Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The blue light on the printer screen dimmed as the final page of the score scrolled out; five pages sat in the tray, five short lines of music on each page, black notes decorating the five lines of the staff. The library was dim and quiet; it was very early, and the morning was a still one. It felt like the city was holding its breath, quiet in the way one is when they’re trying not to wake a child. Soon, sunlight would flood the university, soon, the streets would fill with students, and the halls would fill with music. But for now, it was quiet.

Lan Wangji idly straightened the stack of paper as he picked it up, blinking at his phone. His inbox was open to a memo with rehearsal details for the university’s chamber music season. A slight frown creased his forehead. The semester was already getting busy again—adding a string quartet to worry about on top of the tenuous classwork, mentoring, practice, and rehearsal wasn’t appealing—but he scrolled to the text thread he had with the violist of his chamber group to ask what repertoire they would be tackling this time around.

His phone buzzed a moment later with a swift reply.

Nie Huaisang: get us copies of the Art of Fugue.

Nie Huaisang: the string arrangement ofc

Nie Huaisang: we’ll sight read Sunday if that works for everyone

That was promising, at least. Lan Wangji clicked his phone off and tucked both it and the score he had finished printing into his bag. He strode over to the front desk of the music library to acquire the sheet music that Huaisang had requested, already thinking over what he knew about those pieces. They were a interesting enough set of works, and ones that he was already somewhat familiar with, so it set his mind racing along in D minor as he sat down to annotate the stack of chorales he had printed for class. Even if it was yet another thing to pencil into his already hectic Juilliard schedule, at least it would keep him intrigued.

Nie Huaisang had broached the topic of the chamber group during a rehearsal late into the previous concert cycle. Though he was a childhood friend, he and Lan Wangji weren’t exactly chummy, and Huaisang was well-liked by many in their orchestra, so it was a surprise that he had invited Lan Wangji to collaborate in a string quartet a few semesters ago. Seeing as Lan Wangji didn’t know quite as many people in their ensemble or have the same connections as the younger of the Nie siblings, this was a bit of a relief and he had agreed gladly. The pair had collaborated on chamber projects since then and the other two roles of their quartet had rotated season to season.

Lan Wangji had been packing up and loosening his bow when Huaisang tapped him on the shoulder from his seat among the violas that week. “What sorta rep should we pick for the winter?” Straightening from where he had leaned down to tuck his instrument away, he responded “Baroque?” after some thought. Huaisang smiled. “Oh thank god. My tutor was on my ass about working some older styles, and I’m not sure my da-ge could stand hearing another semester of Romantics.” He was grinning at someone across from him, and Lan Wangji turned to see the orchestra’s principal violinist, Luo Qingyang, sling her violin case over her shoulder. “Wanna claim a violin role again?”

She sighed but in a fondly exasperated way that meant ‘yes.’ “Only if I can play Second violin.”

Huaisang grinned again, and Lan Wangji hummed in assent. That was fair. Being concertmaster meant she had more than enough first violin parts to carry. Sliding the endpin of his cello into place, he looked up, and the question in his eyes must have been clear because Nie Huaisang had nodded and said “I’ve got someone to cover First, don’t worry.” Lan Wangji’s eyes slid over to the violin section, mostly vacant by now, and wondered who would take up the fourth part, but judging by the phone Nie Huiasang was typing a message into, it wasn’t a present member of their orchestra he had in mind.

---

The group email had come a couple of hours after the first, and Lan Wangji had nearly finished annotating the score assigned to him for a theory class. Details about the proposed sight reading session were listed, along with a practice room location. He tapped the recipients list and scanned across Nie Huaisang and Luo Qingyang’s university email addresses, curious and wary of who else they had elected to invite, but [email protected] was not a name he recognized. He added the sight-reading date to his calendar. Then, stretching, retrieved the Bach score from the front desk before pulling a long coat over his shoulders and walking out the door.

It wasn’t that Lan Wangji disliked school—he was honored to have a place to study as prestigious as Juilliard and happy to fulfill his ambitions in a way that made his family proud—but the routine of it was starting to wear on him like snowmelt carving a slow path into a crumbling cliffside. He shivered and tucked a blue scarf around his neck to ward off the October wind. The door swung shut behind him, and Lan Wangji mentally ran through his schedule for the next week as he made his way across the Lincoln Center campus.

Having a family like the Lans meant being recognized by the greater world as a sensation, a child prodigy of sorts, a youth who was bound to achieve much and make a name for themself, but it also meant that these things were akin to expectations instead of seen as accomplishments. This took the thrill of achieving such lofty things down a notch, because the praise only felt real until it came from someone who was familiar with his reputation. The shadow of his family’s achievements towered close and dark, and meeting it, much less exceeding it, was a daunting undertaking. The extrinsic motivation of making his parents proud was once something that had fueled Lan Wangji, but as it became clear that his Uncle was hard to impress and expected only great things from his nephews, it got harder to understand his motivation and untangle why he was doing what he was doing. Music, while fulfilling, was exhausting. The field was competitive and pretentious more often than it was supportive and satisfying, but Lan Wangji kept at it, pounding hour after hour of practice out and maintaining his position as principal cellist in the university orchestra.

If he thought about it, much of why he pursued music had to do with his brother. The echoes of Lan Xichen’s oboe still sounded in the halls of Julliard, the man having finished grad school not two years prior. Lan Wangji filled his brother’s shoes with ease, ignored the shadow he had cast, tried following dutifully in his footsteps, and accepted his unending support.

Some might see living with a sibling in college as unappealing and limiting; Lan Wangji found it a source of comfort. Maybe that wasn’t healthy, but having something as sturdy as his brother and the routine of their family to lean on while weathering the whirlwind that was being a musician in New York was something he found valuable, even if he did lament his lack of reliable relationships outside those of his family and classmates.

Still, it wouldn’t be a lie for him to say he loved his situation. The rigor of the classes was a welcome challenge; the hours of practice allowed for the satisfaction of growth. Tiring as it was, Lan Wangji loved studying music, he loved playing cello, he loved the winters in New York and the pride of performing, but it also wouldn’t be a lie to say he was lonely. He was self-aware enough to admit that he had few connections outside class, his position at the university library, and the students he tutored. There was an oxymoron hidden somewhere in that, he thought, a funny contradiction in being lonely while living in one of the most lively hubs of America.

The Sunday before the next concert season began, Lan Wangji could be found stuffed in a practice room with a very caffeinated Nie Huaisang and a restless Luo Qingyang. Already 10 minutes into their reserved 90-minute block of time in the space, he was pretending not to be impatient as he set the sheet music in order and tuned his cello. He watched the rain trail down the window as Nie Huaisang rattled off some anecdote that he only half-listened to and Luo Qingyang read through her part of the first fugue.

“...and that’s how da ge found us when he picked us up,” Nie Huaisang was saying as the clock inched onwards, and Lan Wangji’s patience wore thin. Seeing Lan Wangji glance at his watch, he said “Ah, Lan Wangji, our violinist is on his way, don’t you fret. He probably can’t find the right room,” and reached out to pat his shoulder in faux-consolation.

