Chapter Text
Wei Wuxian watches from the wings as the curtain rises, Tchaikovsky’s score swelling. He’s not due onstage for another eight minutes, but even now, halfway through their run at City Center, he can never resist watching Lan Wangji perform.
Lan Wangji stands behind the scrim, waiting for his cue, invisible in the dark. He’s motionless in the way of a predator before a pounce, a volcano before eruption—barefoot, bare-chested, animalistic, magnetic.
Wei Wuxian watches as Lan Wangji raises his arms to either side, wing-like, and a truth—the simplest of axioms, the most fundamental of truths, barely a sentence in complexity—slides home in his chest.
“Oh,” he breathes. “Oh.”
-------
At their standing brunch date each month Wei Wuxian is on land, amidst the ambient noise of young New Yorkers participating in one of the most stereotypical activities of their demographic, Nie Huaisang wipes his mouth with a napkin and shoots a calculating look at Wei Wuxian. “You know what show I’m stage managing this season?”
Wei Wuxian leans back in his chair, tilting it onto its back legs in the two inches of space between him and the exposed brick wall. He considers re-filling his glass from their pitcher of bottomless mimosas. “I get the feeling you’re about to tell me.”
“I’ll give you a hint,” Nie Huaisang says. “Sophomore year. Culture Square Theatre.”
The legs of Wei Wuxian’s chair drop back to the floor, though the noise is lost in the chatter. “No.”
“Yes,” Nie Huaisang says.
“They’re doing a revival?”
“Yep,” Nie Huaisang says smugly, popping the ‘p.’ “You should audition.”
“Hah,” Wei Wuxian says, voice loaded with exactly how not-amused he is at the thought. He knows his worth as a dancer—he’s three years out of Juilliard at this point, and has spent more of that time at sea than on land. Not that there’s anything wrong with performing on cruise ships, per se, but the industry kind of has a weird complex about it.
Wei Wuxian gets it: time spent slaving away for the Mouse isn’t exactly time spent starring in the next artistic juggernaut sweeping through off-Broadway and Broadway theaters, but it’s hard to argue with the paychecks that Disney cuts. “How much of it has been cast?” he asks.
“I think you’d make a great Prince,” Nie Huaisang says, which isn’t exactly the answer to Wei Wuxian’s question. “Auditions are in two weeks, so plenty of time after you finish up your current gig at the Gym.”
Wei Wuxian frowns. “I’m supposed to be flying to Miami by then.”
“Got someone to murder in international waters?”
“Hah,” Wei Wuxian says again, this time with an eyebrow raise to encourage Nie Huaisang to try harder. He can read between the lines of what Nie Huaisang isn’t saying. “So you’ve already got a Swan.”
Nie Huaisang offers him that blank, press-junket smile that Wei Wuxian watched him perfect in high school, and it doesn’t fool him for a second. “It’s all very hush-hush right now, you understand.”
Wei Wuxian rolls his eyes. “Of course, of course, Nie-xiong, nothing you say leaves this—” he flaps a hand at the ambient levels of chatter around them. “—caricature of being young and in your twenties in New York.” He knows that minimalist industrial chic is all the rage downtown, but he really has no patience for the fact that it can make perfectly respectable coffeeshops as difficult to hold a conversation in as a bar after midnight.
“Watch it,” Nie Huaisang says, mock-affronted. “This is my da-ge’s café you’re calling basic. Where do you think all this free food is coming from?”
“From the fact that freelance stage managing pays much more than freelance modern dance. C’mon, Nie-xiong, spill – who’s your Swan?”
Nie Huaisang’s lips quirk before he speaks, which is how Wei Wuxian knows this is going to be good. Like, “I-swindled-tickets-to-Hamilton-from-an-ex” good. Or, “I-spiked-all-the-punch-bowls-at-prom-and-framed-Wen-Chao-for-it'' good. “Lan Wangji.”
-------
What most people remembered about Matthew Bourne’s Swan Lake was the all-male swan corps. Reviewers salivated over them in all their white-powdered, bare-chested glory. Articles gushed over their feral muscularity, their menacing animalistic aura. The word ‘homoerotic’ was tossed around almost as much as the word ‘masculine.’ The show was known, in general parlance, as ‘the gay Swan Lake .’
But Matthew Bourne’s Swan Lake was more than a genderbent version of the classic ballet—it updated the story and shifted its genre, moving it from the realm of the fantastic to the psychological. Gone were fanciful aspects of sorcery and shapeshifting; Matthew Bourne delved into the psyche of the Prince, and found there social satire, existential anguish, and vicious horror.
The Prince of this Swan Lake danced with his demons as much as he did with the swans.
------
Although Wei Wuxian considers himself a modern dancer through and through, he knows who Lan Wangji is. He doesn’t live under a rock.
Which is why he’s so surprised to hear that Lan Wangji—as traditionally trained as ballet dancers come, who was performing with regional ballet companies before he’d even applied to college—has not only been cast in the role of the Swan, but apparently sought it out himself.
Wei Wuxian is aware of Lan Wangji, in the way that most people are aware of the moon—as a presence luminous, beautiful, and unreachable. Occasionally, he’ll pause and admire it as it appears between the highrises of the Upper West Side, a pale, impersonal eye gazing dispassionately over the steady tide of little people hustling for the semblance of a dream or the reality of a paycheck beneath the glare of sodium-vapor streetlights and the carnivorous roar of the subways.
And Lan Wangji might as well be the moon, because the man is nothing like Wei Wuxian himself, who only stumbled sideways into the world of professional dance on accident—Wei Wuxian had always been something of an athlete, sure, pounding miles into the faded red-and-white of his high school’s track, but he hadn’t given dance a second thought until his sophomore year, when he and Nie Huaisang had gone to see a touring production of Matthew Bourne’s Swan Lake. They had been giggling boys, tagging along behind their guardians, cheerfully resigned to another evening of cultural education.
The next day, Wei Wuxian had ditched track practice to take the bus into Gubei in search of dance lessons.
------
One of the first things Wei Wuxian’s new co-star said to him was “this show isn’t a gay love story.”
The previous things Lan Wangji had said were “good morning” and various iterations of “mn.” He’d also said his own name during introductions, but that barely counted as speaking—as if there were anyone, anyone in the room who wasn’t keenly aware of exactly who Lan Wangji is.
The artistic director had decided that the major cast members ought to get together before rehearsals began and talk through their reception of the show and interpretations of major characters. It was a good way to get to know the people who they’d be trapped with for hours upon hours of rehearsal for the next few months. None of them were foolish enough to think that a single discussion would get everyone onto the same page for all aspects of the show, but it was a nice thought. Wei Wuxian doesn’t think he’s been in a single show without last-minute overhauls and changes to the artistic vision.
He reminds himself that the purpose of this meeting is to make new acquaintances while simultaneously making nice, which is why he doesn’t immediately tear Lan Wangji’s head off for saying something so manifestly ludicrous. “And the fact that we’re about to spend three months learning some very intense pas de deux with each other indicates that this show is… what kind of story, exactly?” he drawls, staring down his co-star.
“To call this show ‘the gay Swan Lake’ is a misreading of it at best, and an insult to its complexity at worst,” Lan Wangji says stiffly. Their fellow cast members are watching the exchange occur like a table tennis match, eyes darting between the two of them.
He can hear a long sigh from the end of the table, where Nie Huaisang sits, and Wei Wuxian is immediately brought back to in-class debates in high school. He knows how to deal with assholes who think that they’re better than everyone else in the room; it’s just unfortunate that this asshole also happens to have absurdly chiseled shoulders, an unnervingly piercing gaze, and what has to be the most unbelievable bone structure known to mankind.
Seriously. Wei Wuxian knows that dancers are, by nature of their profession, some of the most exquisite creatures in existence, but Lan Wangji and his general… existence were taking it a bit farther than necessary.
Wei Wuxian paints a predatory smile on his face worthy of the Stranger, interlaces his fingers, and leans forward. It was unfortunate that the famous and talented Lan Wangji seemed, like so many other celebrities, to be a bit of an asshole, but Wei Wuxian had spent his entire life dealing with assholes. He was in show business, after all.
------
It’s not that Wei Wuxian is a bad dancer—on the contrary, he’s been in the industry for three years and has been doing just fine for himself. In his first year out of school, he had picked up a part-time shift in one of the thousand identical hipster New York City cafes just to help pay the bills, but eventually he’d let that go—he was out of the city for months at a time, and cruise ship gigs paid well enough that he didn’t have to scrimp and save every penny to pay for his room in a three-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment up in Inwood that he ended up subletting for most of the year, anyway.
