say hi to Nie Mingjue and the other performers in the lobby. Lan Wangji stays in his seat, eyes closed, and goes over the 2nd movement of the Italian Concerto in his head again.
It ends too quickly. In the comfort of the plush seats and the quiet concert hall, Lan Wangji finds himself drifting off to the lull of the 2nd movement, Andante. He wakes up to his brother’s gentle nudging, and he finds the audience settling back into the auditorium. Lan Xichen gives him a knowing look, handing him a bottle of water he probably purchased at the obscenely overpriced concession stand.
Lan Wangji suppresses the urge to pull a face and takes it, giving a slight nod of thanks. He takes a long swig and checks the program to see the next performer.
Ah, it’s the Ibert.
A boy about his height, sporting an unfortunate bowl cut, marches up from stage left with his flute and bows to the audience. He turns to bow to the piano accompanist, and then gives the indication to begin.
Lan Wangji startles out of his sluggish state when the boy begins to play.
Lan Wangji is sure there are many twelve-year old’s in the world who can play the Ibert Flute Concerto and similarly difficult pieces, even if the music comes out bearing only some resemblance to the original piece—so-called prodigies who play a little too fast, a little too frantic.
He himself hears the same sort of impatience in his own playing, when he sweeps through Chopin’s Fantaisie Impromptu at a startling pace and finishes it utterly unsatisfied. The audience always applauds and his uncle always gives him a nod of approval, but he knows his playing lacks the dreamlike quality that he’s not quite sure how to find.
His uncle always tells him that it takes equal parts patience and dedication to become good at an instrument, but his mother used to tell him that age has something to do with it as well.
He thinks she’s probably right. Six years later, his Mozart Sonata has already taken on a different timbre.
Lan Wangji isn’t sure there are many twelve-year old’s in the world who can do justice to the Ibert Flute Concerto.
Case in point—Wei Wuxian.
The piano sounds, opening the phrase, and the flute chases after it. Wei Wuxian begins the piece sprinting, tearing through the introduction so quickly that the accompanist can barely keep up with him. He plays recklessly through the runs, slowing abruptly in the middle of them, and then fortepianos so suddenly that the accompanist trips to quiet with him. Lan Wangji tries not to grimace.
But two minutes in, the flute begins to sing its most lyrical motif, and Lan Wangji swears he can see the music take flight in the air. The notes curve and rise, sweeping and ducking with every change in tempo Wei Wuxian flawlessly introduces. It’s clean, controlled chaos, and Lan Wangji suddenly forgets how the piece itself is meant to sound.
The song ends in a flourish—a deafening burst of red rising from the flute until it settles over Wei Wuxian.
The silence lingers, like the audience is unsure of whether to clap. The boy on stage grins, as if he knows he’s stunned them into silence, for better or for worse, and the crowd erupts in applause.
“Nevermind his interpretation—that speed! That virtuosity, that control! Such a clear, firm vibrato! And his tone is so steady, so relentless!”
Lan Wangji hears the excited mutters of his fellow audience members and grips the edge of his seat, eyes wide as he watches Wei Wuxian take his final bow. He’s not sure if Wei Wuxian did justice to the piece, but he definitely made it his and rendered Lan Wangji utterly breathless.
“Fascinating,” his brother murmurs, as they await the next performer. “Quite different from what we’ve heard in years past, isn’t it?”
The echoes of Wei Wuxian’s last phrase ring in Lan Wangji’s ears as he nods in agreement.
Lan Wangji replays his performance in his head throughout the second half of the competition. There’s a 14-year-old who plays a penetrating Ysaÿe “Manuel Quiroga” that tears him momentarily out of the Flute Concerto, followed immediately by Nie Mingjue’s strong Sarasate that refuses to let him fall back into picking out the notes in the chromatic call and response between Wei Wuxian’s flute and the piano accompaniment.
But, the competition ends not with a 16 year old’s Syrinx, but instead, with the piercing high F at the end of the Ibert.
Wei Wuxian makes it to semifinals, and then finals.
Lan Wangji doesn’t watch the final performances, but Lan Xichen lets him know that Nie Mingjue placed second. First was the 14-year-old who played Ysaÿe during preliminaries. Oh, and Wei Wuxian placed third.
“He played Le Merle Noir,” Lan Xichen says over dinner. He chuckles a little. “It was certainly fitting.”
Lan Wangji hums.
“An editor from Musical America was there,” Lan Xichen continues. “I think they’re writing a piece about the top three. I’ll get you a copy of the magazine when it comes out.”
A week later, Lan Xichen appears at the doorway of Lan Wangji’s bedroom whilst he’s listening to another recording of Bach, and slides him the latest edition of Musical America. He looks at Lan Wangji expectantly, but his brother doesn’t read it immediately.
“Have you eaten yet?” Lan Wangji asks instead.
The two of them eat a quiet dinner, the clink of their silverware accompanying Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto.
It’s only when he’s getting ready for bed does Lan Wangji pick up the magazine. He flips to the article on the YunMeng Competition and is greeted by a blown-up picture of Wei Wuxian with his arms thrown around the shoulders of Nie Mingjue and Wen Qing, the first-place winner.
The annual YunMeng International Classical Music Competition greeted the end of its nineteenth iteration on an early November night. Upon the grand stage of the Lotus Pier Concert Hall, three talented, young musicians received their respective cash prizes of $7000, $3000, and $1000, along with the admiration and envy of the classical music community.
Wei Wuxian, a 12-year-old flautist raised by the acclaimed Jiang family, placed 3rd with an incredible rendition of Messiaen’s Le Merle Noir. His playing on Saturday was a technical masterpiece, wonderfully succeeding his brilliant performance of Ibert’s Flute Concerto. Since the preliminary round, Wei Wuxian has captivated the attention of both professional and amateur classical music aficionados with his virtuosity and bold, wild style. His music is reckless, but he exerts an exceptional amount of control over his playing, unparalleled amongst his peers and perhaps even many professional flautists. This young musician may prove to be the next Paganini, the product of a dangerous, but enticing deal struck with the devil.
The rest of the article dives into Nie Mingjue and Wen Qing’s performances, acknowledging that Wei Wuxian’s playing, given his age, is a tad immature compared to the other two. Lan Wangji quickly skims it before returning his attention to the photo of the three winners.
The expressions on their faces are a sight. Nie Mingjue looks mildly resigned, as if subjecting to his fate of being Wei Wuxian’s shoulder rest. Wen Qing’s face is torn between looking utterly horrified and trying for some semblance of dignity. But Wei Wuxian is grinning from ear to ear, his bowl cut curled and hairsprayed so that it’s not just lying flat against his head like it had been when Lan Wangji saw him live.