The cellist huffed quietly. That was unlikely: it was a Sunday at the beginning of the concert cycle; no one had any urgent upcoming performances to cram for, so they were likely the only ones using the rooms. Catching his annoyance, Huaisang said “No, really, Wangji, Wei Wuxian is a composition focus, not a performance major. He probably spends more time upstairs than in these practice rooms.” Lan Wangji blinked. He supposed that would explain why they’d never met.

“Yeah, don’t work yourself up. He’s a talented musician. But do not tell him I said that,” Luo Qingyang pointed her bow at Nie Huaisang’s chest, who chirped “I’d never dream of it” at the same time someone else said, “Tell me what?”

A rain-spattered man strolled in with a violin case on his back and discarded his bag next to a chair. He patted Huaisang on the cheek amicably and slung his instrument off his shoulders. “Talking about me, were you?”

“Ah Wei-xiong, all good things, all good things,” Huaisang reached out to swat his shoulder in retaliation, but he missed as a wink was thrown at Luo Qingyang.

“MianMian! How is the only other respectable violinist at this place doing this fine weekend?”

“Peachy keen till you showed up.” She sounded annoyed but fond.

Nie Huaisang stood back up and gestured to where Lan Wangji was sitting. “Wei-xiong, this is Lan Wangji. Wangji: meet Wei Wuxian.”

A genial smile broke across Wei Wuxian’s face. His hair curled damp around his shoulders and his rainboots squeaked as he stepped over in greeting. “I already know who you are, of course, but it’s no less nice to meet ya.” He sounded genuine, which for some reason only soured Lan Wangji’s mood more. Wei Wuxian swapped his violin case to his left and extended his other hand, saying “You can call me Wei Ying.”

Lan Wangji nodded, perhaps more curtly than he intended, and placed a stack of sheet music in the violinist’s outstretched hand instead of shaking it with his own.

“You’re late,” he stated simply.

Wei Wuxian blinked at him and seemed to shrink back a bit, but then he breezed onward, sunny grin back in place, though he cut the chatter. In minutes, the quartet was settled and cautiously picking their way through the fourth movement of the Art of Fugue.

No matter how skilled the musician, sight-reading music was something that left one feeling at least a bit vulnerable. It was testing the waters and producing an interpretation of a piece from just one look at the sheet music, so it was always a delicate thing, especially when done within a smaller ensemble like their string quartet. Chamber music was always much more intimate to begin with, and the clever weave of a fugue’s many melodies only made that more evident as the lines of the counterpoint darted around and ducked under each other.

Of all the musical forms, a Fugue was one of the most intricate and possibly the hardest to write. It began with a lone melody, a subject motif that set the tone for the whole piece. This subject plays solo until it is joined by the answer: that very same motif, but played on the tonic of the key. The very same melody, but echoed five notes higher.

The subject and answer continue to unspool, staggered but somehow in sync, lining up with each other in clever ways until the other layers of instrumentation join them in their own iterations of the subject. Multiple instances of the same melody played at different times—these separate musical lines somehow meld together into something intricate and intertwined, polyphony arising from this mesh of notes and making it something more than musical. It’s mathematical, it’s witty. It’s a dance, the way the subject and answer fit together like pieces of a puzzle: a call and response, a cry and an echo. If fugue was a conversation, everyone was talking at once, yet impossibly, it all makes sense.

The Art of Fugue in particular was perhaps the most famous set of fugues to date. JS Bach had a mastery of the format; the set of works was considered the textbook on fugue composition, a masterwork even though it was unfinished. It included 14 fugues and 4 canons, all in D minor, all using some variation of the same brief theme. The Baroque composer took that one theme—just a few recognizable bars—and managed to write fourteen unique counterpoints that were ordered to increase in complexity: from simple fugues, to double and triple fugues that introduced more themes and more subjects into the fray. As a set of thorough and complex but somehow still creative takes on the Baroque fugue, the Art of Fugue became a permanent fixture in the study of music theory and a staple piece of repertoire for chamber musicians. Lan Wangji had spent no small amount of time analyzing them during his preliminary years as a theory student.

Movement 4 was a counterpoint that bestowed the subject line to the first violin, so after a nod from Luo Qingyang, the first notes sounded from Wei Wuxian’s instrument, bright and swift and expressive, until joined by a deft answer from the second violin. Huaisang jumped in with the viola part soon after and left the final answer to the cello in this fugue, which meant Lan Wangji had a few bars to just listen. He was already familiar with the other two musician’s style and musicality, but Luo Qinyang was right to say their newest member was also a talented performer. He carried the subject melody with an aloof grace, good-humored and light. From where he was sitting across from the violins, Lan Wangji took in his playing style, the timbre of his instrument, the way he had adjusted his bow to adopt a more traditional baroque hold. Lan Wangji had to admit he was a bit taken aback by his dexterity; it was almost frustrating, the ease with which he picked up the music. He flicked his eyes back to his music stand before he lost track of his place and missed his entrance. Bow on the strings, he focused on sight-reading and coaxed the low, warm melody from his cello, sober and methodical.

The quartet made it through the fourth movement without any major trouble. The last cadence ended with all four musicians drawing out the final note as three heads looked up in Wei Wuxian’s direction before the first violin gave a slight nod, dipping the scroll of his instrument to direct the quartet to a clean cut off. He gave a low whistle and teased “Not bad for three of Juilliard's best and brightest.”

“Best but maybe not brightest,” Nie Huaisang grinned, pleased with his choice of repertoire.

MianMian made a few notes: “We’ll be able to pick up our own parts quickly enough, the real trouble of this is being able to piece it together in a way that’s more cohesive.”

Lan Wangji hummed in agreement and said something about incorporating Baroque sensibilities and stylistic choices. The group might be historically informed and well-versed in theory, but they were all still a touch too expressive and loose for the subject matter, himself included.

He had initially been frustrated by Wei Wuxian’s tardiness at the start of their rehearsal, but as the quartet sight-read the first three movements followed by a handful of the later ones, his apprehension quieted to gentle annoyance at the violinist’s irreverent attitude. He clearly had a great understanding of the fugues, and an attention to detail that came from studying composition, yet he didn’t have the discipline to lead a section or head a quartet. That was ok, Luo Qingyang was concertmaster in their orchestra, and Lan Wangji was the principal cellist; chamber groups were about sharing responsibilities anyways, so he wasn’t displeased with Nie Huaisang’s decision to recruit his friend.

They spent the last 10 minutes of their reserved time going over schedules and sharing their availability. Nie Huaisang created a calendar for the group, and Lan Wangji dutifully tapped it into his phone while Luo Qingyang scribbled it into her planner. It was barely November, and with a winter recess taking up a block of December, the quartet had just over a month and a half of rehearsal time before the recital in the new year. Nie Huaisang grumbled about the strenuous solo content he had to take up this semester on top of their chamber work, and he and Luo Qingyang prodded Wei Wuxian about his composition projects as they tucked their instruments away. Lan Wangji packed up in customary silence, half-listening to their chatter before walking out the door, white chrome cello case in tow.

He had just lifted it onto his back when he felt a tap on his shoulder and found himself staring at Wei Wuxian, sticker-plastered violin case in hand as he bounced on the balls of his feet. “Hey, uh, you just. You seemed annoyed, earlier, and I really didn’t intend to make a first impression like that. You’re obviously a serious musician, and I don’t mean to waste your time.”

Lan Wangji blinked.