The point is, Wei Wuxian knows his worth as a dancer—he’s never going to become one of those big powerhouse stars, the kind that gets invited to guest in movies or cameo on TV shows, who perform before Jennifer Lopez or Nigel Lythgoe or Ellen DeGeneres on broadcast television, and he’s more than fine with that. He makes friends with the staff at Judson and tries to get involved with as many Movement Research shows as he can. Occasionally, he’ll audition for some of the off-Broadway musicals just for a change of pace, but he’s coming to accept the niche he’s carved out for himself in the New York dance scene.
Which is why Nie Huaisang’s casual suggestion that he audition for one of the main roles of the revival of Matthew Bourne’s Swan Lake is so patently ludicrous. The show was the contemporary ballet hit of the decade when it first premiered in London in 1995, and honestly, Wei Wuxian is inclined to say that nothing has matched it in the twenty-odd years since.
And that all was before Wei Wuxian even got into what the show meant to him . Sometimes, it was easier to hold what you loved at arms-length, because it would hurt too much to have it in your grasp and watch it slip away, knowing that your best efforts weren’t good enough. Wei Wuxian knows too well the bitter taste of loss, the way it sours easily into self-hatred. He doesn’t need to go there again.
Nie Huaisang texts him on and off for the two weeks following their brunch—complaining about logistical snafus, the occasional surreptitiously-snapped photo of pencil graffiti backstage at City Center, and always gentle, insistent reminders about the audition date.
What have you got to lose? Nie Huaisang texts him, late Saturday evening.
Wei Wuxian is at home for once, slouching on his bed, feet tucked into his blankets and pillow cushioning his back. He’s gazing out the window, just...looking. He’d turned off all the lights in his room so he can just breathe for a few minutes, and if those minutes have become hours, then, well, it’s his time to fritter away however he likes.
What does he have to lose? Only the tenderest of wishes and wants he’s had cradled in his heart for almost ten years now. Only the most fragile of his dreams, so absurd and childish that he never lets them out into the light of day, for fear that they’ll dissolve like the mist over the Hudson, shrivel up in the unrelenting scorn of judgment.
His phone lights up, again seconds later. Nie Huaisang must be extremely unimpressed with the selection of aspiring assistants at the Gossip Bar tonight. Don’t let audition mentality get you down!!!! the text reads.
Every working artist in New York understands that rejection is part of the process—that there are thousands of dancers, actors, musicians, performers hustling in this city that chewed on hope and belched out frustration. That casting directors often looked for someone specific that didn’t happen to be shaped like you. That rejection is rarely personal, even if it always feels like it is. During the frenzied application cycle of senior spring, Wei Wuxian had picked up the defiant habit of papering his walls with rejection emails, turning them into a point of pride even as each fresh disappointment took a sledgehammer to his heart. But he’d stuck it out, followed up with enough casting directors and cozied up to enough choreographers to land a gig—a small, off-off Broadway musical, which led to an unexpected friendship with the producer, and from there onto larger and more lucrative contracts until he had blinked and it was three years later, and he was—making it, he’d realized with a numb, disbelieving kind of surprise.
how long will it take you to decide? he texts back, finally. I’d hate to flake on a contract just to be rejected.
callbacks on Wednesday, final results on Thursday!!!! Nie Huaisang shoots back almost immediately.
Wei Wuxian feels lightheaded. are you sure about that? because I’ve got a plane ticket for Friday.
I’ll guarantee it, just for you, Nie Huaisang says, then follows up with two emojis. 😤💪
Well then. Wei Wuxian flips his phone face-down and looks back out the window again. There are stars, just barely visible from the window of his fifth-floor walk-up.
Well then.
------
The first act:
The Girlfriend, in a ridiculous blonde wig, tosses her wallet by his feet, and he offers it back to her, the picture of genteel courtesy.
He stares, transfixed, at a nude male statue as it’s wheeled away.
He and the Girlfriend steal a dance in a deserted ballroom, the music dreamy and Disney-esque. Her long legs flash out and fan around as he lifts her, and he lets his surprise show on his face as she lunges in for a kiss. It’s quite possibly the only time the Prince experiences joy in the entirety of the first forty minutes of the show.
He tilts his head back, drinking from the bottle of vodka as if it can drown him as well as his sorrows.
He begs the Queen, his mother, for some gentleness and affection, and the ensuing duet occurs in half-light, mostly-shadow as they flicker between the possibilities of are they-aren’t they, will he-won’t he .
He gets swept up in a bar fight and thrown unceremoniously out the door, cameras flashing.
-------
But when Lan Wangji dances—he is breathtaking. All doubts Wei Wuxian had about a dancer with only the most classical of credits to his name taking on the role of the Swan vanishes into thin air when he first sees Lan Wangji move.
The two of them haven’t rehearsed together yet; they were spending the first few weeks learning separate choreographies. Though the scenes with the Swan and the Prince dancing together were the most famous parts of the show—probably for the titillating homoeroticism of it all—Wei Wuxian as the Prince would spend the entire first act parading about onstage, dispatching his royal duties, while Lan Wangji lounged somewhere backstage. Thankfully, much of it was fairly sedate—the ensemble labored before him as courtiers and commonfolk, Elvis impersonators and parodic ballet dancers—and all he had to do for the most part was smile and wave until he had a Hamlet-esque breakdown before the Queen, at which point everything began going to hell.
Meanwhile, Lan Wangji rehearses with his swans. Wei Wuxian sometimes watches their rehearsals from the doorway of the studio, before he comes to himself and dashes down the hallway to make it to his own, barely on time.
Lan Wangji in motion, as the Swan—the crook of his arms in decidedly un-balletic lines, the soaring, weightless quality of his leaps, the effortlessness of his turns, the quirk of a leg bent back in attitude , the fluid grace of his movements rippling down his elbows and wrists and fingers somehow evoking both the fluttering of wings and the elegant curve of a swan’s neck. The smooth flex and play of his muscles beneath his plain black shirts, which became soaked in sweat before rehearsal was through and clung to his muscled frame. The dark fire in his eyes as he commanded his swans, challenged any foolish human that dared get in his way.
It was possible, Wei Wuxian admits to himself, that they’d cast exactly the right dancer as the Swan.
------
Wei Wuxian auditions, amidst a crowd of other aspiring hopefuls in track pants and legwarmers. He feels the urge to evaluate and compare and envy and compete bubble up behind his gaze, instinctive and defensive. He quashes the urge and puts that energy instead to elongating his lines and executing his turns with ruthless precision. He hands in his resume, leaving the headshot face-down, and doesn’t try to remember what star-studded and glitzy shows he’s seen the other auditionees in.
He gets called back, and ignores the fact that there is now an extra face in the room, watching them, evaluating them with cool, dispassionate eyes from his seat in the corner.
He gets the part.
He cancels his flight.
------
The artistic director puts an end to their argument about the rampant homoeroticism of the choreography, because seriously, how did Lan Wangji not get it—
“It’s obvious that the two of you have thought deeply about the relationship between the Swan and the Prince,” the artistic director says, a gentle but firm intervention, “but it’s also important to consider all the other character journeys that are happening outside of the vortex of your… relationship.”
Wei Wuxian raises an eyebrow in challenge at Lan Wangji, who refuses to meet his eyes, gazing pointedly at the artistic director as if to tell Wei Wuxian to pay attention .
“There is the matter of the Queen,” the artistic director continues, nodding at the dancer who will play Wei Wuxian’s elegant but estranged mother, “and her relationship to the Prince. And the Girlfriend, and her relationship to the Private Secretary.”
The man cast as the Private Secretary just grunts. “Just call him Rothbart, it’s less of a mouthful.”
The artistic director offers a slight smile at that. “The point is, this is a show with many dimensions that a—” they glance at their phone. “—forty-five minute discussion cannot hope to cover with any sense of comprehensiveness. I hope that you will all take this level of diligence and conversation forward into rehearsals, beginning next week.”
Nie Huaisang takes over the meeting, then, laying out the broad sketches of the rehearsal schedule with a practiced air, and Wei Wuxian spends the next half hour putting dates and studio locations into his phone, blocking out the tech period in glaring red. As everyone gathers their bags to file out the door, Wei Wuxian darts around the table to tap Lan Wangji on the shoulder.
Lan Wangji turns around, and oh, he’s a few inches taller than Wei Wuxian standing, isn’t he? Wei Wuxian resolutely puts that fact to the back of his mind and stomps easily on the part of his brain that is making some embarrassing sounds about how unfairly attractive Lan Wangji is.