Underneath is a smaller photo, with the three staring solemnly into the camera, each holding their prizes. It’s stilted, forced, and utterly lacking the infectious energy Wei Wuxian carries around him. Lan Wangji can understand why the editors chose the other picture as the main focus of the article.
He studies this boy for longer than he cares to admit, recalling the Ibert performance—the sweet, sweet sound of the flute lingering wistfully before it plunges into something dark and frenzied.
He slides the magazine in between his Mozart and Chopin music books and climbs into bed. He finds Wei Wuxian’s performance of La Merle Noir on the internet and falls asleep to the inquisitive, dissonant harmonies of blackbirds singing, perched precariously along the edge of a silver flute.
---
The Bach Festival is impending, and Lan Wangji spends the hours between school and sleep in the practice room, meticulously going over each phrase in the Italian Concerto until he thinks he can play it in his sleep.
His brother brings him cut fruit every few hours or so, and Lan Wangji thinks Lan Xichen is probably the only reason why he hasn’t died from malnourishment yet.
On the day of the festival, Lan Xichen ties Lan Wangji’s tie for him and makes sure his suit jacket hangs neatly over his body. His uncle is already at the venue, setting up, so the two brothers take the underground together to the venue, an auditorium extended from the back wing of the public library. Lan Xichen stops Lan Wangji just before he goes to join the other performers, and says, “Good luck.”
His brother’s voice is warm, a little bit like honey, and Lan Wangji smiles.
Despite the venue being smaller than the Lotus Pier Concert Hall, the number of performers is large, numbering to over fifty. It’s a youth concert again, but it gathers the best young students from around the nation. Performers of all instruments are huddled in the first couple of rows of the auditorium, whispering and shuffling nervously. Some have their headphones in, listening to the piece they’re performing for one last time. Others are poring over their music books, like the familiar staves and notes are the only antidote to their pre-performance anxiety. Lan Wangji takes his seat at the edge of the aisle next to a Langham, another pianist, and closes his eyes.
“Stop harping like a mother hen Jiang Cheng, I know where I’m supposed to sit!”
The furious whisper sounds suspiciously close, and Lan Wangji opens his eyes.
Wei Wuxian is standing in the aisle right next to him, elbowing another boy, who’s wearing casual dress and appears to not be one of the performers.
“Are you sure because you’re definitely standing by the wrong row,” the boy (Jiang Cheng?) deadpans.
“No, this is where the W’s are,” Wei Wuxian argues back. “See Ah-jie is sitting a few rows ahead. J—” he points at a girl in the second row, who turns around and frowns at him worriedly. “And W,” he gestures at Lan Wangji’s row, the fifth, and nearly whacks Lan Wangji in the face with the flute he’s holding.
Jiang Cheng huffs, annoyed, and then points at Lan Wangji.
“Ok, ask the dude what his last name is, because it is not going to be W. I don’t see Wen Qing sitting in this row.”
“Well, Wen Qing is also running late. Also, you should really get over your crush on her, she’s too coo—”
“I swear to God, Wei Wuxian, ask him what his name is so we can find your damned seat and I can go back to mom and dad and tell them how incompetent you are.”
Wei Wuxian finally turns his attention to Lan Wangji, who has been steadfastly staring at the “Bach” written in Edwardian script on the cover of his music sheets and pretending he can’t hear the two boys bickering next to him.
“Hi,” Wei Wuxian says, tapping him on the shoulder.
Lan Wangji jerks and turns his attention towards him. His eyes involuntarily travel to his hair. Wei Wuxian has evidently realized that a bowl cut is not the look for him and introduced layers into his hair.
It looks nice, Lan Wangji thinks and resolutely does not say.
“What is your name?” Wei Wuxian asks. “Please tell me it starts with a W or else I might’ve just lost my prize money.”
Lan Wangji shakes his head mutely and tries not to panic when Wei Wuxian’s face falls dramatically and Jiang Cheng snorts out a laugh.
“L,” Lan Wangji croaks out, and then gestures to the row behind him. “W.”
Wei Wuxian’s face falls further, and Jiang Cheng pats him on the shoulder.
“Good luck bro. Hope you didn’t spend all the cash yet,” he says, and then leaves, still chortling.
Wei Wuxian rolls his eyes and watches Jiang Cheng walk up to the girl in the second row and say something. He catches her eye and waves enthusiastically. He does not move from the aisle next to Lan Wangji’s seat. Lan Wangji’s skin is crawling, and he tries to inconspicuously wipe his hands on his pants.
“How are there so many kids with last names between J and L and like, seven with last names between L and W?” Wei Wuxian demands.
Lan Wangji thinks he’s probably just talking to himself and will move to his seat soon, so he doesn’t say anything and turns his attention to his lap again. He opens his music book just so his hands have something to do.
“What’s your name?” Wei Wuxian asks suddenly, again, and Lan Wangji’s eyes fly back to his face. “You never said.”
“Um,” Lan Wangji says in response.
“Oh, I should probably introduce myself first. My name’s Wei Ying. My courtesy name is Wei Wuxian, but people only call me that when they’re pissed. So, in my brother’s case, basically all the time.”
“Um,” Lan Wangji says again.
Wei Wuxian waits patiently.
“Lan Zhan. Courtesy name, Lan Wangji.”
“Oh!” Wei Wuxian’s eyes light up in recognition. “I know you. You’re Lan Qiren’s second nephew, and your mother—”
“Yeah,” Lan Wangji interrupts.
There’s a pause, and Wei Wuxian shifts his flute from his right hand to his left.
“Why are you going to lose your prize money?” Lan Wangji blurts out.
The moment passes, and Wei Wuxian grins.
“Nah, I’m probably not gonna. Last performance, I sat in the wrong row for like, half the concert and realized only when it was my turn. Jiang Cheng bet I would do it again, but I was like, uh no, I’m not dumb.” Wei Wuxian stops talking and looks at the row behind them thoughtfully. “But maybe I am dumb. Hmm.”
Wei Wuxian taps the edge of his flute against his lips and fixes his eyes on Lan Wangji. Lan Wangji wonders if his gaze is always this intense and his fingers tighten around the armrests of his chair.
“Anyways,” Wei Wuxian continues, dragging out the word. “I bet Jiang Cheng what’s left of my prize money, but I was going to use it to buy him his stupid PS4 anyways, so I’m not really losing anything. In fact, given that the only person who plays video games with him is me, I’m honestly benefiting.”