Wei Wuxian continued. “I’m not usually running late—” this prompted a snort from Nie Huaisang as he headed down the hall in the opposite direction, and Wei Wuxian rolled his eyes, holding up three fingers to carry on: “I promise, and I had a good excuse this time.”

Lan Wangji raised an eyebrow, which Wei Wuxian took as an invitation to continue, falling in step with him as they made their way outside. “See, my sister called me, and she’s in a different timezone overseas right now so I had to pick up…”

Wei Wuxian chattered on until they parted ways at the plaza doors. “I’ll see you around!” Wei Wuxian said cheerfully, flicking two fingers away from his brow in a faux salute. Lan Wangji ducked under an umbrella and headed back to his brother’s apartment, headphones drowning out the noise of the subway.

Monday came with little fanfare. The winter concert season officially began, and classes carried on as Lan Wangji paged dispassionately through his folder at his usual seat in the university orchestra and suppressed a yawn. He prided himself on having a more regular sleep schedule than most classmates he knew, but this year was wearying for a reason he had yet to pin down. Luo Qingyang had stopped for a quick greeting as she came in to warm up, and Nie Huaisang was cross-legged in the viola section. Hearing him snicker, Lan Wangji looked up from the Saint-Saëns piece he was running through to see Wei Wuxian animatedly telling a story to Huaisang and the musician next to him. He wasn’t startled to see the violinist make an appearance, just surprised to see him among their orchestra when he hadn’t been enrolled previously.

Lan Wangji looked questioningly across at Luo Qingyang, who only shrugged. It was unusual for students to join an ensemble midway through a semester, though not unheard of. When the director arrived, he watched Wei Wuxian take his seat among the second violins out of the corner of his eye. He was introduced as an addition to the orchestra before they began, and flashed a grin and wave to the ensemble. He caught Lan Wangji’s eye and smiled brightly across rows of musicians. Lan Wangji lowered his gaze to his music stand. He got the impression that Wei Wuxian was someone who was always either smiling or actively trying to make it look like he was not, but Lan Wangji was too focused during rehearsal to watch the man and confirm this theory. Time passed quickly in the hands of the conductor as Lan Wangji sat in front of the cello section and the orchestra worked their way through vignettes of each selected piece.

Nie Huaisang sought him out as usual after the rehearsal wrapped up and was asking after his brother when Wei Wuxian approached and slung an arm across Huaisang’s shoulders. “Wei-xiong, you’ll be on time this Thursday?”

“Sang-ge, you know I hold to my promises.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

Wei Wuxian shook his head with amusement as Nie Huaisang skipped away, then turned to look appraisingly at Lan Wangji. “What else’ve you got today?”

Small talk did not come easy for Lan Wangji, but he reminded himself he was trying. “I had theory earlier. Now I work in the library.”

“The Wallace library?”

“Mn.”

“Huh, no shit.” He seemed to file that information away. “Hey, why’ve I never met you before this semester? I spent tons of time with Nie Huaisang and his brother; you’d think we would’ve crossed paths before.”

Lan Wangji shrugged. It was a non-answer, but he didn’t really feel like comparing social circles right now. They paused in the hallway as someone wheeled an upright piano past.

“Why did you join the chamber orchestra in the middle of the semester?” Maybe it was rude to ask, but Lan Wangji was nothing if not direct while conversing.

Wei Wuxian’s smile slipped slightly. “My family suggested I get back into studying performance as well as composition. Something about how it would be a more stable career path for me and whatnot. As if stability is anywhere to be found among musicians.” He smiled wanly. “Wasn’t my pick. But I was lucky enough to join for the winter session, so I’ll get partial credit.”

Lan Wangji nodded. Success seemed, to many concerned parents of aspiring musicians, very elusive in their field. “But why not study performance to begin with? You’re talented.” He hadn’t meant it as a compliment; it was a fact. But Wei Wuxian’s smile brightened.

“To hear that from the precious Principal Cellist? I’m honored. But I already said: It just wasn’t my pick.” His expression was complicated, there was something beyond just a smile to the twist of his lips. Lan Wangji was saved from doing something crazy like asking a personal question by the violinist turning away and into a stairwell with a brisk wave and that ever-present grin.

Spending the rest of his evening photocopying documents and reshelving books did nothing to curb his curiosity. He hadn’t been lying when he had said Wei Wuxian was a competent musician; even after two rehearsals, he could hear that the man was talented. It baffled him—and perhaps still frustrated him a bit—how someone could prove to be that brilliant without spending a painful amount of time practicing.

Within a couple days, it almost felt like an established routine, departing the evening orchestra rehearsals with Nie Huaisang and Wei Wuxian as the two chattered on about anything and everything. They gossiped amicably like old women, though Nie Huaisang seemed to value it as a source of information and drama whereas Wei Wuxian found it a source of amusement. Lan Wangji wasn’t surprised when he didn’t recognize most of the people they discussed, which was oddly frustrating. He chalked up most of his lack of connection to the fact that the duo had been roommates freshman year, as he found out, but he knew that he was also to blame for spending his years as an underclassman being shy and solemn. Lan Wangji didn’t regret the way he spent his time and had no desire to be involved in the sort of entanglements and drama Nie Huaisang talked of, but he was willing to admit he was jealous of the easy way Wei Wuxian connected with people. These years, an occasional gnawing sense of regret would creep up on him; he knew he didn’t want and would never have the classic American college experience by nature of his profession and his temperament, but he couldn’t help but feel he was wasting his youth away in a practice room. He could usually stomp such trains of thoughts back down, but this week had taken those vulnerabilities and flung them out to air in a way that Lan Wangji couldn’t ignore.

When he swung the door to the pre-arranged rehearsal room open on the Thursday of their quartet meeting, he found both violinists seated and bickering amicably about a cadenza in Luo Qingyang’s solo repertoire. Wei Wuxian rocked forward from where he had been leaning on the two back legs of his piano bench and smiled so sunnily that Lan Wangji could have sworn the room warmed in proportion. He shrugged off his sweater and took a seat.

Once their violist wandered in sleepily, the quartet jumped right into reading through the last of the movements in the Art of Fugue arrangement. Or, at least the remaining four-part fugues. Luo Qingyang pointed out the middle movements that consisted of a handful of two-part canons. Lan Wangji paged through them, asking how much time they would be allotted in their recital. “An hour,” Nie Huaisang answered. He zipped his viola into its case and checked the time on his phone. “I need a coffee. Come with me and we can decide which movements to exclude? Unless MianMian has a lesson to teach before the full orchestra rehearses.”

She didn’t, so the quartet wandered across the street to a cafe on Broadway. Overpriced but comfortable, it was every bit the misleading caricature of what being young in New York was like. To-go cups in hand, they tucked their instrument cases under a table as Lan Wangji produced the full JS Bach score and paged through music. Lan Wangji’s instinct was to veto the final movement. It was left unfinished, the composer had died before completing his masterwork.

“It would shave 10 minutes off our run time,” Nie Huaisang agreed.

Wei Wuxian hummed thoughtfully around the scrunchie he was holding in his mouth as he tied his hair up. Once his hands were free, he added “It would feel wrong to play it through since it’s incomplete. Like, disrespectful to the composer. But it also feels disrespectful to not include it. It was the man’s literal last work.” He picked up his coffee cup to warm his hands and sighed. “It’s a lose-lose scenario in that aspect. We should still just ditch it to save time.”