“Hey,” Wei Wuxian begins, because this isn’t the first time he’s gotten in a bit of a scrape with other cast members or designers, and he knows that relationships can get rocky if he doesn’t clear the air immediately. “I’m sorry if I came off combative just now. I don’t usually try to make my first impressions like this.”
Lan Wangji looks at him with those beautiful, unreadable eyes, but Wei Wuxian stands his ground. He’s mouthed off to directors who could kick him out of shows before, he’s not going to quail in front of his co-star just because Lan Wangji is the darling of the ballet world and could probably guest with the City Ballet for a season instead of working on this show. “I took no offense,” Lan Wangji says. “You care about the show a lot.”
Wei Wuxian snorts. This show single-handedly put him on his current career path; had he not seen that touring production of Matthew Bourne’s Swan Lake in high school, he might’ve been a more productive member of society right now, like a computer programmer or a doctor or something sensible like that. “You could say that. This show means a lot to me.”
Lan Wangji nods. “It means a lot to me too,” he says, and Wei Wuxian files that answer away for later perusal.
“Trade numbers?” Wei Wuxian offers in the same tone of voice that he’d say truce? He holds his phone out to Lan Wangji, cursor blinking.
Lan Wangji takes it and taps a number in, sending a text to himself. As he passes Wei Wuxian’s phone back to him, their fingers brush, and Wei Wuxian feels a thrill race up his spine despite his resolution to stay cool. They were going to be touching each other a lot more than this in the near future.
“Hey, Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji,” Nie Huaisang says from the door. “We should clear the room—there’s another reservation after us.”
“Coming, coming,” Wei Wuxian says, turning away from Lan Wangji. “Ah, New York, am I right?” he tosses back over his shoulder to Lan Wangji.
“Mn.” Lan Wangji is still looking at his phone screen for some reason, but when Wei Wuxian speaks to him, he seems to snap out of it, and follows them out the door.
------
Wei Wuxian: hi!!! It was good to meet you today!!
I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said at the meeting
do you mind if we continue the discussion?
feel free to say no ofc, I definitely get it if you want to keep some parts of your life separate from work haha
Lan Wangji: It is fine. I am happy to discuss more.
Wei Wuxian: great, great
so if you don’t think the relationship between the swan and the prince is love, what do you think it is?
you have to admit that there are a LOT of longing glances thrown across the stage
Lan Wangji: I wouldn’t describe it as longing.
Yearning, perhaps.
And before you say it, not that kind of yearning.
A yearning to become.
Wei Wuxian: hmmm, I see
the classic conundrum of ‘do I want you or do I want to BE you’
Lan Wangji: Precisely.
Wei Wuxian: okay, cool
I can work with that
------
During their first dress rehearsal, Wei Wuxian watches Lan Wangji’s initial appearance as the Swan. He glides across the stage with his arms bent behind his back, crossed at the wrists, eyes closed, swaying gently.
The moment is haunting, though Wei Wuxian can’t quite place why he feels so strongly about the fact that Lan Wangji has his eyes closed, almost meditative in his tranquility.
why? Wei Wuxian texts him about it that night, the two of them on their separate subway lines, speeding northwards and homeward. He thinks of the sharp glitter of Adam Cooper’s eyes in that moment in 1995, the unwavering focus of Richard Winsor in the 2012 production.
He gets Lan Wangji’s response in the few moments the A train pauses at 145th Street. Because the Swan, too, is asleep before he meets the Prince, the text reads.
------
Since they barely see each other during their first month or so of rehearsal, Wei Wuxian takes to texting his thoughts to Lan Wangji whenever they come to mind. To his pleasant surprise, Lan Wangji responds to his half-formed ideas and questions with a degree of gravitas and thoughtfulness that can only come from a great deal of consideration and analysis. Wei Wuxian is dying to know Lan Wangji’s full interpretation of the show, but restrains himself by laying down some ground rules for himself. For example, he’s only allowed to text Lan Wangji on the subway rides to and from rehearsals, when it makes sense for him to be thinking about the day’s work, rather than obsessing about it at all hours of the day.
Tonight, he ignores the ‘DO NOT LEAN’ sticker on the glass of the subway door and presses his shoulder against it as the train jostles its way out of Columbus Circle. Sticking his tongue out of the corner of his mouth, he thinks for a moment, then thumbs open his text thread with Lan Wangji and types.
Wei Wuxian: I was watching the third act in the 1996 version again
and it occurred to me
what do you think the Prince is thinking during the first part of the Stranger’s entrance?
when the Stranger’s dancing his way through the princesses
because I was watching Scott Ambler and he seems to be more afraid than jealous
but Dominic North plays it a little more jealous, I think
Wei Wuxian tucks his phone away for the rest of the ride to 125th Street, the entirety of Central Park whizzing by aboveground. He amuses himself by trying to guess at the professions of other people in the subway car. Shoes, he’s discovered, often say much more about a person’s work than the relative formality of their shirts and blouses.
He gets a response from Lan Wangji when the A train resurfaces at 125th Street.
Lan Wangji: Well, I’ve always seen it as fear.
Part of it is the fact that the Stranger is the realization of the Swan, which to this point has been the Prince’s most private and joyous fantasy.
Wei Wuxian: fantasy you say 😏
The subway pulls out of the station again, but Lan Wangji’s texts are waiting for him at 145th Street.
Lan Wangji: You know what I mean.
During the beginning of the ball, the Prince refuses to dance with any of the princesses despite repeated entreaties.
And the Stranger dances with all of them.
Wei Wuxian: oh. OH.
Wei Wuxian lurches a bit as the train car kicks back into motion, but he doesn’t even look up, thumbs are flying over the screen.
Wei Wuxian: so what you’re saying is…
the Stranger isn’t just threatening in a vaguely predatory, sexual manner
the Stranger is being the PRINCE better than the PRINCE HIMSELF IS BEING THE PRINCE
At 168th Street, he gets his confirmation.
Lan Wangji: In a manner of speaking, yes.
Wei Wuxian: how do you have so much insight into MY character
I’m not complaining I’m just trying to learn your ways
------
In their iconic act two pas de deux, the Prince is transfixed by the Swan as he follows along in the sequence of leaps and footwork. He is a young man, enchanted by the easy rhythms of swan-being, the way touch can be casually given, received, rejected, rejoined.
And then Lan Wangji scoops his arm around Wei Wuxian’s neck; and then Wei Wuxian wraps his arms around Lan Wangji’s shoulder and tucks his knees against his back; and then the two of them are unified, in unison.
You can want to be someone at the same time you want someone, the orchestra murmurs to the movements of their duet.
-------
Nie Huaisang shows him an updated draft of the rehearsal schedule at their next brunch. Wei Wuxian skims through the cast breakdowns, murmuring a quiet thanks under his breath that he never has to deal with the sheer number of spreadsheets that seem to be involved with stage management before he notices that he and Lan Wangji don’t rehearse together for a full month.
“Of course not,” Nie Huaisang says. “You know, you spend most of the show not dancing with him.”
“Yeah, but an entire month?” Wei Wuxian pouts. “I’m going to forget what he looks like by then!”
“Be glad you’re not rehearsing with the swan corps,” Nie Huaisang says darkly. “They have to go through swan camp.”
“Swan what-now?” Wei Wuxian says, delighted.
“Swan camp,” Nie Huaisang says again. “They do all sorts of stuff like movement research in addition to learning the swan choreography. They even watch swan videos to get an idea of the movement style.”
Wei Wuxian laughs. Not at the video-watching—that’s actually a really good idea, to get a foundational movement style for the dancers into place—but at the idea of Lan Wangji, sitting studiously before a projector, watching swans flap about onscreen and taking diligent notes. He bet Lan Wangji took the most exquisite notes. “I do swan choreography too,” he protests, though he knows that it wouldn’t make sense for him to go through swan camp.
“You,” Nie Huaisang says, fixing him with a look, “are, at best, a human attempting to imitate a swan in this show. No, the artistic director says to keep you in all your clumsy human glory. You are to stay away from the swans.”
Wei Wuxian feigns mock-offense. “Nie Huaisang! I thought you cast me for my innate grace and beauty!”
Nie Huaisang snorts. “Wei-xiong, please, I cast you so I could have someone to bitch about Lan Wangji with together.”
Wei Wuxian blinks. “But you haven’t bitched about Lan Wangji at all,” he points out. “Have I been missing your text rants?”
“Well...” Nie Huaisang shifts in his seat, and throws a wary glance over his shoulder. “He’s actually...not terrible to work with?”