Lan Wangji blinks and relaxes his hands. “That doesn’t sound dumb to me at all.”
Wei Wuxian looks a little surprised, and then laughs, delighted.
“Thanks for validating me, bro.” Wei Wuxian pats Lan Wangji on the shoulder, and Lan Wangji does not flail because he has self-control and dignity.
He almost does though, when Wei Wuxian uses his shoulder as leverage to slide into the row behind him.
“I’m looking forward to your performance, Lan Zhan.”
Lan Wangji shivers when he hears his name in Wei Wuxian’s voice and meets his eyes again. He wonders how long it’s been since he’s heard his name called out by someone else.
“I know you too.” Lan Wangji hears the words come out of his mouth and blanches. Wow, Lan Wangji’s brain is really betraying him during this trying time. He begins again. “I mean. I’m also looking forward to your performance.”
Ok, so maybe Lan Wangji doesn’t have a lot of control over words, but Wei Wuxian’s hand is a warm, firm pressure against his back.
Wei Wuxian looks amused, and he laughs again. It sounds startlingly like the clear, high tone of his flute when he plays vivace, and Lan Wangji tries not to stare as Wei Wuxian shuffles to his seat.
The competition begins shortly after, and Wei Wuxian is right. Out of the fifty or so performers, nearly thirty have last names between A and L, and therefore, perform before Lan Wangji does. As Lan Wangji waits for his turn, he realizes that Jiang Cheng, the boy who was with Wei Wuxian is likely Jiang Fengmian’s son, a rising youth opera singer. Which means the girl in the second row, who is currently playing a heart-wrenching Bach Capriccio in B Flat Major, is Jiang Yanli, Jiang Fengmian’s daughter. The Jiang family is known for being musical, with Jiang Fengmian himself being one of the most sought-after piano teachers in the region, and Yu Ziyuan, his wife, an internationally known harpist. It’s no wonder that Wei Wuxian, who had, according to Musical America, been entrusted to their care, is such an exceptional flute player.
When Lan Wangji is finally on stage and adjusting the piano bench to fit his height, he feels a wave of nervousness that he hasn’t felt in a very long time. The music is thrumming in his bloodstream, but he is vividly aware of Wei Wuxian sitting in the audience. He is hyper conscious of his body, of his heart battering in his chest and the cool touch of the ivory keys against his fingertips. The spotlight shines hot against his shoulders. He thinks of molten gold and burnt honey, and breathes.
He begins to play. The F Major chord strikes and rings throughout the concert hall, firm and unrelenting, and Lan Wangji molds out the first tutti with a tenacity that he doesn’t actually feel. The sound is grand, and it circles around him, cocooning him in like the muggy fog on an early summer morning. He closes his eyes as the right hand melody begins to climb.
There’s a recall of the first theme in piano that fades into a trill and the increasingly dominant left-hand melody, and he suddenly thinks of blackbirds. The next time the theme appears in full, he thinks of Wei Wuxian’s laughter, and he puts his full body into the next phrase, bordering on frenzy and dissonance.
The second movement begins with a dulled dum dum in the left hand that persists as the right hand joins with mordents and trills and the lonely melody in D minor. The sound eventually becomes fuller, prettier, but it echoes forlornly and hangs in the air. His trills become even more of an afterthought, slowly curving into the repeated notes that begin to blend into each other just before he slides them into the end of the phrase.
The first and third movement are fast, but he’s always had the most trouble with the second movement. The repeated dum dum’s in the left hand are heavy as he struggles to pull the momentum along with the gloomy melody. He feels the piece lull and holds his breath for the duration of each lengthy phrase. He drags the melody into the last, reluctant trill and keeps the tension taught, before exhaling it out in the last cadence.
There are two beats of rest. Then, he sucks in a sharp breath and breaks into the final movement, presto, with an echo of the same force he felt at the beginning of the first movement. The push and pull between the tutti and concertino flit quickly and joyously between his two hands. It’s a delightful blur of exhilaration with each switch in voice, and he pushes himself breathlessly towards the end of the piece, like sprinting towards the finishing line of a long marathon. Lan Wangji seamlessly transitions from the sustained half notes and lively eighth note melody into the last chord. He holds it for a little longer than the four beats required, fermata, and then lifts his hands and lets them drop into his lap.
He is dimly aware of the applause as he sits at the piano bench for a moment longer. He can still see the lingering contours of the music as he lifts his head and looks into the glare of the stage lights. The applause continues as he pulls himself to a standing position and bows. His fingers are tingling as he walks off stage.
The row behind him is lined up along the aisle as he makes his way back, and when he passes Wei Wuxian, his traitorous eyes look up to meet Wei Wuxian’s gaze.
The look on his face is unreadable, but it quickly morphs into a confident smile, and he holds out his hand for Lan Wangji to high five.
Lan Wangji can hear the whispers around him as he settles back into his seat. The performers sitting in front of him turn around to glance surreptitiously at him. His palm is warm from where it met Wei Wuxian’s, and he rests the back of his hands on his knees.
“Lan Wangji?” A girl has turned around. She gives him an evaluating look. The people around her similarly have angled their bodies toward the two of them.
He nods hesitantly.
She holds his gaze for a moment and then smiles just as the next performer begins to play.
“Your Bach is sick,” she says emphatically, and it takes Lan Wangji a moment to realize she’s paying him a compliment. The crowd around them murmur in agreement.
“Thank you,” he replies politely.
She moves as if she’s about to shake his hand, but he quickly averts his eyes and goes to pick up his music book that he’d stowed under his seat. When he re-surfaces, she’s turned back to the front.
It isn’t long until Wei Wuxian is stepping onto the stage. There’s no accompaniment this time, and he’s a lone figure, the charcoal grey of his suit somehow standing out against the glossy black of the grand piano.
He begins with a sharp, minor melody that cuts through the air before fading into something softer around the edges. Lan Wangji quickly recognizes the piece as Bach’s Partita in A minor, one of the most well-known solo flute pieces. From where he is sitting, he can’t hear the minute breaths Wei Wuxian takes, but he watches the rise and fall of his chest with each phrase.
It’s a drastically different performance from his Ibert and even Le Merle Noire, with each note painstakingly calculated. But right before each ornamentation, a bit of his capriciousness slips in, and he slows to ease into the trills like the turn of a car around a corner, dragging out the phrase until Lan Wangji’s own lungs ache for breath. He completes the Allemande with a climbing melody and a short ritardando that ends in a sustained F.