Lan Wangji nodded into the steam curling up towards his face; the humidity gently curled the hair around his temples. “Mn, at least we are not playing the G major chorale that many editions opt for as a finale. I feel that is more of a slight to the composer than just excluding the final counterpoint.”

Nie Huaisang nodded, typing their selected repertoire into an email to their program director for approval. Luo Qingyang flipped through the other movements, sipping a spiced cider thoughtfully. “We’ll include both the notations of the two mirror fugues right? The inverted versions of 12 and 13 are clever and short enough they shouldn’t be a problem.”

Wei Wuxian nodded enthusiastically at her before sighing with quiet awe: “Inverting the counterpoint and ensuring it still doesn’t violate any fugue rules or musicality? I’m not a Baroque fanatic but damn do I have respect for Bach.”

“That just leaves the duets. Lan Wangji, Wei Wuxian, do you intend to learn those? I’d hate to have you put in more work than the rest of us if you’re not willing, so we’ll leave the choice to you.” MianMian flipped to the duet movements, raising an eyebrow to accompany her question. These two-part counterpoint canons would only be voiced by violin and cello in the string arrangement; they were a chance for Bach to flex his prowess as a composer even as the number of instruments was reduced to two.

Lan Wangji nodded without a thought before looking up to catch the violinist’s reaction. He was nearly as surprised by his own answer as he was by Wei Wuxian’s enthusiastic agreement.

Nie Huaisang had snorted at their simultaneous ‘yes’ and said, “Well, I’m certainly not rehearsing those with you. Unless you need moral support, Wei-xiong, practicing with the renowned second Lan brother.”

The mischief in Wei Wuxian’s eyes brightened to full-on laughter: “I’m sure I can hold my own, Huaisang. Ye of little faith.”

Lan Wangji hid his smile in his tea. Taking on another obligation like this into his already packed schedule should have felt like a burden, but there was something adjacent to excitement fizzing in his chest.

They had time to kill before their full orchestra rehearsed, so they spent it tucked inside the cafe, Lan Wangji’s head bent over his reading while the others scratched out homework into notebooks.

Nie Huaisang spent a while complaining loudly about his workload before getting pulled into a discussion about folk music with Wei Wuxian. They were lamenting the lack of viola roles in traditional folk tunes, and it took a moment for Lan Wangji to realize he hadn’t turned a page in his textbook for the duration of their exchange. He gave in to look up and make some comments about instrumentation in modern folk music, citing a set of sessions that fused classical and bluegrass styles.

“The Goat Rodeo sessions?” Wei Wuxian blinked at him in surprise. “Didn’t think you’d like folk music. I took you for a post-Classical kinda guy.”

“Post-Romantic, actually.” He felt oddly defensive about his taste at present.

Wei Wuxian nodded, teasingly solemn. “Mn, figures. Tchaikovsky and his rich cello lines.”

“What’s wrong with Tchaikovsky?”

“Nothing! He’s a great composer and a queer icon. Love his ballets, my sister would drag me with her to see Swan Lake.”

"Mn," Surprised, Lan Wangji took a sip of tea before raised his eyes to ask "The original or the Bourne adaptation?”

“If I had a choice? Obviously Matthew Bourne. But Jie likes the classics. Wait, how’d you know ballet stuff?”

He paused, feeling like he had acknowledged something without realizing it. “You’re the one who just said Tchaikovsky was great.” Wei Wuxian blinked. “Fair point,” he conceded.

Nie Huaisang piped back in, cycling back to their folk music discussion after saving the session music Lan Wangji mentioned to a Spotify playlist. “I have a mandolin, actually, I tried to pick it up two years back. But we should so play these sessions someday.” Lan Wangji nodded distractedly

They were still discussing it when they trekked back to the Lincoln Center for class. Nie Huaisang invited them to come with to a Celtic folk session that regularly met at a restaurant near his apartment, and Lan Wangji found himself nodding along, agreeing to bring his brother some time in the future.

The following Monday Lan Wangji’s phone buzzed after breakfast. “Ok, so. We’re gonna have to move rehearsal up earlier today,” Nie Huaisang explained on the line after a brief greeting. “Think there’s a music clinic using the practice rooms later. Or whatever. Anyways, the latest slot we can get is 10:30, and you guys have class right after that. So. Yeah.”

Lan Wangji assured him that was ok.

“Sweet. I mean, I figured. Sorry it’s last minute.” A voice in the background said something low. “Ah, Da-ge says hello. I’m driving him to the airport, which is why I need a favor. Get the word out about rehearsal to the other two? I can’t exactly message them right now, and I don’t want them to hear it too late.” Lan Wangji agreed.

“Alright, thanks man. That’s it, I’ll see you in a few.”

Lan Wangji swiped through his phone for a moment after hanging up. He sent Luo Qingyang a text, having her number tucked into his contacts from working on previous productions together, but he had to resort to email when it came to alerting Wei Wuxian. A reply slid into his inbox half an hour later.

[email protected]: Lan Wangji! You’re lucky I was awake. And that I actually saw this email. Who uses email to pass along info like this?

I’ll be there, worry not! But just text me next time, I’ll see it faster.

Later,

Wei Ying

The sign-off was followed by a string of numbers, which Lan Wangji tapped into his phone before sending his name and the rehearsal room information once more. Then he paused in his brother’s living room to stare at the blue messages on his phone screen. Lan Xichen wandered through on his way out the door, startling Lan Wangji back into the present when he asked what was so fascinating this morning. Lan Wangji shot him a fraternal glare that silently said 'don't you have work?' and walked out to retrieve his coat. Three messages waited for him when he pulled his phone back out of his pocket, and he paused in the elevator to reply.

Wei Wuxian: Lan Zhan! hello again

Wei Wuxian: i’m more awake now

Wei Wuxian: forgot to ask, why did rehearsal time change?

Wei Wuxian: not doubting you, just curious

He was startled at the casual use of his name, even though he had been the one to offer it to Wei Wuxian earlier that week. His classmate had nearly immediately brushed past formality and insisted on being called his personal name, so Lan Wangji felt strangely compelled to allow the same level of familiarity.

Lan Wangji: Nie Huaisang said there is a music clinic this afternoon.

Lan Wangji: Or something.

Wei Wuxian: whatever you say

Wei Wuxian: or whatever Huaisang says, anyways

Lan Wangji: You are still able to make it today?

Wei Wuxian: yea, i’ll be there in 20

Wei Wuxian: with coffee 👍

It turned out everyone was able to squeeze a morning rehearsal in before their afternoon classes, though Nie Huaisang cut it close, rolling in a few seconds late after wading through the nightmare that was airport traffic. Wei Wuxian passed him a coffee cup where he had flopped down into a chair and patted his shoulder sympathetically. His order looked like something with an ungodly amount of sugar and espresso.

Wei Wuxian had handed Lan Wangji a cup too, minutes earlier when he had arrived. He had turned towards the tap on his shoulder where Wei Wuxian had caught up to him in the lobby and bewilderedly accepted the to-go cup of jasmine tea that was shoved into his hands. Wei Wuxian had immediately started talking, falling into step with Lan Wangji as if they did this every day. He was dual-wielding his violin case and a cardboard tray of coffee, so Lan Wangji stopped blinking in silent surprise at his name penned on the paper cup and went to pull the doors open ahead of him.