Wei Wuxian frowns, glancing around the cafe for what might have Nie Huaisang on edge. Everything looks normal, to his eyes—perhaps a little quieter than last time, since they’ve met on a weekday this time, but Nie Mingjue’s cafe is as austere and industrial as it’s always been. Although… are there new potted plants, this time around?
“Like, Xichen-ge told me that he’d be fine to work with, but I couldn’t tell if that was just brotherly fondness, you know?” Nie Huaisang says, and several things begin to slot together in Wei Wuxian’s mind, a syzygy slowly moving towards celestial alignment.
“You know Lan Wangji’s brother…?” Wei Wuxian says slowly.
Nie Huaisang gives him a strange look. “Yeah, haven’t you met Xichen-ge before? He and da-ge have been going steady for like, a year now.”
Wei Wuxian vaguely remembers Nie Mingjue’s boyfriend—a tall, willowy man with kind eyes and a warm smile. Long, musician’s fingers that made sense because he was a violinist with the Philharmonic. Xichen-ge , who must be Lan Xichen, who must be—
Wei Wuxian thumps his forehead into the table. “You’re telling me,” he says to the wood, “that I’ve only been four degrees of separation from Lan Wangji this entire time?”
Nie Huaisang pats him consolingly on the shoulder. “To be fair, you’ve been out at sea for a lot of it,” he says.
------
Right after their first promenade—Lan Wangji in attitude derrière, pivoting on his right foot as Wei Wuxian circles him—Wei Wuxian tucks himself into the spaces left by Lan Wangji’s body, his left hand resting just above Lan Wangji’s left knee, right palm pressed against Lan Wangji’s bare waist. They stare into each other’s eyes, and Wei Wuxian is momentarily chilled to see absolutely no recognition there.
Slowly, ever so slowly, Lan Wangji unfurls his left arm, laying it across Wei Wuxian’s shoulder.
This is a turning point in their story—a permission asked, a permission granted before they separate, moving into mirrored unison for the first time in the entire show. The choreography is playful, joyous—each movement flows from one to another, like creek water running over a series of staggered stones.
What was love, in dance? What did it mean to perform intimacy, when the vocabulary of classical ballet had the danseur’s hands all over the ballerina’s body, when physical contact meant nothing and eye contact everything?
It didn’t matter that there were eight other dancers on stage, leaping and spinning around the two of them. Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji moved in perfect synchronicity, a thrilling, wordless kind of knowledge of where they were going, where they would be. The thrum of satisfaction and excitement when Lan Wangji’s body meets his. Wei Wuxian leaning sideways to take just a little of Lan Wangji’s weight. The little glimpses he catches of Lan Wangji, out of the corner of his eye.
The glances he could steal in character as the Prince, entranced with his Swan.
------
Wei Wuxian rounds a corner backstage and nearly trips over one of the cygnets—Lan Sizhui, if he’s not mistaken beneath the thick make-up.
Lan Sizhui immediately shoots to his feet, notebook and pencil clattering to the floor. “I’m so sorry, I thought I’d—”
“Goodness me,” Wei Wuxian says, laying a hand over his chest. “You swans really just come out of the woodwork, don’t you?”
Lan Sizhui hastily gathers his notebook and pencil from the ground—a good thing, too, Wei Wuxian has been tripped by loose pencils before. Nasty things. “The…bedwork, actually?”
Wei Wuxian squints at him. “I’m sorry?”
“Act four,” Lan Sizhui offers. “The bed? The swans emerge from beneath the Prince’s bed?”
Wei Wuxian drops his forehead into one palm for rhetorical effect, careful to not actually smudge his own make-up. “I’m sorry,” he informs Lan Sizhui, “that I heard you correctly. That was terrible. Does terrible punnery just run in the Lan family?”
Lan Sizhui’s lips twitch. “I’m actually adopted,” he says.
Wei Wuxian is about to roll his eyes and throw back a retort when his eyes fall on the notebook in Lan Sizhui’s hands again. “Hang on, what’s that?”
“Oh! Um,” Lan Sizhui clutches the notebook tighter to his chest. “Homework…?”
Wei Wuxian blinks. “Homewor—wait a minute, just how old are you?”
“Twenty-one?” Lan Sizhui says, as if he’s unsure of his own age. “I’m in my last year of college, I’m taking the semester off to do this show—”
Wei Wuxian collapses dramatically against the wall. “You are a baby,” he says in response to Lan Sizhui’s frantic queries. “An actual baby. They cast you as a cygnet because you are a cygnet! A baby swan!”
“Well, I’m actually not the youngest in the production,” Lan Sizhui says. “Ouyang Zizhen is, he’s only—”
Wei Wuxian shoots out a hand, smothering Lan Sizhui’s words. “I don’t want to hear it. You’re all too young, and this is too much for my fragile sensibilities.”
------
Wei Wuxian takes to sitting in Lan Wangji’s studio whenever his rehearsals let out earlier, just to watch the swans dance.
And if he’s being honest with himself, there’s a small amount of envy present, as well—Wei Wuxian loves the swan choreography, all muscular grace and martial lines, wild and untamable and animalistic in its unrestrained ferocity. There was little in the world that could compare to staring down an audience with the brilliant, fang-sharp knowledge of your own anonymity and magnetism. If you’d asked him a year ago—or heck, just a month ago—Wei Wuxian would have died happy just to be able to dance in the swan corps.
But perhaps it was for the better that he wasn't one of the swans, Wei Wuxian muses as he listens to the heavy thump of footfalls in the next studio over, practicing the royal flourishes with the dancer who would play the Queen. Bourne's choreography incorporated an ungodly number of pas de chats and assemblés, simulating the weightlessness of swans in flight, that would have undoubtedly been hell on his shins. Though the swans didn't emerge onstage until act two of the show, their bare chests and backs were always glistening with sweat by the time they were ten minutes into the choreography.
------
Wei Wuxian: what do you think is happening in our first pas de deux?
Lan Wangji: …dancing?
What do you mean?
Wei Wuxian: I mean
are you real at that point?
are you a figment of my imagination?
is this when the Prince begins to project all of his deepest wishes on the Swan?
we have this very intense duet and I’m trying to figure out who we are to each other at that point
Lan Wangji: I think it’s very important that the Swan is the first to reach out to the Prince.
Wei Wuxian: exactly!!! I was just thinking that
and the Swan seems to be… playing with the Prince?
not in the way the Stranger plays with him in act three but
the music is playful, and the Swan teases him
Lan Wangji: … I suppose I do.
Wei Wuxian: oh you absolutely do
Lan Wangji: You’re quite eager to partner me as well.
As the Prince, I mean.
Wei Wuxian: I mean, naturally
the Prince’s whole deal is that he doesn’t have an appropriate partner
not the Queen, not the Girlfriend
so whenever I reach out for you in the more traditional partnering sense, I feel like it’s the Prince offering his support in the only way he knows how
which just happens to be more traditionally balletic male-female partnering
and the Swan lifts him instead
Lan Wangji: The lifting goes both ways.
Wei Wuxian: the Prince really doesn’t have any close friendships does he
Lan Wangji: Not really. That is, as you just said
“the Prince’s whole deal”
Wei Wuxian: I think it’s notable that the music gets a lot slower and sweeter here
Lan Wangji: Of course.
Wei Wuxian: ? do tell
Lan Wangji: The Swan is teaching the Prince how to be a swan.
It’s the first time in the whole show that the Prince actually gets to do what he wants
and have someone there not only to guide him, but to support him and be supported by him through the whole process.
Right before the last lift
the Prince falls but then the Swan catches him.
Do you think the Prince has had anyone to catch him before?
Wei Wuxian: … oh shit
well, when you put it that way
------
He dives into his first solo dance sequence of the show in a seedy alley outside the Swank Bar, expressing the hard angles of his confinement and the desire for the expansiveness of freedom as he sweeps his arms through the air, throws himself into triple pirouettes like they’re nothing. He wraps his arms around himself, seeking affection, and sure, the choreography could be a bit dramatic, but this show was as much theater as it was dance. The dives, the jetés en tournant, the développés that tucked into elegant passés, all foreshadowed the swan choreography that would soon appear.
He watches a flock of swans soar across the sky, and his ears catch the light sound of bare feet behind him going on demi-pointe, then darting away into the shadows.
-------
Nie Huaisang: hey so rehearsal’s been moved today
burst pipe in the basement, and they’re shutting down the entire building to get it fixed
and the only time the rehearsal manager could book last minute was 6PM to midnight
at least this studio’s only three blocks away from the theater
Wei Wuxian: honestly it’s been a miracle we’ve made it this far without the city throwing a hissy fit
6 to midnight’s gonna be rough
Nie Huaisang: yeah that’s why I wanted to give you a heads up
bring your most powerful snacks
Wei Wuxian: do you want me to pass it on?