The Corrente opens with a melodic A minor scale and then dissolves into beautiful, quick trills. Wei Wuxian breathes through the sixteenth notes, slurring them until Lan Wangji can only see the blurred comet tail of the notes. Lan Wangji’s heart soars with the melody, but the Corrente is fiery and short-lived, reminiscent of the burst of a firework before it sizzles into smoke, and before he knows it, Wei Wuxian’s playing has descended into the Sarabande.
Wei Wuxian holds each note just over the written value, rendering his Sarabande grave and somber, like he’s playing it in slow motion. The low notes ache as he sweeps through the eighth notes, but Lan Wangji’s heart stops when the flute enters the high register. It’s haunting, the way he draws out the movement, making the triple meter dance into something mournful and almost requiem-like. The sound is deep red and viscous, almost like blood flowing through human veins. As the Sarabande draws to a close, Wei Wuxian sends the melody on a run that sails across the auditorium, over the heads of the audience members, until it descends in a regretful, longing A minor scale.
The final movement is the Bourée angloise, and Wei Wuxian quickly reverts to his more familiar style of playing, lively and a little flirtatious. He plays like he speaks, with a drawl, but maybe it’s because Lan Wangji can still feel the forlorn ending of the Sarabande, the Bourée angloise sounds a little dark even as Wei Wuxian adds staccatos to the skipping melody. The bitterness comes to its head as he slows down the last couple of sixteenth notes until it recalls the Sarabande and ends with a fluttering vibrato.
There must be text scrawled in between the staves of the music that only Wei Wuxian can read, Lan Wangji thinks, because he plays Bach like he wrote the pieces himself, quill to paper as he measured out the length of each phrase.
As he walks down the aisle to return to his seat, he smiles at Lan Wangji and grips his shoulder again to slide into his row.
Lan Wangji reminds himself to breathe.
The concert ends soon after Wei Wuxian’s performance. There are a few closing words from the organizers of the event, and there’s a flurry as the jury distributes their grading papers to the row of teachers sitting behind them.
Lan Wangji follows the rest of his fellow performers out into the lobby. He doesn’t see his brother, which means Lan Xichen is probably with his uncle, making small talk with the jury members. He tucks himself into a shallow alcove and waits patiently for his family to join him. Wei Wuxian is standing on the other side of the lobby, where Jiang Cheng is giving him a grudging pat on the back.
Jiang Yanli is laughing at them and tugging at her father’s arm to tell him something, and Yu Ziyuan snaps something and raises a hand threatening at the two boys who have quickly devolved into sort of aggressive playfighting. Wei Wuxian lifts his arms in mock surrender, before securing Jiang Cheng in a headlock and then dodging to hide behind Jiang Yanli.
As he leans around her shoulder to make a face at Jiang Cheng, he catches Lan Wangji watching them and waves. Lan Wangji quickly averts his eyes.
In his periphery, he sees Wei Wuxian say something to Ms. Yu, and then to his horror, begin walking towards him. Lan Wangji considers turning and facing the wall. Or the overly large fake plant next to him.
Before he makes the decision to strike a conversation with the plant, Wei Wuxian has already crossed the lobby and is standing in front of him, his flute case slung over one shoulder.
“They weren’t exaggerating when they said you’re the prince of piano,” he says as a greeting.
Lan Wangji stares.
“They said what?” He asks incredulously.
“You know,” Wei Wuxian waves a hand around. “The prince of piano.” He squints at Lan Wangji appraisingly. “Maybe you’re a little too young to be a prince. Royal infant of piano?”
“Excuse me?” Lan Wangji feels affronted. They are literally the same age. He is twelve. Basically an adult.
Wei Wuxian laughs. “Just kidding. My flute teacher is obsessed with you though. She thinks you’re one of the best pianists of our generation.” He pulls a face. “She makes me listen to your Bach performances all the time. I don’t even play the piano.”
Lan Wangji continues to feel a little wrongfooted, like he’s not sure if Wei Wuxian is insulting him or just stating facts. Does he not like Lan Wangji’s Bach? He’s just about to pull together some sort of reply when Wei Wuxian starts talking again.
“But I mean, I think I kind of get it.” He brandishes a hand in Lan Wangji’s direction, like he’s trying to encompass all of him in one gesture. “You play Bach like you know him. It’s kind of uncanny.” He squints again. “Aren’t you too young to play like a dude who lived in the 1700s?”
Lan Wangji is twelve, thank you very much, he is not “too young.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he stammers instead.
“I’m complimenting you, Lan Zhan! Can’t you tell?”
Wei Wuxian, that bastard, flutters his eyelashes at him, and Lan Wangji nearly chokes.
“You play Bach like Bach personally guided you through each trill and mordent and told you exactly at what tempo and BPM to play each phrase. It’s divine.”
Lan Wangji flushes. “Divine” isn’t really a word he thinks his playing lives up to, and he’s not sure if he feels horrified or flattered. There’s a moment of silence as Wei Wuxian looks at him thoughtfully, and Lan Wangji feels his anxiety peak.
“But, I don’t know, what if you rebelled against Bach a little?” Wei Wuxian asks suddenly. “You know, like this.”
He hums a bit of the Italian Concerto’s third movement, quick and light, and then once the melody switches from the left hand to the right, he drops into piano and slows it down, before speeding it back up as he crescendos. It’s awfully similar to the way Wei Wuxian plays his pieces, a little unpredictable and honestly, thrilling.
“What do you think?”
Lan Wangji considers it for a moment, thinks about how his uncle would react if he played the way Wei Wuxian is prone to do, and shakes his head.
“Bach is Bach,” Lan Wangji replies simply.
Wei Wuxian’s grin widens. “Exactly! Bach is Bach.” He points a finger at Lan Wangji. “You play like you know Bach, but nobody actually knows Bach. History has created a Johann Sebastian for us, and you fit into that mold better than anyone else our age, but nobody actually knows how Bach wanted his music to sound.”
Lan Wangji opens his mouth to protest because uh, yes, music historians do know and evidence-based reasoning is more reliable than the flippant musings of a twelve-year-old (okay, so maybe twelve is young, whatever), but Wei Wuxian barrels on.
“What if Bach wanted rubato? What if he wanted senza tempo? Like, fifty years ago, we didn’t even know how we should play his ornaments, and a little further back, we tried to imitate the harpsichord on a modern grand. I mean, we’re still trying to imitate the harpsichord! Aren’t we, as twenty-first century musicians, by default rebelling against Bach?”