It wasn’t something to marvel at, buying drinks for one’s classmates, but Lan Wangji had been taken aback nonetheless. The drink was his go-to order, the exact same tea that he had bought last week. In fact, everyone was sipping their caffeine with satisfaction as they tuned their strings, and that was the thing that surprised him: that Wei Wuxian remembered something as innocuous as his drink order. He had an attention to detail that Lan Wangji missed at first, he’d mistaken him for rather insouciant.

Lan Wangji wasn’t used to people being so perceptive, so he paid closer attention throughout the next week. He realized, with a bit of shame, that Wei Wuxian, for all his small talk and chatter, knew more about Lan Wangji than Lan Wangji knew about him in return. Comments about Lan Wangji’s brother, his job at the library, his taste in music all bubbled up amid his (often one-sided) conversation as natural as anything, but when Lan Wangji tried to recall anything about Wei Wuxian’s family or involvement at the university, he mostly drew a blank.

He resolved to fix that. It was odd, he noted, how easily one could misjudge the depth of one’s acquaintance with someone. With yet more surprise, he realized that Wei Wuxian was not unlike a friend.

He scrolled to the text thread he had with the violinist. That was another way Wei Wuxian had managed to fit himself into Lan Wangji’s life: texting was just an extension of his existence in-person; he was constant and companionable. The cellist would make a comment on something as they walked out of orchestra, and Wei Wuxian would send a thread of messages about it while he rode the subway home, the notifications lighting up Lan Wangji’s phone as he worked in the dim library. He would follow up a discussion the quartet had with questions about historical instrumentation, and Lan Wangji would send back an article about Baroque tessitura.

The quartet took to spending the block of time between their chamber rehearsals and their full orchestra class in the music library, frittering away their hours on whatever homework they had to do that week. Sometimes Luo Qinyang would join; sometimes she would dash off to tutor whatever student she had that day. Sometimes Nie Huaisang would fall asleep, intentionally or otherwise, napping with his head pillowed on his arms. Lan Wangji had moved to wake him the first time, but then thought better of it and opted to let him rest. He felt he could use the sleep too; that stretched-thin weariness hadn’t left him as the semester carried on, and the days only grew shorter and colder as November deepened.

Wei Wuxian seemed as chipper as ever, passing his headphones to Lan Wangji to share whatever musical score his composition classes were reviewing that week or turning his laptop screen to get input on the chorale he was writing as an assignment.

Thanksgiving break should have offered Lan Wangji a chance to breathe, but work continued to creep into his schedule. The deadline for a paper loomed in red on his calendar the Monday after the holiday, so here he was in holiday traffic, heading back to campus to retrieve a textbook he’d left behind in his rush to get home. He could have waited until the next day to pick it up, but the crowds would be worse on Black Friday, so Lan Wangji left his brother in the apartment to pick out a movie and promised he’d be back on the hour.

Thanksgiving, as an American holiday, wasn’t a big deal to the Lan brothers with their parents out of the picture and their uncle too old to travel for just the weekend. They’d go to visit him over winter break and had already called him this afternoon to wish him well. Mostly, the holiday was an excuse for the two of them to spend time relaxing at home; Lan Xichen texted him a couple of takeout options for dinner as Lan Wangji stepped off the subway.

Classes were out so the Juilliard school building was mostly quiet and empty—Lan Wangji let himself in through an employee entrance with a swipe of his ID, then picked his way upstairs to find his misplaced book.

He stopped midway up the steps. The sound of a violin floated into the stairwell. The notes of Lalo’s Symphonie Espagnole meandered through the halls, slow and rich from the lower range of the instrument.

The building wasn’t completely dark—there were still a few office lights on as he walked past—so he tried not to be alarmed, but someone practicing on campus during their day off? It was a level of dedication even Lan Wangji couldn’t muster. He listened as he picked up his textbook from where he left it in the Library’s back room. The violinist tackled a complicated and swift run of the music without stumbling before the Symphonie returned to its lilting theme. The sound trailed over a passage in a stylized, familiar way. Lan Wangji turned around in the stairwell, textbook tucked in the crook of his arm, and headed toward the recital hall incredulously. Sure enough, the hall was mostly darkened and empty, a lone musician played for an audience of empty seats. He was less of a silhouette in the faint light, more of a smudgy outline of a violinist, but there was no mistaking the figure at the front. His movement was lively, the notes that sprang from his bow were livid.

“Wei Ying?”

His voice carried across the hall and the music stopped as the musician whirled around, bow halted on the strings as a dizzyingly high segment of the melody petered out. Wei Wuxian looked startled, just as surprised to see Lan Wangji as he was to see Wei Wuxian. The violinist threw a hand dramatically across his chest and said “Lan Zhan! Trying to give me a heart attack now? Taking down the first violinist is a low move, you know.” His smile was intact, but he was looking quizzically at Lan Wangji, who strode over and stood on the side of the stage.

“I did not mean to startle you, and I’m sorry for interrupting your practice.” He paused. He wanted to remark on how impressive it had sounded. Lan Wangji was once again swept up in a wave of what he had once misidentified as annoyance but had come to realize was jealousy and admiration of the musician’s exceptional ability even with such a casual blasé attitude towards practicing. Which is why it felt off, the fact that Wei Wuxian was here practicing rather than literally anywhere else on a holiday.

Wei Wuxian jumped in, “Aiya, it’s no problem, it’s my fault for assuming no one was around and being jumpy.” He looked pointedly at Lan Wangji, who blinked, then lifted the textbook in his arms as if to answer his confusion.

“Paper due on Monday; I left this behind.”

Wei Wuxian nodded with sympathy, “They can’t even let us off the hook for a weekend, can they?” he sighed.

He wanted to ask. Was it too personal to ask? It seemed like something one wouldn’t want to divulge. Still, Lan Wangji took a breath and again, said “Wei Ying. You are here on Thanksgiving.” The man nodded as if that was obvious. Lan Wangji pushed ahead: “Do you not have somewhere to be? For the holidays?”

“Ah, well, my roommate is facetiming his family for dinner, and I wanted to practice without interrupting them.” That didn’t answer Lan Wangji’s question, not exactly. Wei Wuxian gestured to the empty recital hall. “Gives me the chance to take advantage of better acoustics, anyways.”

“You don’t have someone to celebrate with?” Lan Wangji could feel a slight frown on his face, but he swung his legs up onto the stage and stood up.

Wei Wuxian looked away and shuffled his sheet music. “My da-jie is overseas; I called her earlier. But my brother and his parents aren’t in town and didn’t. Um. Didn’t say I should make the trip to join them.” He seemed brittle, and wouldn’t meet Lan Wangji’s eyes.

Lan Wangji still didn’t know what wounds Wei Wuxian carried with him and respected him enough to know he would have shared them by now if he felt like sharing. He didn’t push for a better answer, but he did feel frustration rising on his behalf; he and his brother might not stand on ceremony for Thanksgiving, but they still valued it as time to spend together. He gathered his thoughts for a moment.

Another breath. “Would you—” He hesitated, afraid of overstepping— “Would you like to join my brother and I?”

Wei Wuxian gaped at him with a mixture of surprise and confusion.