Nie Huaisang: nah I’m about to send out a company-wide email
I was doing SO WELL as a benevolent tyrant before this
Wei Wuxian: may your rule go down in the annals of history
well-intentioned if not well-ended
….that sounded better in my head
I’m wittier when I’m less tired I swear
Nie Huaisang: omg take a nap Wei Wuxian
Wei Wuxian: that’s the plan 👍
------
Wei Wuxian: rehearsal’s been moved to 6 to midnight today, just a heads up
omg I promise I’m not trying to prank you
I heard this from Nie Huaisang and you’ll get his email soon
just thought it’d be nice to let you know before the bad news hits your inbox
Lan Wangji: Thank you.
I just received the email.
Wei Wuxian: be kind to me tonight okay Lan er-gege?
I’m going to be so tired oh my god
Lan Wangji: Take a nap, Wei Ying
Wei Wuxian: I will I will
what is it with you and Nie Huaisang anyway
------
“Wei Ying.”
It’s raining. Wei Wuxian is watching curls of water vapor twist and spiral into the air over the lights, embedded in the smooth stone tiles outside the Columbus Circle subway station. The lights are dim in the great glass façade where luxury stores usually glitter and glitz during the day; even the Whole Foods in the basement is quiet for once.
The city itself is quiet for once, except the rain, and the slick of car tires over asphalt.
“Wei Ying.”
“Look at the mist coming off the lights, Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian says, still crouching by the lamps. They’re protected from the elements and pedestrians by a sheet of glass and a frame of steel, screwed tightly down. “When I was walking over, I thought they were burning.”
“Mn.” He can hear Lan Wangji slow to a stop just behind him. “It’s late.”
Wei Wuxian sighs, stands, stretches. His entire body groans in protest. “I know. The next A train isn’t for another twenty minutes, and it’s going to take over an hour for me to get home anyway, so I might as well appreciate the little things, you know?”
Lan Wangji, in that white Harrington jacket, positively glows in the ambient streetlight. The rain is beading in his dark hair, and as Wei Wuxian glances at him, a droplet slides loose, falls on his lower lip.
It’s saying something about how tired Wei Wuxian is that he doesn’t even have the energy to find that sexy—just beautiful and distant, like everything else about Lan Wangji.
“Do you want…” Wei Wuxian might have been drifting off just a bit, but he snaps awake again when he hears Lan Wangji hesitate. He can count the number of times Lan Wangji has hesitated in the past few months of rehearsal on one hand. “Do you want to stay with me tonight?”
Wei Wuxian blinks, and Lan Wangji obligingly explains further.
“I have been staying in my brother’s apartment, which is only three stops uptown on the one. He is away tonight, so there is an empty room. If you would rather go home, I understand, I just—” if Wei Wuxian had a little more brain juice to spare, he would be trying to read the hell out of Lan Wangji’s body language, because something is going on there, “—thought I would offer.”
It takes just about the rest of Wei Wuxian’s limited processing capacity to comprehend the parameters of Lan Wangji’s offer, and frankly, it’s very appealing. “That would actually be wonderful,” he says, and there’s an unparalleled opportunity to tease his co-star right now if only Wei Wuxian were awake enough to be flirty. Right now, his attraction to the concept of a bed that’s closer than two hours away is superseding any other attraction he might be feeling at the prospect of staying with Lan Wangji for the night. “You sure your brother’s okay with this?”
“I would not have offered if I was unsure,” Lan Wangji says.
“All right then,” Wei Wuxian says. “Take me home, Lan Zhan.”
------
“D’you know why we cast you?” the artistic director says to him absentmindedly as they both stamp their feet and huff into their gloves, waiting for someone to come unlock the stage door around the side of the building.
“For my roguish charm and dashing good looks?” Wei Wuxian says, resisting the urge to pull out his phone and check for new texts. New York winters were cold enough that exposing his phone to the elements would do little except drain his battery, and he’s not sure if he remembered to stuff his charger in his bag before tumbling out the door this morning.
“For your theatrical background,” the artistic director says. “The Prince’s character is what makes this show a piece of dance theater, not just an evening-length show.” They turn to gaze at Wei Wuxian, gaze steady and piercing. “Even if the Swan is all everyone ever talks about, the Prince is the emotional anchor of this show, and you were the only one in auditions who showed that he could carry that responsibility, and carry it well.”
Wei Wuxian’s breath catches in his throat. “You’ve been talking to Nie Huaisang, haven’t you,” he says, voice kept steady by some miracle.
The artistic director gives him a small smile, and shrugs. “He’s a good stage manager,” they say, before raising a fist and pounding on the stage door again. “What’s taking them so long to come down and unlock this door, anyway?”
-------
On his day off this week—he takes a moment to mentally thank Nie Huaisang for imposing Equity rules on this production—Wei Wuxian texts his uncle.
Wei Wuxian: can I come over with 5 lbs of flour and use your kitchen?
The response is almost immediate, and Wei Wuxian takes a moment to wonder at Xiao Xingchen’s sleep schedule, since he responds to every single one of Wei Wuxian’s texts within thirty seconds, no matter the hour.
Xiao Xingchen: always
Despite the fact that Xiao Xingchen is his own age, he’s technically Wei Wuxian’s uncle by an accident of adoption. Their mutual grandmother—also by adoption—continues to be eccentric and generous with her mysterious fortune, which makes it possible for the two of them to pursue some less-lucrative careers while still paying rent in Manhattan.
A text lights up Wei Wuxian’s screen again: don’t you have your own kitchen?
yeah, Wei Wuxian texts back, but yours is better .
well, we do have too much sugar, comes the musing reply.
A few seconds later, the explanation: Song Lan went to the Costco on the Upper East Side.
I’ll grab chocolate chips and butter on my way down, Wei Wuxian texts.
a chocolate chip cookie kind of day? Xiao Xingchen responds.
leave anything you need to get rid of on the counter and we’ll see what gets caught in the vortex, Wei Wuxian replies, then sets his phone aside and throws the covers off his bed.
This happens pretty much at least once per show—Wei Wuxian would wake up one morning on the single day off he had that week, and instead of doing something reasonable like staying at home and lounging about like a dissolute Victorian nobleman and (more importantly) resting his feet, he’d take the subway down to Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan’s place in Greenwich Village and bake for the entire day.
The first time, Xiao Xingchen had opened the door with a knowing smile and said, “stress baker, huh?” before letting Wei Wuxian brush by with a backpack stuffed full of baking materials.
“Takes one to know one,” Wei Wuxian called back over his shoulder because Xiao Xingchen turned his stress relief into a career, and since then, it’s become something of a tech week (well, month, really) tradition.
Wei Wuxian stops by the Trader Joe’s on 96th on his way down—thankfully, he’s early enough that it’s still pretty empty—and then he’s zooming back downtown on the express 2. On another day, he might’ve had headphones in his ears or a book in his hands, but his head is too full of Tchaikovsky’s scores and rehearsing the choreography from the past week to really concentrate on anything else.
When Xiao Xingchen lets him in, he takes a look at Wei Wuxian and says, “oh wow.”
“Oh wow what?” Wei Wuxian slings his backpack sideways into the kitchen as Song Lan pads into view, mug in hand. He waves at Song Lan, who toasts him with his mug before settling at the counter that separates the kitchen from the rest of the living space.
“This show is doing a number on you, huh,” Xiao Xingchen says, vanishing into the kitchen to clean up the last of the breakfast dishes. “A good number, I mean.”
Wei Wuxian pauses to think about it, but then crashing cymbals of the second waltz interrupt his thoughts. “Sure,” he says, and thankfully Xiao Xingchen seems to pick up on the implicit let’s not unpack this right now. “Anything in the kitchen that I shouldn’t touch?”
Song Lan waves airily from the kitchen counter. “Go wild.”
“Do not melt my silpats!” Xiao Xingchen yells from the sink.
“Nothing above four hundred degrees, I promise,” Wei Wuxian calls back. He looks at Song Lan. “Can you even melt a silpat?”
Song Lan just shrugs. “Don’t ask me, I just live here.”
------
Wei Wuxian finds himself alone in the apartment when Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan excuse themselves to go off and do whatever disgustingly wholesome couple things they do on the weekends. As a result, he has no one to bother while he waits for the third batch of chocolate chip cookies to finish up, a tray of scones waiting on the counter.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, navigating to his text thread with Lan Wangji in motions that seem more-or-less conditioned by now. He considers for a moment, then types:
Wei Wuxian: what does the Swan want?