Historically, Bach is the paradigm of the Baroque era, a style of playing that has been corroborated by extensive evidence in the form of manuscripts and detailed accounts of performers and listeners alike. Of course, there is always a gradual progression where styles that are unheard of became increasingly accepted by the musical community of the time, and ultimately, a new musical period is introduced. But, Bach would not have wanted rubato. Lan Wangji knows that as clearly as he knows his own name. Maybe he does know Bach personally. Maybe Bach comes to him in dreams and tells him to play each note with measured confidence. Without rubato.
“Bach’s genius lies in his structure and rhythm. His music is almost mathematically perfect. Employing Romantic tempo markings in a Baroque piece is—” Lan Wangji cuts himself off. Sacrilegious, he does not say.
“Would Bach, if he were alive today, want his music to played without rubato? After hearing Chopin? After hearing Debussy?”
Lan Wangji shakes his head again. “Bach isn’t alive today.”
Wei Wuxian heaves a dramatic sigh. “Ugh, Lan Zhan, you have so little imagination.”
Lan Wangji blinks and thinks of his Fantaisie Impromptu.
“You know, maybe one day they will find evidence of Bach writing rubato into his pieces. The way Bach’s been played has changed so much over the years, anyways. Like, Gould and Brendel! And they played Bach not even twenty years apart! And Schiff! Oh man, Schiff—what do you think of his arpeggios?”
Lan Wangji pulls a face, startling a laugh out of Wei Wuxian.
“Hey, I like Schiff!” Wei Wuxian exclaims.
Adam Schiff plays the Italian Concerto with grandiose, highlighted by his arpeggiated chords, and in a manner more reminiscent of the Classical era. It’s a way of playing Bach, but it’s not one Lan Wangji is used to. Or particularly enjoys. There’s something forceful and regal about a perfect chord starting off a piece.
He’s about to say something of the sort, but he suddenly remembers that Wei Wuxian is a flautist and not a pianist.
“You play the flute,” he says instead.
Wei Wuxian raises an eyebrow. “Uh. Yes, indeed I do.”
“Why do you...” Lan Wangji waves a hand around hesitantly. “Do you play?”
“Oh…” Wei Wuxian hums in understanding. “Hey, I was raised by the Jiangs. I probably know just as much about the harp and the voice as I do the piano. Well. Maybe not the harp. Auntie Yu doesn’t talk as much about her instrument as Jiang Cheng does. Jiang Cheng never shuts up.” He laughs a little, fondly, and Lan Wangji’s heart twists.
“What about the flute?” Lan Wangji asks. “For Bach.”
When Wei Wuxian looks confused, Lan Wangji tries to elaborate.
“You like Schiff, for the piano. What about the flute?”
“Hm…” Wei Wuxian thinks for a moment, tapping a finger against his lips. Lan Wangji tries not to stare. “Probably Pahud. I listened to his Partita the most as I was practicing. Great tone. Kinda like he’s tearing through the air with his sound.”
Wei Wuxian laughs a little, and Lan Wangji is hooked. He disagrees, obviously, about Schiff and the rubato, but Wei Wuxian presents a valid argument, even if it’s one that would probably cause his uncle to have an aneurysm. He itches to see if it’ll be proven in fifty years, if musicologists will actually find a shadow of rubato scrawled somewhere in Bach’s manuscripts. Maybe that’s the text only Wei Wuxian is privy to, as he transforms dance numbers into entire story arcs.
Wei Wuxian shifts a little, and that’s when Lan Wangji realizes that he had been leaning towards the other boy, eager to catch the next words he speaks. Lan Wangji quickly straightens.
“Yo, Wei Wuxian, we gotta go!”
At Jiang Cheng’s voice, Wei Wuxian glances back at his family and gives a thumbs up to show he’s heard. Lan Wangji can’t help but feel a little disappointed at the prospect of Wei Wuxian leaving.
Wei Wuxian turns back to Lan Wangji with a serious, almost nervous look on his face.
“You’re good, though,” he says in a rush. “Like, really good. I mean, I’ve heard you before, obviously, through YouTube videos and stuff, but it’s different live. Your playing is tangible, like I can reach out and grab it. It…it isn’t like anything I’ve heard before. So like, mark my words, but also don’t, you know?” He smiles a little sheepishly. “Keep doing what you’re doing, Lan Zhan. It’s working for you.”
Wei Wuxian doesn’t wait for Lan Wangji’s reply and instead, claps him on the shoulder before running off to join his family as they exit the venue. Lan Wangji’s About your playing, it’s the same for me dies in his throat as he watches the glass doors slide shut behind the Jiang family.
His uncle and brother find him moments later, still staring at the door and clutching his music book tightly in his hands. Lan Qiren hands him his grading sheet with a mildly concerned look, but doesn’t ask further.
“I’ll make dinner today,” Lan Qiren says instead. “Take Wangji home first, Xichen, while I get the groceries.”
Lan Xichen nods, and the two bid their uncle goodbye in front of the library. As they make their way back to the underground, Lan Xichen knocks his shoulder lightly into Lan Wangji’s.
“Are you okay?” He asks lightly.
Lan Wangji hums in response. Lan Xichen waits patiently as he gathers his words.
“I talked to Wei Wuxian today,” Lan Wangji finally says as they settle into their seats. “The Ibert,” he adds by way of clarification.
“Oh.” Lan Xichen sounds a little surprised. “He played the Partita today, didn’t he? It was a lot more…conventional than what he showed during the YunMeng competition.”
“No,” Lan Wangji responds. “It’s controlled chaos.” The Ibert and Le Merle Noir were frantic and wild, but they were just as controlled as his Bach. And his Bach—especially the Sarabande—didn’t lack in daring ingenuity. Same color, different shades.
Lan Xichen is silent for a minute as he ponders Lan Wangji’s words. He chuckles softly.
“Controlled chaos, indeed.”
Lan Qiren cooks them woodear fried with lotus and bamboo and a wintermelon and tomato soup, complete with edamame beans and pickled mustard. The meal is simple, but it’s all of Lan Wangji’s favorite vegetables. He feels a little spark of warmth as his uncle picks out the most tender bamboo sprouts and places them in his bowl.
---
Lan Wangji would be lying if he said he wasn’t curious about what Emmanuel Pahud sounds like—what “tearing through the air” sounds like. But, he manages three days before he searches up Pahud’s recording of the Bach Partita.