Lan Wangji quickly explained before he lost his nerve: “We don’t have family in town either, and we always just order lots of takeout and stream action movies. We never really do the whole traditional Thanksgiving thing—” He faltered, not sure if he had crossed a line, but the confusion had left Wei Wuxian’s face, though now his expression was unreadable. He continued. “You might join us. If you would like to.”

Setting his bow down, Wei Wuxian didn’t laugh. Quietly, he said, “I don’t want to impose.”

“I would not have offered if it would be at all intrusive.”

“I—” He sighed, a quiet huff of frustration. “I mean I don’t want to encroach on your time with your brother.”

“Wei Ying. You should not be alone on Thanksgiving. It is not a bother”

The other man was silent for a moment. His eventual reply was a whisper into the empty theatre.

“Ok.”

When he turned around, he smiled faintly. Lan Wangji found himself smiling back.

Sheet music packed up, Wei Wuxian grabbed his coat as Lan Wangji sent a quick message to his brother, informing him they’d have a guest and asking Lan Xichen to order enough food for three. The city was dark as they made their way back towards the apartment, but Wei Wuxian’s melancholy seemed to have let up for the moment.

Lan Wangji felt the evening pass in an almost-daze. Wei Wuxian indulged the brothers in their not-quite-traditions of take out and action movies, and even almost won a strategy game against Lan Xichen, who so clearly delighted in the younger man’s wit.

“A valiant attempt,” his brother said, tucking game pieces back into their box. “But don’t feel like you lost too painfully; not even Wangji has beaten me.”

“Mn, true,” he conceded. His eyes silently added at least not yet.

Wei Wuxian snickered across the table. “That’s the spirit. Sounds like you better watch your back, Xichen-ge.”

Lan Xichen’s smile took on a note of surprise, not at the teasing, but at the fact that he had picked up on Lan Wangji’s silent banter so easily. It was something that Lan Wangji was still trying to get used to as well, there was an unsettling comfort to how quickly he was read.

They passed the rest of the evening in high spirits, and Lan Wangji endeavored to find ways to distract Wei Wuxian whenever his mood seemed to dip from the glaring absence of his family. Somewhat of an orphan himself, Lan Wangji was familiar with the complicated sting that holidays brought. The least he could do was ensure his friend didn’t feel lonely when the night rolled in and that he was comfortable when the sun returned.

The director of the orchestra strolled in one early December day and announced that the Philharmonic had extra seats for that evening’s performance. “Some school groups canceled, I think. They’re giving student rush prices out but offered the seats to us first.” She smiled, “They’re playing Elgar, the Enigma variations I believe. So.” She raised a hand to quiet the musicians in front of her. “So: either you can join me and attend their performance or leave early today. I’d urge you to attend; I would not want to miss this myself, but I understand if you have other obligations or if the show runs too late for your schedule.”

Conversation broke out as everyone packed up to leave class early or head across to the concert hall. Luo Qingyang saluted as she ducked out the door, seizing the opportunity to either cram or sleep. Nie Huaisang was already standing up, eyes bright as he wandered over to Lan Wangji. “It’s at times like this when I’m grateful to be a student here. Though I’m also just glad class was canceled. You’re coming, right?” Lan Wangji gratified him with a nod, a small smile lingering behind his lips. He had been hoping to drag his brother to see this very show but couldn’t seem to make time. This was a very welcome surprise.

Wei Wuxian caught up to them as Lan Wangji was pulling his coat over his shoulders. His eyes were bright as well, and he began almost reverently gushing about the Enigma variations while he wrapped a red scarf around his neck. Snow had begun to fall while they were inside; it came down tiny and grainy like a fine dusting of sugar over the Lincoln plaza as the students walked over to David Geffen Hall.

Sometimes Lan Wangji forgot that his school was right on the doorstep of one of the world’s top orchestras. Sometimes, it was good for someone who was as praised as Lan Wangji to feel young and small and in awe of the talent around him.

Filing into the student rush seats, Nie Huaisang whispered something about feeling underdressed; there was no dress code at the philharmonic performances, but as they were such a renowned ensemble, people tended to make a full occasion of attending. They took their seats and flipped through their playbills. Wei Wuxian spoke about the hidden Enigma theme in hushed tones, eyes bright with excitement even before the first notes of his work sounded in the hall.

Elgar wrote his Fourteen Variations on an Original Theme with his dearest friends in mind. Each variation was meant to depict some of the most important people in his life at the time of composition. Though there was an overarching musical theme repeated in each, they sketched vibrant caricatures of these fourteen individuals, each one tangibly unique and achingly human. Brusque phrases of some movements sounded brotherly, and light twittery passages resembled a young woman’s laughter in others.

When it debuted in 1899, the dedication read simply “To my friends, pictured within.” Lan Wangji was always quite taken with the sweeping post-Romantic sound of the strings and the obvious affection that seeped out of the notes.

Wei Wuxian was whispering about the mysterious Enigma theme, program open on his lap.“It’s been over 100 years and no one can guess the melody,” he pointed to a paragraph that quoted exactly what Elgar had printed in the 1899 programme. Lan Wangji leaned nearer to read the notes in his hand.

“The Enigma theme isn’t even the whole mystery, it’s the second melody that’s not there that no one knows,” Huaisang read. Wei Wuxian nodded. “Yeah, and if there’s an afterlife, you best bet Elgar is the first person I’m seeking out. I need answers.” Lan Wangji wondered at the alleged principal theme that the British composer had alluded to but left out of his well-loved music. He and his brother had once tried their hand at solving the puzzle that music scholars had been guessing at for years, but of course, the hidden Enigma stayed out of reach.

“Oh, to be a reclusive Romantic composer who hid riddles in his music.” Nie Huaisang sighed at Wei Wuxian's left.

“That’s the dream.”

“Elgar was knighted, too,” Lan Wangji added quietly.

That drew out a quiet laugh.“Ah, even better. So it’s Sir Elgar, then.”

The lights dimmed.

Lan Wangji remembered the first time he fell in love with live music. He had been yet too young to recall the pieces played, but he remembered sitting between his uncle and his brothers at the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, eyes barely cresting over the heads of the row in front of him, tucked into a suit he probably grew out of in months. He remembered his chest filling with wonder, luminous and childish, as he realized the otherworldly soundscape was being produced right in front of him, here, now, by the figures he could see. There’s something humbling about live music in the way it grounds your experience of art to the present.

As Lan Wangji grew, he never grew out of that childlike wonder. Every live performance, he fell in love again. When his brother chose to pursue music, he eagerly followed, hungry to no longer just watch those distant figures on stage but to be among them. Even as he climbed his way to first chair at the country’s leading music school and got a glance at the perplexing inner workings of the music industry, there was still wonder. He could get so hung up on what he was doing that stepping back and seeing it from the audience’s role to remember why he was doing it would always astonish him all over again.

Sometimes, it was good to remember he was young and small and ever in awe of the talent around him.

Somewhere in the back of the concert hall, with the sounds of the infamous 9th movement filling the room, Lan Wangji’s eyes slid off the brightly lit stage and on to the dim profile of the man seated next to him. Wei Wuxian was sitting forward in his seat, attentive, reverent, enraptured by the aural spectacle unfolding around them. Even in the low light, something in his expression radiated the same wonder and awe that was mirrored on Lan Wangji’s face. It tugged something loose within Lan Wangji, and a warmth not unlike the one he remembered feeling at that very first concert pooled in his chest.