He sets his phone on the counter before turning away to get started on cleaning up. He hums a few slow bars before realizing that he’s singing through the slow unravelling of tragedy from the beginning of act four, which, nope.
His phone vibrates on the counter, and Wei Wuxian startles. He hastily wipes his hands dry on a dishcloth before flicking on the oven light and peering in.
Wei Wuxian blinks a few times in confusion—the cookies aren’t remotely close to done, and Wei Wuxian straightens up, thumbing open his phone to find that the notification hadn’t been his timer, but a new text from Lan Wangji.
Lan Wangji: What do you mean?
Wei Wuxian leans against the counter and texts back. He hadn’t expected Lan Wangji to respond—it was, after all, their only day off this week—but he’s gotten very good over the years at pressing the advantage whenever he gets his foot in a door.
Wei Wuxian: we’ve talked about the Prince, and the million things he wants
what does the Swan want?
Lan Wangji: Nothing.
The Swan is a figment of the Prince’s imagination.
Wei Wuxian raises an eyebrow at that.
Wei Wuxian: no.
c’mon, Lan Zhan, that’s how all the worst stories end
you know how in elementary school the teachers make you write stories
and some smartass thinks he’s so cool by ending his story with
‘and then they woke up and it was all a dream!’
THAT’S what saying ‘the Swan is a figment of the Prince’s imagination’ feels like
Lan Wangji: …a cop-out?
Wei Wuxian: yes!!!! exactly like a cop-out
This time, when his phone goes off, it really is his timer. He puts his phone somewhere safe, and pulls the cookies out of the oven.
While he waits for the oven to preheat to scone-appropriate temperatures, he picks up his phone again.
Lan Wangji’s text is waiting for him.
Lan Wangji: What about the Stranger?
Wei Wuxian blinks.
Wei Wuxian: what about him?
he dances with literally everyone at the party scene in act 3
you’re not seriously suggesting that he might also be a hallucination
Lan Wangji: Not entirely. But you have to admit that parts of act three are heavily suggested to occur solely in the Prince’s mental landscape
Wei Wuxian: yeah, the lighting in the 2012 version is pretty hard to argue with there
Lan Wangji: Revised proposal, then: the Swan/Stranger figure moves through various states of existence, and there are moments when he genuinely is just a swan, or a stranger, just as there are moments when he ceases to exist for his own purpose, and functions as a vehicle for the desires and fears of the Prince
Wei Wuxian taps his phone thoughtfully against his chin—this discussion is skirting around the edges of their oldest argument, because as long as the dual Swan/Stranger figure remains primarily an agent of metaphor in the show, Lan Wangji can argue that the intimate relationship the two of them portray isn’t necessarily a gay romance, even if it looks a lot like one. Over the past few weeks, Lan Wangji has managed to sway Wei Wuxian with his methodically-constructed arguments and that Kent Drummond piece, which really was very good and wholly supported Lan Wangji’s points.
Wei Wuxian isn’t quite ready to give up, though.
Wei Wuxian: I can get behind that
I raise you: the Swan/Stranger figure also moves freely through the forms of human and animal, such that there are moments where the Swan is a man, and the Stranger is a swan
If Wei Wuxian has to give up partial realism of the Swan, then he is damn well reclaiming ground against the bestiality argument.
Lan Wangji: You are back on your gay love story agenda.
Wei Wuxian: jokes on you, I’m always on my gay love story agenda
but in all seriousness
The oven beeps, and Wei Wuxian puts in the tray of scones and sets a hasty timer before he continues texting.
Wei Wuxian: you can’t deny that the slippage between person and swan is a thematic component of this work
heck, the entirety of the Prince’s choreography in act 2 is DRIVEN by his desire to become a swan
shapeshifting and transformation are fundamental to this story
I mean, just look at the original Swan Lake
Lan Wangji doesn’t reply for a few minutes, and Wei Wuxian spends some time poking around on the recipes he has saved on his phone before settling on sugar cookies. Xiao Xingchen has a collection of cookie molds that would be embarrassing if it were possible to embarrass Xiao Xingchen, who has some of the thickest skin Wei Wuxian has ever seen. Which is saying something coming from Wei Wuxian.
He has the dough mixed and rolled out and is approximately ten seconds from deploying the cookie cutters when he realizes that Lan Wangji still hasn’t texted back.
Wei Wuxian: Lan Zhan???
The response comes swiftly this time.
Lan Wangji: Sorry, I was getting off the subway.
I am home now.
Wei Wuxian: oh good I thought you might’ve been eaten by the subway rats
Lan Wangji: They are big but they have not yet grown to the point where they can drag off a fully-grown man.
Perhaps a child, though.
Wei Wuxian: Lan ZHAN
do people know you can be this funny
Lan Wangji: I have carefully cultivated the most boring public persona possible.
Wei Wuxian: I can see that!!!! you even had me fooled!!!!
why?
Lan Wangji: I hoped it would make people less interested in me.
Wei Wuxian: ??? why would you do that
I mean becoming an Instagram influencer is like, everyone’s side hustle nowadays
I can’t imagine more press being a bad thing
wait do you even have an Instagram?
Lan Wangji: It might be gauche to say so, but I’ve always had a problem with too much publicity rather than too little.
And no.
To the Instagram.
Wei Wuxian: Lan Zhan!!! you have to get one!!! and fill it with photos of your bunnies!!!
you could become a pet influencer!
Lan Wangji: I have no interest in becoming a pet influencer
Wei Wuxian: nothing for it. I will have to make one for you
you can pay me to manage the account for you
Lan Wangji: Ridiculous.
Wei Wuxian: Mn.
The timer for the scones goes off, and Wei Wuxian has to stop texting to get them out of the oven before they burn.
------
Wei Wuxian shows up at the theater next day with two tote bags of tupperware in addition to his rehearsal bag. Nie Huaisang is already seated at the tech table when Wei Wuxian swings by, and lights up like a goddamn inky when he sees what Wei Wuxian has in his hands.
“I lied, last time,” Nie Huaisang says with glee. “This is why I cast you in this show.”
Wei Wuxian rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, leave some cookies for the rest of the designers, okay?”
Nie Huaisang cracks open the tupperware. “The designers don’t deserve cookies for what they’re trying to do to the rehearsal schedule,” he says. “This is a revival of a pre-existing show. I don’t understand why the lighting designer is being so fussy about the cues if they’ve literally been the same cues for the past twenty-five years!”
Wei Wuxian pats him consolingly on the shoulder. “There, there.”
He drops off some tupperware in the dressing rooms; most of the dancers haven’t arrived yet, but the ones who have crowd around and coo at the baked goods, and Wei Wuxian reels off a list of ingredients and allergens before slipping out of the room and into the next one.
He leaves a gift-bag of cookies by the door of each shop with a little note of thanks before hiking up to the spot booth. There, he hands a cookie to each of the bleary-eyed spot operators, who look moderately alarmed to see someone who was usually only a miniature figure suddenly appear, life-sized, in their space. He touches a finger to his lips, promises not to tell anyone that they’ve been snacking in the booth, and vanishes back downstairs.
He saves his own dressing room for last, because he knows that Lan Wangji will already be there. Usually, as the two leads, they would each get their own dressing room, but they’d talked with the harried production manager and agreed to share a dressing room to make more space for the rest of the corps and the roadboxes of costumes. Sharing space didn’t bother Wei Wuxian—hell, most of the perks that came with being one of the leads of a show were still novel to him—and thankfully, Lan Wangji didn’t seem to mind too much either.
Lan Wangji is, in fact, already seated before one of the dressing room mirrors, dabbing something from a bottle on his face. Wei Wuxian pauses in the doorway. “I didn’t think we needed make-up for cue-to-cue today,” he says.
“We don’t,” Lan Wangji says. “Pre-show skincare regimen.”
Wei Wuxian drops his stuff off to the side, then drags a chair over to watch. “Does it really work?” he asks.
There’s a wry tilt to Lan Wangji’s mouth. “I’ve never not used it,” he says, and Wei Wuxian winces in sympathy. Performers could be a superstitious lot.
“I heard you’ve been delivering gifts all over the theater,” Lan Wangji says, screwing the cap back onto the bottle and flicking the cotton swab onto a small pile of things-to-be-disposed-of.
“Mhm,” Wei Wuxian affirms. “You know me, delivering joy and cheer, wherever I go.” He holds out the bag of cookies he made specifically for Lan Wangji. “Which is why these are for you.”