He doesn’t hear it at first, but he hears it during the Corrente, and then again during the low slurs of the Sarabande and Bourée angloise. The playing is deceptively light, before it becomes dangerous and sharp enough to slice, like Wei Wuxian had said, through the air.
He listens to Pahud, and then Jean-Pierre Rampal, and then Jeanne Baxtresser and James Galway and Jasmine Choi. He listens to Bach and Debussy and Mozart for the flute, and then flute renditions of violin pieces and even pop songs.
He sometimes returns to Wei Wuxian’s recording of Le Merle Noir, but never the Ibert or the Bach because he knows they’ll only pale in comparison to the live performances.
But he does, sometimes, think of Wei Wuxian’s Sarabande and how sad it sounded, like the sorrow was threatening to drown the twelve-year-old boy bellowing it out from his lungs, and only through sheer tenacity, is he staying afloat and bringing the melody to the ears of his audience.
He thinks about his mother’s advice about age and wisdom, and wonders how Wei Wuxian can play like he’s lived through a lifetime of agony, only to distill it into four movements of a dance suite.
Lan Wangji’s uncle is confused by his sudden interest in the flute repertoire and tries half-heartedly to persuade him to spend the time listening to more recordings of the great pianists instead.
“You should be focused on your own instrument,” Lan Qiren chides, when he comes home to Lan Wangji sitting in a pile of flute sheet music he’d printed from the internet. “How can you master the piano if you give part of your heart to a different instrument?”
He’d said the same when Lan Wangji became fascinated with the violin during elementary school, after hearing Nie Mingjue play for the first time. But, Lan Wangji had studiously practiced the piano regardless, and never asked to learn the violin, so Lan Qiren was quickly placated.
Lan Qiren expects the interest in flute to go along the same path. When Lan Xichen mildly mentions that getting to know more of the classical music repertoire is always beneficial to a musician, Lan Qiren grumbles to himself but grudgingly concedes.
So, Lan Wangji makes his way steadily through the orchestral and solo pieces, following along with sheet music to the flute part. When he closes his eyes, he can hear the flute and piano sing in bursts of red and gold.
---
Lan Wangji chooses Chopin’s Ballade No. 1 in G minor for the GuSu Music Center Youth Piano Competition.
Lan Qiren is surprised by his choice but doesn’t comment. He guides Lan Wangji through the piece, first letting Lan Wangji listen to the different recordings of it and then playing it for him himself.
Lan Wangji stands behind his uncle, hovering over his shoulder as he reads along with the music. Lan Qiren knows the song by heart and doesn’t have much need for the sheet music, but Lan Wangji diligently turns the pages anyways.
The first day Lan Wangji begins practicing the piece in full, his brother appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his eyes closed. He stands there the entire time, over one and a half hours as Lan Wangji repeats phrases he has particular difficulties with. When he finally makes it to the end, fingers aching from the double octaves, Lan Xichen comes up next to him.
Lan Wangji slides over to make room for him on the piano bench, and Lan Xichen plays through the last couple of runs before the fortississimo, heavy but fast, like he’s dragging boulders downhill and can’t help but speed up.
“You have to put your elbow into it,” he murmurs and stops just before the chords. “Try it.”
Lan Wangji complies, feeling his brother’s light touch against his elbow as he pulls him along. Lan Wangji lets himself follow his brother’s movement.
Lan Xichen laughs when he finishes and presses his shoulder firmly against Lan Wangji’s.
“I thought it would sound the same,” he admits quietly. “But it’s different.”
Lan Wangji hums in agreement.
“I’m glad,” his brother continues. “I’m glad you have your own sound.”
They’re silent for a moment, sitting on the piano bench. Lan Wangji remembers when he was younger, his brother had to lift him so he could climb up and sit properly.
“What color is it?” Lan Wangji asks. He presses a finger to middle C, and it makes a dull clunk.
“I don’t know.” Lan Xichen sounds tired, a little lost. “I haven’t been able to tell for a long time.”
“Mother’s was gold.”
Lan Xichen nods. “Yeah. Bright and warm. But, it was softer whenever she played this piece. Maybe that’s why dad liked it so much.”
A memory flashes though Lan Wangji’s head, faint and dusty enough that he’s not sure if it actually happened or if it was just a fever dream. His mother is at the piano, father standing beside her, smiling. His brother and his uncle are sitting on the floor. His uncle holds him by the waist to stop him from climbing towards he piano. He hears the soft gold of the Ballade.
“It sounds good, Wangji,” his brother says finally. “Good job.”
---
The competition rolls around a week after his birthday. His uncle drives him and his brother to the concert hall, the largest auditorium in the Cloud Recesses Conservatory of Music. He is wearing the new Prussian blue suit his uncle gifted him for turning thirteen. His brother straightens his lapels for him after he steps out of the car.
They walk from the parking lot to the hall in relative silence, stopping only when his uncle’s colleagues or students greet him. The heavy double doors at the front of auditorium are held open by conservatory students dragged out of their beds on an early Saturday morning for the sake of completing service hours.
“Hello Professor Lan,” one of them says, and Lan Qiren nods back in response. She looks curiously at Lan Xichen and then Lan Wangji.
“My nephews,” Lan Qiren explains.
She flushes a little. “I heard Lan Wangji play at the Bach Festival. I’m looking forward to his performance today.”
Lan Wangji lowers his eyes and politely thanks her.
The three of them part ways after Lan Wangji signs in, his uncle and brother joining the audience while he finds his way backstage. The corridor connecting the green room to the stage is mainly empty, save for a few nervous performers pacing the hallway. Lan Wangji easily finds an empty bench and sits, hands placed lightly over the cover of his sheet music.
He never really studies the music right before the competition, but always has it with him just in case. By the time a performance comes around, the pieces are already ingrained in his consciousness, notes etched along his bones. But, there’s some comfort in having the book with him, if only so he has something to hold in his hands. He closes his eyes and sits peacefully, letting the hushed din of performers and families mill around him. The television to watch the performances is in the green room, but the door is propped open so he can hear the music clearly enough.
His uncle finds him like this, eyes closed, letting the other performances wash over him.
Lan Qiren says nothing, just sits silently by his side. Four pieces later, it is Lan Wangji’s turn. The GuSu Music Center Youth Piano Competition is one of the most difficult ones to qualify for, so there are only nine performers. Being able to play in the competition is basically a foot in the door to being accepted into the Cloud Recesses Conservatory. For as long as Lan Wangji remembered, his goal was to attend the conservatory, where his uncle taught at and his parents studied at. He stands up and brushes the wrinkles off his suit jacket.