Oh.

The realization was like a cadence coming to completion; it was the final chord sliding into place and finishing the phrase that had been playing in his mind for weeks now. The Enigma theme soared slowly from the stage, as simple and profound as the moment felt. Love for the music poured from Lan Wangji faithfully, but a new theme played alongside it: an unfamiliar love that swelled tentatively inside him as the orchestra played on, unaware.

The concert wrapped up dizzyingly fast after the 9th variation. The finale earned a standing ovation from the weekday crowd; Nie Huaisang grinned at his classmates as the audience applauded with delight. Lan Wangji stood and clapped, simultaneously feeling the most grounded he’d been in ages and as if the lightest breeze could knock him off his feet. The snow hadn’t stopped when they stepped back outside. Lan Wangji wanted nothing more than to amble alongside his classmates and listen to them bask in their shared passion for their craft, but he excused himself, nodded his goodbyes, and turned towards the subway, head spinning. It was cold, and Lan Wangji buried his nose in his scarf and his hands in his pockets. Though he took a moment to decompress while standing at a crosswalk signal to catch his breath, he couldn’t shake the tune from Variations that was swimming in his head the entire duration of his commute.

There were messages waiting on his phone when he arrived at home; a one-sided commentary on the performance and a link to a video essay. His head was too full to respond. He clicked his phone off and received a funny look from his brother after answering Lan Xichen’s questions about how his evening went with variations of a noncommittal ‘mn.’

When he finally got to sleep, his bedside table lit up twice as two more messages came in.

Wei Wuxian: Lan Zhan?

Wei Wuxian: you made it home alive right?

The next morning was a Saturday, so after assuring Wei Wuxian that he was alive and well and there was no need to send a search party (though his heart did something acrobatic when he thought about Wei Ying's concern), he set his mind to compartmentalizing last night’s revelation. It wasn’t as if he doubted his emotions, but Lan Wangji wanted to be sure it wasn’t just the drama of the moment catching him in its riptide and pulling him under.

He went about his day, diligently working through coursework and going to the gym and tried to rule out his attachment as just attraction to Wei Wuxian’s talent or a fascination with the aspiring composer’s competence. He was halfway through an assignment when he realized he was mindlessly humming his part of the canon they rehearsed last week. Lan Wangji shook himself, stood to make a cup of tea, and willed himself to examine his feelings outside of the context of music.

He wanted to be sure this wasn’t just emotional bleed from the thrill of performing together, their relationship in the chamber ensemble, or their shared passion for their work. He stood by the kettle and waded straight into his thoughts as he rummaged through the tea cabinet. Other qualities he admired immediately came to mind as if they had been waiting to be drawn out from just under the surface. Wei Ying was thoughtful, he had a whip-smart sense of humor and an attention to detail that still stunned Lan Wangji. He was intelligent—Lan Wangji wasn’t above admitting that this was attractive in itself—but he was also emotionally intelligent; after just a month of knowing him, Wei Wuxian was able to understand him and his temperament in a way few people seemed to have the patience for. For someone who was so often in the spotlight, he was rarely given anyone’s real attention. It made him feel seen, the way Wei Wuxian had fit himself into his life.

Ok. Alright. Well then.

The kettle hissed. Lan Wangji pulled out his phone and typed out slow responses to the string of messages he had ignored last night.

December was always hard. There was a cruel irony to being a college student near the end of the year. Lan Wangji watched the holiday festivities pick up all around him, only to be burdened with exams and extra work at the end of the semester. He spent long nights at the library, doing homework during his shifts and emerging once the early winter dusk left only the Christmas lights and billboards illuminating Broadway.

Exam season meant the library was more populated. Wei Wuxian spent some of his evenings there after orchestra, trailing after Lan Wangji to grind out his composition coursework while Lan Wangji worked behind the front desk. He tried to focus on his own work, or on the menial tasks he had to do while manning the circulation desk—he really did—but Wei Wuxian never made it easy; his simply being there was sometimes enough to distract Lan Wangji, and he also insisted on constantly pestering him with texts, asking questions whenever he walked past, and sending screenshots of what he was composing or annotating at the moment. Lan Wangji tried to be irritated but didn’t have the heart; the shifts in the Diamond building’s windowless library went much faster with him around.

Nie Huaisang often came along, ever complaining about his homework. When he could, Lan Wangji would join them after his shift, their notebooks and chargers sprawled across whatever table they’d claimed that day. Luo Qingyang dropped by to use the printers on occasion, but they rarely saw her after orchestra rehearsals anymore. Nie Huaisang was talking about her alleged “situationship” with the hot piccolo player from the wind band as Lan Wangji sat down across from him one evening. “I don’t remember her name, I just know that she scares me a bit,” he said around a mouthful of apple before acknowledging Lan Wangji with a nod. “You’re not working anymore so you can’t yell at me for eating in here,” he added. “Have mercy on me, Lan-xiong. Also, do you remember the piccolo from band?”

Now it was Lan Wagnji’s turn to nod as he pulled his laptop out. “I worked with Wen Qing last year—”

Wei Wuxian pulled his headphones down and leaned over to join their hushed conversation. Lan Wangji tried and failed not to think about how their shoulders pressed together. “Wen Qing?! She’s the best. Alright, I’m absolutely gonna grill her about this next time I see her.” He gleefully described the collaboration they worked on last year, and Lan Wangji typed a sentence onto his document with something that definitely wasn’t jealousy.

The next time they were scheduled to rehearse the counterpoint duets, Lan Wangji had been in the practice room for two hours already. He was worn thin that week, and the solo repertoire he was practicing felt lackluster.

Wei Ying’s knock at the door came while Lan Wangji was languidly playing through a Fauré piece, and he let himself in when the music stopped. He had a strange expression where his smile usually was, and upon seeing Lan Wangji amidst the despondent notes of the Elegie that still hung in the air, it turned troubled. He stopped just inside the doorway and set his violin case on the ground. “Lan Zhan, how long have you been h— you know what, it doesn’t matter.” He was still frowning but with less concern and more conviction as he strode over and plucked the bow out of Lan Wangji’s hands and set it delicately on the music stand. Lan Wangji made a sound of confused protest, but then he was being dragged to his feet by his wrist. “You’re done for the day, and we’re getting you out of here. You look exhausted.”

Still protesting, Lan Wangji cited the perfectly adequate amount of sleep he had gotten. Wei Ying rolled his eyes. His hand was warm around Lan Wangji’s wrist. He could feel the tiny callouses the violinist had on his fingertips. “Not like, physically exhausted, Lan Zhan. I can’t imagine you’d ever look less than impeccable.” He kept pulling a startled Lan Wangji to his feet, adding “You just seem emotionally drained.”

Lan Wangji’s brain was moving at a funeral pace. He stared at Wei Wuxian.

Wei Wuxian raised an eyebrow as he firmly stared back. “I’m not having you burn out on my watch. Not while we have—” he checked his watch “— a whole two hours of daylight left. Set your cello down. Where’s your coat? We’re going to find some hot chocolate.”