Lan Wangji catches his eyes in the mirror as he takes the bag, and Wei Wuxian gets a perfect view of his face as he sees the shape of the cookies, the way his lips part, just so, in surprise.
“I was baking cookies, and was starting to go wild with the cookie molds, and just knew that I had to make some bunny-shaped ones for you,” Wei Wuxian says in a rush, suddenly feeling the need to explain. “But then after they came out of the oven, I realized that you might not like that? Because then it becomes this symbolic eating-of bunnies, and I know you’d never eat your bunnies, but then the cookies were already made and so—” Wei Wuxian shrugs. “Anyway, I just give the cookies out, it’s up to other people to eat them, so you can do whatever you’d like with these! Eat them, don’t eat them, it’s up to you—I promise I won’t be hurt. Well, I might be a little hurt, but—”
“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says, cutting through Wei Wuxian’s rambling. “Thank you.”
“Oh.” All of Wei Wuxian’s words have suddenly dried up. “Um. I’m glad?”
“You’re welcome,” Lan Wangji says, with the tiniest smile at the corner of his mouth, and Wei Wuxian definitely does not think about what that smile is doing to his heart right now. “Those are the words you’re looking for.”
------
From the moment the Swan appears, the Prince cannot take his eyes off of him, enraptured by his fierce command, the savage joy the Swan takes in the muscular stretch of his wings.
Wei Wuxian is not supposed to take his eyes off of Lan Wangji for the entire sequence except to spot his turns. He finds it no difficulty.
“You’re showing off here,” Wei Wuxian says in indignant disbelief from the opposite corner of the rehearsal studio, digging his thumbs into the arch of his own foot and marvelling at how sore his feet could be. They seemed hellbent on impressing him every day.
Lan Wangji doesn’t pause in his steps, the quick flick of his leg turning into a renverse. “So what if I am?” he says.
“You’re such a cocky swan, you know that?” Wei Wuxian says. “Seriously. The way you lead the Prince on through the entirety of act two—”
“I believe the technical term is cob,” Lan Wangji says without pausing in his movements, mirroring a pas de cheval with his hands.
Wei Wuxian groans and levers himself to his feet. “A what now?”
His choreography here is to chase the Swan around the stage, and while he could probably get away with resting while Lan Wangji worked through this sequence, there were a few moments where he had to duck away from one of Lan Wangji’s kicks that he’d rather have comfortable in both their bodies before the show.
Lan Wangji pauses in the middle of a relevé on his right foot, coming down to passive neutral. “A male swan,” he says, “is called a cob.”
Wei Wuxian blinks, rewinds the last few sentences, and when he catches the pun, he gasps. “Lan Zhan!” he yells in protest. “That was terrible!”
------
Wei Wuxian watches from the audience as they block the dance-off in act three, feet propped on the row of seats in front of him, steadily chugging his way through his water bottle. The dancers are discussing the logistics for climbing onto the table for the stomp-clapping sequence with the artistic director and the props manager, and a great deal of demonstration seems to be involved.
“Gosh, I wish I got to climb on a table,” he says to Nie Huaisang next to him, who’s scribbling something down furiously while on headset.
“Wei Wuxian, this is one of the longest breaks you ever get from being onstage,” Nie Huaisang says. “Do you want to die?”
That’s true for the second half of the show, at least—the Prince gets laughed out of the ballroom, after which he gets about four minutes to catch his breath before storming back in with the gun that will end the act. “I suppose,” he says, drawling the last syllable. “But it would be fun, you have to admit.”
Nie Huaisang fixes him with an unimpressed glare. “Don’t you dare. I don’t consider finding a new table to replace the one you broke to be ‘fun.’”
“Aw, Nie-xiong, that was one time—”
------
During cue-to-cue, Wei Wuxian bumps against Lan Wangji’s shoulder while the dance captain fiddles with the spacing of the Spanish Princess’s dance. “The women in this show truly get the best costumes, don’t they?” he says.
Lan Wangji blinks at him—this blink had just the slightest hint of eyebrow-raise to it, a yeah, so what? kind of blink. “Their costumes do tend to be more intricate,” he allows.
“And they look much cooler,” Wei Wuxian sighs. “I think the friskiest my clothes get is a dress uniform.”
Lan Wangji gives him another glance—this one means you’re telling me? “You are complaining to a swan.”
“Hey now, wait a minute,” Wei Wuxian says. It’s true, the swan costume of fluffy, feather-pants and nothing else looked both heavy and cumbersome, but Lan Wangji was also playing the Stranger. Which was to say, he was the resident sex symbol of the show. “You literally do the entirety of act three in leather pants.”
Lan Wangji lets out a tiny exhale that would be a gusty sigh on anyone else. “And I suffer for it,” he says, completely deadpan, before pushing off the wall to go stand obediently where the lighting designer wanted him to be.
------
Wei Wuxian: so we’ve come up with multiple different readings of this show, but I don’t understand – why are you so dead set against an interpretation of the Swan and the Prince as gay lovers?
I understand that it might not be supported by the narrative for, well, bestiality reasons, but I feel like the affective impression of the show is just as valid of an experience as a text-based reading of it
well
“text-based”
you know what I mean
but idk about you, I look at the flock tearing apart the Swan in act four and I see the way a family can turn on its own for coming out of the closet
I look at the Prince staring at the nude statue in act one and I see someone getting hit over the head with the realization that he’s gay
I look at the, god, the entire sequence with the Stranger and the Prince and I see an unflinching look at the toxic effects of predatory masculinity
can you honestly look me in the eyes and tell me that you do not see this narrative
Lan Wangji: I see it.
Wei Wuxian: then why are you so against this reading of the show??? This show took a sledgehammer to the way the dance community was tip-toeing around queer themes in their performances and inspired a literal generation of male dancers
hell, I’m one of them
Lan Wangji: I’m not against this reading of the show.
I just don’t like it when people call it a gay love story.
It’s not.
Wei Wuxian: why??? I mean, it ends tragically, but it’s incredibly gay, and I think the Swan and the Prince love each other, for whatever value of love we want to work with here
Lan Wangji: Precisely because it ends tragically.
I’m sick and tired of gay love stories ending in tragedy.
Wei Wuxian: oh, Lan Zhan
yes, it ends in tragedy
yes, bury your gays is a problem in cinema and stage and media
but that doesn’t mean that we can’t love the incredible beauty and tenderness and love we see these two go through on the way
Lan Wangji: That’s all ballet is.
Beauty.
Love.
Tragedy.
If I’m dancing a gay love story, I don’t want it to be doomed.
Wei Wuxian: have you made it home yet?
Lan Wangji: I’m a stop away, why?
Wei Wuxian: I’m transferring platforms at 125th and coming back downtown
I’ll be there in twenty
Lan Wangji: Why?
Wei Wuxian: because I’m gonna give you a hug, that’s why
Lan Wangji: Wei Ying, no.
The gesture is appreciated but that will add an additional hour to your commute.
Call is at 10AM tomorrow, we’re barely getting in under the ten-hour turnaround as it is.
Wei Ying.
Wei Wuxian: sorry, signal is super patchy—you know how it is on the C
maybe you don’t, since you always take the red line
outside your door
------
The first thing Wei Wuxian says when Lan Wangji opens the door is, “Lan Zhan, are you the Prince?”
Lan Wangji is a sight; a few tufts of hair stick out stubbornly, still a little sweat-damp from rehearsal. He’s changed into a pair of loose gray sweatpants, a concession to comfort that Wei Wuxian doesn’t think he’s ever seen from Lan Wangji. He must be as exhausted as Wei Wuxian feels.
“No,” Lan Wangji says, but Wei Wuxian notices that he doesn’t crinkle his eyebrows the way he does when he’s genuinely confused, nor does he have the little twist at the corner of his mouth that means he’s teasing Wei Wuxian with a terrible pun. “You are.”
Wei Wuxian steps over the threshold of the door, and Lan Wangji moves aside to let him—even now, they are still dancing their pas de deux, in perfect sync. “You know what I mean.”
A line of tension appears along Lan Wangji’s shoulders. “Perhaps,” he says, finally, like he’s been backed into a corner and the confession forced out of his mouth.
Wei Wuxian shuts the door carefully, putting his bag down just behind him. Lan Wangji is still looking at him warily, like he’s waiting for his next cue. They’ve spent so many hours rehearsing together, learning to read each other’s movements, that Wei Wuxian knows that if he moves forward, Lan Wangji will move back.
So instead, he opens his mouth. “Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian says. “If you’re okay with it, I’m gonna give you a hug now.”