“Wangji,” Lan Qiren says, also standing and getting ready to return to the audience. “Ballade No. 1 is the piece Chopin held closest to his heart.” His voice drifts off, uncertain, but Lan Wanji waits. His uncle isn’t done speaking.
“It’s also the one my brother held dearest,” Lan Qiren finishes. He claps Lan Wangji on the shoulder. “Good luck.”
Lan Wangji watches his uncle pass through the doors leading back to the audience seating. He breathes, and steps onto the stage.
He feels heavier than he usually does when he settles on the piano bench. The Steinway piano gleams under the spotlight, and he fixes his eyes on the keys instead.
He thinks of nothing, really, just the thrum of anticipation and the spirit of the music itching to be let out of his body.
Lan Wangji lets himself fall with the first note, pesante, and then slowly pushes himself back up with the diminuendo. He ends the introduction with a smooth, aching arpeggio, suspending the B flat until the tension breaks with a staccato’d D in the left hand. The right hand begins to sing.
It’s a hollow, haunting sound, like it’s traveling from deep within a cavern to the ears of the audience, but it grows louder and stronger like it’s rushing towards him. The emphasis switches to the bass clef, heavy and beseeching, before it’s soothed by the gentle melody of the treble, a ritenuto, and then a feather-light run. But it’s Chopin, so the peace doesn’t last.
The tempo becomes agitated, and Lan Wangji lets the momentum of the piece pull him frantically as the melody ascends and descends, before it tires and smorzandos with an F major arpeggio.
The second theme begins in pianissimo, soft, but clear, like choir bells sounding from the top of a tall tower. It’s painfully lyrical, and Lan Wangji lets his left hand chase the right with unspoken promises, until they both collide into the first theme. The music becomes frenzied again, molto crescendo, and Lan Wangji feels drunk with the melody, like the pagan gods of revelry have arisen from the notes and doused each one with wine.
But Dionysus was also the god of chaos, so the piece morphs into something quick and playful, flirting with the edge of danger. Lan Wangji is breathless, fingers dancing across the keys, and then the carousing ends with a sharp, descending run. The second theme returns, more mature and brilliant. He fills out the contours of the piece with his hands, before he plays the opening theme one last time, aged, longing, and maybe a little bit despairing. The anguish descends into the coda, and he plays like a madman, extinguishing each chord quickly as he moves into the next. He dives into a lengthy downward run without hesitation, and by the time he resurfaces with the G melodic minor scale, he’s trembling with the anticipation for relief.
There’s a brief respite, and then a thunderous, double octave descent in the same melodic minor. The last octave hangs in the air, sharp and sudden. The piece ends in a final, resounding chord.
Lan Wangji doesn’t hold many memories of his parents. The ones he does have, he treasures like old, fragile photographs carefully pressed between the heavy pages of a vintage photo album. His mother is bent over the piano, letting her body sink into the piece. His father sits by his side, an arm holding him so he doesn’t topple over, and listens, enraptured.
The applause is deafening. Lan Wangji slides himself off the chair a moment too late and bows.
He returns to the corridor and drops onto the same bench, hands placed palms up on his lap. He stares at his fingers and tries to remember the warmth of gold. He tries, and tries, but it’s gone, like an extinguished match.
Lan Wangji places first.
He numbly accepts the trophy and check from the dean of the university. There’s a shout for a picture, and he looks out into the audience before he’s blinded by the flash of the camera.
Lan Wangji ends up hiding in an alcove in the lobby again, making a conscious effort to avoid the crowd this time. As he exited the concert hall, he’d heard excited whispers and exclamations alike about his playing, but he’s weary and doesn’t make any eye contact as reporters and professors try to get his attention. Instead, he shuffles past them, trying to be as inconspicuous as he can whilst carrying the unnecessarily large trophy.
He enjoys his solitude for less than a minute before someone suddenly grabs his hand.
Wei Wuxian tugs his hand close to his face, making a dramatic show of inspecting his fingers carefully.
Lan Wangji swallows his surprise and tries to pull away, mildly horrified, but Wei Wuxian just gives him a mischievous grin and holds his hand tighter.
“Wow, Lan Zhan, how does it feel to have the most valuable pair of hands in this entire concert hall?”
Lan Wangji does not dignify his question with a response and continues politely prying his hand from Wei Wuxian’s grasp.
“Wei Wuxian, don’t break his fingers. Lan Wangji’s hands are probably worth more than your life at this point,” Jiang Cheng says, as he and his sister make their way over to the two of them.
Jiang Yanli, who had performed as well and placed fourth with Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 8, “Pathetique,” laughs and says, “He’s not wrong, Ah-Xian.”
Wei Wuxian chuckles and finally drops his hand, stepping back out of Lan Wangji’s personal space.
Lan Wangji will never admit it, but his fingers suddenly feel a little cold. He tucks them in his pockets.
“Congratulations,” Wei Wuxian says, eyes landing on the trophy sitting by Lan Wangji’s feet. “You deserve it.”
“You really do,” Jiang Yanli agrees warmly.
Even Jiang Cheng gives him a nod. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” Lan Wangji looks down and shuffles his feet a little, feeling their collective gaze on him. He feels like they’re expecting him to say something more.
He lifts his head and meets Wei Wuxian’s eyes. He looks relaxed, like he’s used to stilted conversations with Lan Wangji and is giving him a chance to break the silence.
Lan Wangji blurts out, “I like Rampal.”
Confusion makes its way onto Wei Wuxian’s face. “What?”
“The Partita,” Lan Wangji clarifies. When Wei Wuxian still looks lost, he adds, “You said you liked Pahud. I listened to it. But I like Rampal more. He’s fuller. Wiser. Suits Bach.” Rampal sounds like a deep emerald green, like the towering evergeens in the northwest region, lining winding mountain roads.
Wei Wuxian continues to stare.
Lan Wangji panics.
He realizes with a start that their conversation was months ago, and Wei Wuxian probably forgot and has no idea what he’s talking about, and wow Lan Wangji is really taking on the eccentric artist persona early in his life. He can feel the Jiang siblings stare at him and his reddening ears. He’s about to open his mouth to say, “Okay, bye,” and bolt, when Wei Wuxian suddenly laughs.
“You remembered!” He exclaims, patting Lan Wangji on the shoulder. He keeps his arm rested there as he says, “Yeah, Rampal’s great, but have you heard Pahud’s Lensky’s aria?”
