Work Text:
Xingqiu loved performing.
The pale ebony of keys underneath his fingertips, the roar of the crowd’s applause, the feel of heat on his back as lights glared onto him, bright and stark, exposing him to the world-- all small, beautiful rushes of adrenaline that coursed through his veins, once more heightening him into a performance, the joy and rush of a stage.
He loved it.
He loved watching the faces of his audience, loved seeing the beginning of joy and serenity cloud their eyes, loved the breathtaking silence that dawned upon them as he began to compose, note after note falling from his keys in a pattern that he had woven with the intent to impress, the success of music that he had produced with his very heart and soul.
Even the ones who looked away, even the ones who scoffed and sneered and called him expected and overrated-- he loved them too.
And there, hidden between the blank faces of old, pretentious men and bored children who would rather be doing anything but spectating a performance as regular as his, was one of wonder. A splash of fair blue hair, the gleam of crystal eyes, he was a familiar face, a constant at his shows, someone he had come to search for in the crowd.
A never-ending presence, a guarantee, someone that was always there for him. Perhaps it was pathetic that his dependency was lain upon a stranger, someone unsuspecting, unknowing of his rational attachment, however much it grew, however akin it became to family.
His family, people who, he sometimes felt, should’ve supported his dream, had all but left him to fend for himself, their presence in his shows a rare occurrence if a possibility. He had stopped seeking out the face of his brother, his father, even his kind-hearted mother; it was easier, after all, to focus on his music rather than tempt the possibility of disappointment.
He supposed, ultimately, that was why the presence of a stranger, however strange he was, seemed to comfort him-- that someone, despite having no connection to him, enjoyed his perusal of music so much that they sought to see every performance, that they were willing to do what even his family would not.
He would watch the awe set into his face, the childlike trance that overcame the man when notes echoed around the auditorium, watch laughter and delight paint bold strokes upon his cheeks and lips no matter how repetitive it was, no matter how many times he had heard the same notes be laid by Xingqiu’s fingers upon the keys.
And when darkness fell his sight, when the curtains shuttered to a close, his last sight would always be of the man sitting there, helpless to the waves of cheers, smiling as if he had seen the heavens and was blessed by the archons themselves.
They were always there.
Beautifully picked, artfully arranged, always the same splattering of blue glaze lilies upon his table when he returned, never signed, wrapped in sheets of gold-rimmed white tissue, so beautiful it may as well have been a wedding bouquet. The very same flowers that his stranger sent every time, noteless, to his door.
He supposed it was rather odd, his infatuation-- if he could even refer to it as such.
Was it an infatuation, if the glint of hair under the brilliance of his stage lights brought heat to his chest, brought the erratic thump of a heart to his throat as a strange emotion he could not name swelled up inside of him, all-consuming and fiery and different.
Was it an infatuation, if he composed with the face of his admirer in mind, if the notes he scribed in his journal were not the notes of some faraway love song but the tune of longing for a man he could never have, a man just out of his reach.
Was it an infatuation, if he knew by hand the curve of that strong jaw, the paleness of his cheeks, if he dreamt of running his fingers down the skin of his jaw, dreamt of curling his hands into those blue locks, dreamt of the lips he could not make out from this distance.
Was it an infatuation, if he noticed?
Noticed his state of exhaustion, with dimmed eyes and ashen skin, as if barely holding onto reality, as if every movement he made echoed the shift that pushed him to the point of exhaustion. Every performance, deteriorating, falling apart, as if he was losing his grip after years of clinging onto his youth, to a dream that he had lost.
Noticed the way he would drift, lifeless and dull, as if barely managing to keep his attention anymore, as if Xingqiu’s music, which had once upon a time seemed to spark the very essence of life in his eyes would be the tune that sung in his funeral.
Noticed how even the glaze lilies, beautiful and blue, just like his admirer, seemed to wilt and crumble in his palms, still delicate, still treasured, yet all the more delicate, all the more something he now felt as if he needed to handle with care.
Oddly, he wishes to reach out to him; to run his fingers through the soft hair, to ask him what was wrong, to let his music soothe the man to sleep, gentle and kind. He realises, somewhere inside, that these are thoughts not appropriate to be thinking about a man he has only seen-- yet a churning in his chest exposed the desire burning like flames inside him, embers of a passion that were mimicked in every tremble of his song.
He knows it is inappropriate, yet somehow, he can imagine it.