Lan Wangji isn’t touch-shy, by any means; he’s not overly handsy, nor is he timid about physical contact. No, he’s been nothing but professional in their rehearsals. But this is different—this is just the two of them, Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji, Wei Ying and Lan Zhan, without the artifice of a show, without the demands of work. The Prince and his Swan loom over their shoulders, just out of view, but Wei Wuxian ignores them.
Lan Wangji nods, a short, sharp little thing, and Wei Wuxian closes the distance between them to wrap his arms around Lan Wangji’s shoulders.
It’s almost like the tuck-cradle lift that signifies the relationship of total trust and caring between the Prince and the Swan, except Wei Wuxian doesn’t pick his feet up off the ground and trust Lan Wangji to hold his entire bodyweight. Instead, Wei Wuxian gives Lan Wangji a squeeze, and that seems to cue something; Lan Wangji relaxes, tension bleeding out from his shoulders, and he brings his own arms around Wei Wuxian’s back.
Wei Wuxian tucks his face into Lan Wangji’s neck and breathes. There’s the musk of dried sweat from the day’s rehearsal, and a pleasant, woodsy smell laid over it, but the gesture is less for Wei Wuxian and more permission for Lan Wangji to bury his face in Wei Wuxian’s neck as well, though Wei Wuxian doesn’t think he smells nearly as nice.
They stand there, and breathe together for a few moments—deep, slow breaths, feeling the expand and contract of each other's rib cages, the steady beating of hearts pressed against each other. Lan Wangji’s breath goes shuddery on two exhales, but Wei Wuxian just squeezes him tighter until his breathing evens out.
When they finally separate, Wei Wuxian still has a hand on Lan Wangji’s shoulder, and Lan Wangji’s right hand has fallen from Wei Wuxian’s back to his waist. “Good?” Wei Wuxian asks softly.
Lan Wangji nods, eyes not meeting his.
Wei Wuxian pats him on the shoulder, then leads Lan Wangji to his own couch and makes him sit. “You wanna talk about it?”
Lan Wangji tucks his feet up on the couch, wrapping his arms around his knees. “Not really.”
“Okay,” Wei Wuxian says easily. “Do you want me to go?”
There’s a pause, then: “…not really.”
Another pause: “Xiongzhang won’t be home tonight.”
Wei Wuxian recognizes that as the invitation that it is. “How much do you think the rest of the cast will hate me if I show up in tonight’s rehearsal clothes?” he says, voice light. “I don’t think I’ll have the time to make it to Inwood and back before call tomorrow.”
“You can borrow my clothes.”
Wei Wuxian gives Lan Wangji a look, which is wasted on him because Lan Wangji isn’t looking at him, just staring moodily at the carpet beneath the coffee table. “If I show up to rehearsal tomorrow in your clothes, you know what everyone’s going to think.”
It wouldn’t be scandalous—a certain number of cast hook-ups was normal, even expected for a production their size—but it definitely wouldn’t go unnoticed.
“Would that bother you?” Lan Wangji asks quietly.
“Would that bother you?” Wei Wuxian counters, perhaps a little too fast, and Lan Wangji closes his eyes, as if in pain, as if that question landed somewhere too close to something raw.
Wei Wuxian doesn’t know what hurts Lan Wangji carries, what events Lan Wangji has lived through to make him understand the Prince on such an intimate, clear-eyed level, but Lan Wangji dances both the Swan and the Stranger like a man who knows pain, and betrayal, and hurt, and grief.
“Did you have a Swan?” Wei Wuxian asks into the silence.
A few moments pass before Lan Wangji opens his eyes, and lets out a long breath, the line of his shoulders relaxing. “More of a Stranger.”
“I’m sorry,” Wei Wuxian says, and means it.
“Please don’t psychoanalyze me,” Lan Wangji says.
“Not in the plan,” Wei Wuxian says. “Do you want another hug?”
Lan Wangji considers it. “Mn,” he says, and Wei Wuxian immediately plops down on the couch next to him and cozies up to his side.
They sit like that for a while, and Wei Wuxian takes the time to shuffle around some logistics in his head. He’s probably fine with not going home tonight—everything he needs for rehearsal is in his bag, anyway, though he’d gotten sweaty enough during the day that he’d burned through his extra shirt already. He could ask Lan Wangji for some detergent and hand-wash his clothes in the sink tonight, though he’s not sure if they’ll dry in time…
Wei Wuxian is in danger of nodding off right there and then against Lan Wangji’s shoulder when he suddenly remembers.
“It wouldn’t bother me,” Wei Wuxian says.
“What?”
“Showing up to rehearsal in your clothes tomorrow. Though I can probably get away with washing mine tonight, if you let me borrow a t-shirt or something to sleep in.”
Lan Wangji seems to think on this. “Mn,” he says, then uncurls his legs from where they’d been tucked in close to his chest.
Wei Wuxian reluctantly drags himself upright again as Lan Wangji unfolds himself and begins to go about getting things ready for Wei Wuxian to stay the night. He looks much better, Wei Wuxian notes with a sleepy satisfaction, and proceeds to roll off the couch with a thump.
When Lan Wangji glances back, alarmed, Wei Wuxian just windmills his limbs dreamily above his body. “I’m so tired, Lan er-gege ,” he whines. “You’ll have to carry me to bed.”
“I’ll do no such thing,” Lan Wangji says. “I carry you all day.”
Wei Wuxian sits up, mock-indignant. “Slander! Calumny! I carry you too!”
Lan Wangji slants him an amused look. “Not nearly as much,” he says, before vanishing into the hallway. Wei Wuxian can hear him rummaging about in the linen closet—of course the Lan brothers had a linen closet—and takes the moment to compose himself.
When Lan Wangji emerges with a stack of neatly-folded clothes, towels, and sheets, Wei Wuxian waves him off. “Go wash up first, I gotta—” he gestures vaguely at his bag.
Lan Wangji nods, sets his armload down on the couch, and vanishes into the bathroom. Wei Wuxian shakes his head.
Oh, Lan Wangji, he thinks. What am I supposed to do with you?
------
Wei Wuxian was always smiling during act two, because it was his favorite part of the show—all joy and freedom, unrestrained movement and emotional release. It had both the peculiar satisfaction of slow, muscular choreography and the heady rush of well-executed petit allegro sequences.
And it had Lan Wangji.
Is he smiling harder than usual, tonight? He can’t tell, not when his heart is so full it feels like there’s no room for his lungs to breathe. More than a few times, he has to close his eyes in the wings and remind himself to inhale, exhale, that there is still a show he needs to finish, even if he feels like he wants to stop the world in its rotation and yell his epiphany from the rooftops of Manhattan.
And Lan Wangji is there. Lan Wangji is there with him, every step of the way.
When they dart into the wings, narrowly missing the dancers headed the other way, Lan Wangji glances at him, concerned, as Wei Wuxian doubles over, hands on his knees. Thirty years on this mortal plane, Wei Wuxian marvels, and now he’s forgetting how to breathe.
I’m fine, Wei Wuxian mouths at Lan Wangji, giving him a thumbs up, and Lan Wangji’s eyebrows does that combination of raising and furrowing that say okay and I don’t quite believe you and I trust you, all without words.
At the end of the second act, Wei Wuxian hurdles the park bench and goes flying into the wings, skidding a little on his soft boots as he whizzes by past the metal frame of the dance towers. Lan Wangji is waiting, just beyond, and catches him by his shoulders, slowing down his reckless charge.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian says. “Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan.”
The side of Lan Wangji’s mouth quirks a little. “I’m here,” he says. “What is it?”
Wei Wuxian opens his mouth to say I love you and maybe I think I’ve been in love with you for a while, but backstage is a riot of noise and movement, and one of the assistant stage managers is walking over to usher them out and away towards the dressing rooms. They are, Wei Wuxian recalls distantly, in the middle of a show.
“I figured something out,” he says, a little breathless. “I’ll tell you after the show. Make sure I don’t forget?”
And Lan Wangji looks at him, with that look, the kind that brims with an unspoken affection, and oh, how long has Lan Wangji been looking at him like this, all patience and forbearance and fondness and contentment?
Wei Wuxian is so dense. He is the densest person in the world. How could he have missed this, now that this truth is singing its way through the very marrow of his bones?
He grabs one of Lan Wangji’s hands and begins dragging him towards the dressing room, and marvels at the way Lan Wangji follows him, willing, unquestioning. That might have been a mistake, Wei Wuxian thinks, because now that he has Lan Wangji’s hand he never wants to let go of it ever again, but he will, because they’re in the middle of a show, and they’re both professionals, and let it not be said that they don’t both make sacrifices for their art.
“Mn,” Lan Wangji says. “I will.”