Lan Wangji has. He’s listened to nearly every Pahud recording on YouTube.
“Legendary! His flute sounds just as good as the human voice, but he makes you feel the pain even without the lyrics.” Wei Wuxian throws a playful glance at Jiang Cheng who rolls his eyes and doesn’t take the bait. “If I could play like him one day, I would gladly sell my soul to the devil.”
Lan Wangji thinks of the Musical America article and says, “Haven’t you already?”
Wei Wuxian blinks, and then barks out a laugh. “Lan Zhan! Did you make a joke?”
Lan Wangji looks bashfully at his shoes again, as Jiang Yanli hides her smile behind a hand.
“Well, by the time the new articles come out about this competition, they’re going to be saying you either struck a deal with the devil or with God.” Wei Wuxian looks Lan Wangji up and down. “Ugh, they’re probably going to say your hands have been kissed by the angels or something. Whereas I’m the one who’s buddy-buddy with Satan.”
Wei Wuxian huffs a breath.
“Well, whatever, I guess it’s fitting. Your Chopin was…” Wei Wuxian drifts off and fixes his eyes on Lan Wangji’s face, like he can find his next words written in his expression. “Lonely,” he says finally. “Like the change of the seasons, but winter is ten months long, instead of three.” Wei Wuxian softens his words with a smile. “But in a good way, you know. In a way that really captivates the audience.”
He looks at Lan Wangji for a moment longer, like he’s still trying to find something. Something in Lan Wangji’s chest drops when he realizes he has to disappoint Wei Wuxian. He has nothing to give and nothing to divulge.
“Wei Wuxian, dad brought the car around front,” Jiang Cheng interrupts. The moment ends, and Wei Wuxian tears his eyes away from Lan Wangji’s.
“Well then, Lan Zhan. It was good to see you again, and an honor to hear you play,” Wei Wuxian says, stepping away.
Lan Wangji resists the urge to follow him, defying the magnetic pull that draws him forwards.
“Ah-Xian,” Jiang Yanli says suddenly, nudging her brother who’s already turning around to leave.
“Oh!” Wei Wuxian whirls back around and reaches into his pocket. He pushes a post-it note into Lan Wangji’s hand.
[email protected] is scrawled at the center.
“My e-mail,” Wei Wuxian explains, when Lan Wangji spends a moment too long staring at it.
Lan Wangji nods. “Wait.”
Wei Wuxian and the Jiang siblings watch curiously as Lan Wangji opens his music book. There’s a strangled gasp from Jiang Cheng as Lan Wangji tears out the last page, even though it has nothing on it aside from the publishing company’s information. He unclips the pen from his breast pocket and writes down his own e-mail address.
“Here.”
Wei Wuxian takes the paper, looking a little alarmed, but smiles as he folds it and tucks it into his pocket.
“See you around! Also, you look good in blue!”
Lan Qiren and Lan Xichen find Lan Wangji staring, again, at the entrance of the hall, the double doors still slung wide open. The afternoon sunshine is fading into a burnt orange, and the university students have long abandoned their post, heavy stacks of bricks taking their place.
Lan Xichen goes to pick up Lan Wangji’s trophy and notices the paper clutched in his brother’s hand.
“That’s not the check, is it?” Lan Xichen jokes.
Lan Wangji shakes his head and fishes the check out of his pocket. He hands the envelope to his uncle, and then the post-it note to Lan Xichen.
Lan Xichen reads it, amused, as they walk towards the parking lot.
“Wei Wuxian?”
Lan Wangji nods. His brother breaks out into a wide grin and shifts the trophy to his other arm. He reaches out to ruffle Lan Wangji’s hair. Lan Wangji only lets him do it because he loves his older brother.
“You made a friend, Wangji!” Lan Xichen sounds delighted, and Lan Wangji ducks his head.
“Is Wei Wuxian the boy who placed third at the YunMeng competition?” Lan Qiren asks.
Lan Xichen responds for Lan Wangji. “Uncle, you remember him?”
Lan Qiren gives a harrumph. “He broke every rule in the book, but there’s no denying he’s got a great future ahead of him.” Lan Qiren looks at his younger nephew, and his face softens. “Just like Wangji.”
Lan Wangji smiles.
They go home. The trophy joins the others on the layered, Ikea shelf Lan Xichen had built when Lan Wangji began middle school, and they couldn’t fit his accolades on top of the bookcase anymore.
They eat dinner. They sleep. Lan Wangji wakes up and practices piano. He goes to school. His brother picks him up at the end of the day, and they buy groceries for dinner.
Lan Wangji played the Premiere Ballade, and it was icy blue. He can no longer remember the golden warmth, like sunshine, of his mother’s Chopin. The hole in his chest gapes a little wider, but he fills it with his brother’s honeyed voice and his uncle’s gruff affection. The world does not end.
A week later, he receives a letter in the mail from Cloud Recesses Conservatory. The same week, Rhinegold UK and Musical America spread the news about his acceptance to the Cloud Recesses’s pre-college program.
Lan Xichen buys both issues and reads him the articles over dinner, much to Lan Wangji’s mortification. He does, however, give a grudging smile when he hears that the writer at Musical America described his playing as “blessed by God himself.”
That night, he receives an instant message from an unknown user.
Unknown: congratulations, lan er-gege.
01lanzhan23: who is this
Unknown: wow u havent added me yet
Unknown: i can’t believe u
Unknown: guess
01lanzhan23: wei ying?
Unknown: ding ding ding!
Unknown: lan zhan
Unknown: lan zhan accept my friend request
Unknown: lan zhan i know ur there
Unknown: lan zhan
Unknown: lan zhan
Unknown: ill keep going dont think I wont
demoncultivator1031 has been added as a new contact.
demoncultivator1031: “The thirteen-year-old’s Chopin’s Premiere Ballade proved that he is large and contains multitudes, and that his playing can only be described as being blessed by God himself.”
demoncultivator1031: HAH i TOLD you
demoncultivator1031: u contain MULTItUDES
demoncultivator1031: wat does that evn mean
01lanzhan23: if your just going to quite the article at me, i’m going to find the one about you
01lanzhan23: you’re*
demoncultivator1031: aw ur so mean to me lan er-gege
demoncultivator1031: it must mean we’re friends
demoncultivator1031: wait la zhan come back
demoncultivator1031: lanzan
demoncultivator1031: lan zhan
demoncultivator1031: ARE WE FRIENDS
01lanzhan23: yes
demoncultivator1031: :)))))))))))