Yet somehow, he can imagine his voice; softly spoken, soothing and even as if he had never experienced a tremor in his life, strong, dependable-- perhaps it was his consistency that made Xingqiu have such thoughts, but it was a small thought that he clung onto with all the force he had left. The thought that, of course, this man was something that he could depend on, if only for a few hours a week.
He writes, if only for him.
Like waves that wash upon the banks inside of him, inspiration pulls him into his depths, drowns him in the never-ending pool of water, seeps into his bones like salt to a wound, pushes him deeper, deeper, until it’s all that he can think about, until his lungs, his eyes, his heart is filled with nothing but.
“This is magnificent.” His producer tells him, voice littered with excitement that he felt echoed in his chest, the phone distorting slightly as cheers echoed around him. “This is the best work you’ve ever done, Xingqiu!”
(He doesn’t need the praise. He doesn’t need the celebration, nor the acceptance of anyone else but that one boy in the audience, peeking out from the crowd, drawn to his music like a moth to a flame that had been created by him.)
He is nervous, before the show.
One wish.
He only wishes for one thing, only wishes to see life, the same kind he had created so simply before, blossom in his eyes like his glaze lilies, wild and free and glorious, once again entranced in a world that Xingqiu had trapped him in, willingly allowing himself to be claimed, to be dragged to the depths of the ocean, to lie there alongside him.
He only wishes to see it again.
The curtains come up.
Notes flow from his fingertips like gentle waves come sunset, practiced and poised, full of words he could not say with anything but the gentle ivory beneath his fingers, full of things that he couldn’t express, words to a fan he could never reach.
And the audience is shocked into silence, not uncomfortable, filled with hushed murmurs of awe and reverence, filled with the very sort of effect that artists sought out with every inch of their life, filled with the very sort of response that had once been his life's goal.
And the adrenaline is pouring through him, terrifying and liquid, shooting in and out as if spiked on the highs of alcohol, and the feeling is so impossibly freeing that he feels like laughing, that even the heat of the stage lights on him couldn’t take away the rush of air that seemed to blow past him.
And there, pressed against a seat that should be filled-- that Xngqiu had expected to be filled-- was nothing but a glaze lily, its petals withered and dried, as if all the life had been sucked from it, as if the tunes that had once kept it alive had faded away into an echoing chorus of silence. Abruptly, Xingqiu realised that it was no more than a metaphor for the fate of their buyer.
His world shutters to a close.
The song is a success.
Contracts, deals, fame; prodigy, superstar, genius; magical, breathtaking, unbelievable. He sees his name in print on the daily, sees his face printed on the billboards that stretch high and far, stuck to the top of buildings, pressed against shop windows, icons on Twitter.
It's everything he ever wanted.
His family comes to see his show.
His fathers hand on his back, a smile on his face as it dawned, slow on steady, that his father was proud. Proud of his son, his traitorous son, who had rejected the family business, who had given his potential for nothing, who had renounced their name.
“Good job.” He tells Xingqiu, and he feels nothing. Not the elation that he had expected, not the approval and surge of happiness that he had built the expectation of, not the fulfilment of getting what he wanted, finally, after all these years.
The grief comes slow.
Xingqiu wondered, all things considered, whether grieving was an adequate response, even more so if he was allowed to grieve. He had no connection to the man, knew not his man nor his job, his life nor his family, yet the sickening crunch of despair resonated within him every time he caught sight of the seat. It would be filled again, undoubtedly, by thousands of people, over and over again, yet to him, forever, it would be empty of the one person who mattered.
He is reminded, painfully, that Glaze lilies were a funeral flower.
Times shifted.
Life went on. The same bright lights, the same heat on his back, the ivory beneath his fingertips sparked forth the same rush of adrenaline, the same love of performance-- yet every time, he would search for his face in the crowd, a glaze lily tucked in a vase on the edge of his piano, as if maybe, just maybe, he would catch sight of a head of blue hair, the glittering of crystal eyes; and maybe, just maybe, he would see him again.
His father smiles at him from the crowd. Seated where he would be sought out, seated in a place that was never meant for him, seated in a place that was for him .
Nameless, yet worth more to him than an absent father ever would be.
A heavy disappointment weighs in his gut.
There's no one to perform for anymore.
A hushed intake of breath, a glimmer of life in one's eyes.
A bouquet of glaze lilies, noteless, to his door.