Lan Wangji frowned and set his cello down gingerly while his mind struggled to catch up to the present. He glanced over at the sheet music on the stand, then back up at where Wei Wuxian was shrugging his coat back on. His mouth opened, but before he could even pose the question, Wei Wuxian waved him off and said “The canons can wait. You’re one of the most capable musicians here; you’ll be fine skipping a little practice. We’ve been playing just fine together anyways.”

Wei Wuxian dragged him out into the December air. Only once he stepped out into the sun did he realize how right Wei Ying was: Lan Wangji was tired. His hands ached and his thoughts moved slowly, so slowly that he hadn’t noticed them gradually seeping towards the murkier corners of his mind that he preferred to ignore. The past weeks had been tedious. He hadn’t allowed himself much of a break or realized how poor of a state he had been in. When Lan Wangji had applied, his brother had warned him the program would require upwards of 30 hours of practice a week, but at the time, practice was a source of routine and stability that he was quite comfortable with. Now it was… It was complicated, being exhausted doing the thing you loved most.

Before he could blink himself out of his thoughts, he had a cup of hot cocoa in his hands and was walking next to a chattering Wei Wuxian along Broadway. The man would turn and give him carefully appraising glances now and then. Lan Wangji wondered how he had guessed he was in such a fragile headspace. For the second time that day, Wei Wuxian seemed to guess the question on his mind without him having to ask it. He tugged at a zipper on his coat and said “I burnt out pretty hard last year. The whole deal. It wasn’t pretty.” He blew out a frosty breath. “S’one of the reasons I’m not a performance major.”

Lan Wangji blinked at the ground. A hand came up to his shoulder, light and comforting. He turned his head and looked at it after a moment, then raised his head to meet Wei Ying’s warm eyes. Wei Wuxian didn’t press him for an explanation, rightly assuming that Lan Wangji preferred to work through it himself. He felt hollow. He wondered how long he had felt that way. He wondered how he hadn’t noticed.

“You’re not indestructible. Doing what you do is important,” Wei Ying said seriously, “But you have to let yourself rest, too.”

“How did you…” His voice trailed off.

“Get back on my feet?” Wei Wuxian grinned wanly. “Actually, Wen Qing was the one to drag me out of it.” He patted Lan Wangji’s shoulder where his hand was, then continued walking. “You’ll be ok. I just wanted to make sure you quit while you were ahead. Plus your brother’s got your back.” He looked over his shoulder and jerked his head towards Central Park. “C’mon,” he called out to where Lan Wangji was still floundering in his thoughts.

Lan Wangji didn’t like asking for help. Being seen as competent and independent was valuable to him for reasons he should probably examine, and yes, he was admittedly a little prideful. But he wasn’t asking; he needed support and it was being offered to him freely, warmly. Wei Wuxian had seen Lan Wangji alone in the water with a storm approaching and had thrown him a buoy: one that, he decided, striding forward to catch up, he wanted nothing more than to accept.

The semester ended with a graded performance from the Juilliard Orchestra on a Monday evening. Minutes before their call time, Lan Wangji found Nie Huaisang squatting next to Wei Wuxian, who was seated on the floor of the hallway outside the greenroom backstage. Their conversation was quiet. Nie Huaisang looked wary as the violinist fidgeted with the bow in his lap, twisting it to tighten and loosen it nervously. “Huaisang, I’ll be fine,” Wei Wuxian was saying before he looked up and saw Lan Wangji.

Nie Huaisang stood and dusted off his black concert attire with a sigh. “I know. Wen Qing just asked me to keep an eye on you.” Someone called the violist’s name, and he patted Lan Wangji on the shoulder as he turned around. “Make sure he gets on stage in one piece?” he said before searching for whoever had summoned him away.

Wei Wuxian gave him a wry smile as Lan Wangji slid to sit against the wall next to him. It wasn’t hard to piece together what was going on; he recognized performance anxiety in his classmates, in his students, and in much earlier years, in his brother. Wei Wuxian looked composed but Lan Wangji could see it was taking a great effort to appear so. He was still fidgeting with his bow and seemed twitchier than usual, like he was wound tightly, ready to fight or flee at a moment’s notice. He was breathing quickly, his chest rising and falling at a fast tempo at Lan Wangji’s side. Lan Wangji sat silently, making a point of keeping his breathing slow and even, but he didn’t ask any of the questions that were in his mind. If Wei Ying wanted to talk, he wanted to make sure it was at his own speed. He fished a block of rosin out of his pocket where he had stowed it after dress rehearsal and passed it over.

Wei Wuxian seemed grateful for something to keep his hands busy. Sweeping it across his bow, he piped up and said “Shouldn’t you be with your army of cellists backstage?”

“Mn, they will be fine on their own.”

Someone wheeled extra music stands towards the stage door. Wei Wuxian set his bow down with a sigh and passed the amber block of rosin back after wrapping it in its small velvet pouch. He smelled like pine sap and something distantly spicy and warm.

He was unusually quiet. Something told Lan Wangji that Wei Ying was no stranger to pre-performance nerves and that he was managing them with what grace he could. Lan Wangji wanted to alleviate his discomfort but was all too familiar with Wei Ying’s strange reluctance when it came to accepting help, so he opted to stay quiet. He hoped the silence was a comfortable one. Lan Wangji had long since made peace with quiet; he knew as well as any musician that silence was just as important as sound in any form of music.

Where they sat against the wall, Lan Wangji shifted so he was marginally leaning against Wei Wuxian’s shoulder, less because he wanted to and more as permission for the violinist to do the same. Wei Ying let out a shaky breath before he shifted his weight against Lan Wangji and let his head rest on the cellist’s shoulder.

It made sense to him now, why even with the talent and capacity to be successful as a performance major, Wei Ying chose to avoid that route where he could. His own brother had felt the same way, adoring music in all aspects except this one. Lan Xichen was incredibly competent and made a name for himself as a music educator and did his graduate research in music therapy, but the world seemed to put orchestral musicians on a pedestal and saw their star-studded career path as the only route to success when one studied music. This was an unfounded idea, but even other musicians had a bit of a complex about it.

They sat like that until the tension bled out of Wei Wuxian’s shoulders and his breathing had slowed to a lilting adagio. Lan Wangji could hear musicians begin to warm up on stage and pried himself away from the wall with no small amount of regret before helping Wei Wuxian to his feet.

“You will be alright,” Lan Wangji said, as more of a statement than a question, but Wei Wuxian nodded in response regardless. He took one more slow breath as Lan Wangji studied his face, then picked up his instrument and bow from where he had left them to rest and made his way to the wings with his classmate.

The concert took place in Alice Tully Hall and followed the sequence of recital etiquette and formalities that, no matter how familiar they were to him, always sparked a unique excitement in Lan Wangi. The cacophony of the orchestra warming up, the silence as the lights dimmed in the house and brightened on the stage, the smattering of applause when Luo Qingyang took her place as concertmaster and set to tuning the orchestra once more before the conductor strode out to her podium. It all followed a familiar rhythm that had conditioned both the musicians and their audience to feel their respective brands of anticipation.

From his seat in front of the cello section, Lan Wangji glanced in Wei Wuxian’s direction as the conductor stepped into place. His eyes found the violinist with ease; the act of searching for him amid the orchestra was somewhat conditioned by now. Wei Wuxian met his eyes when he looked up from his music stand and gave him a small smile and a nod to answer the quiet concern Lan Wangji hadn’t realized was evident in his gaze.

The conductor raised her arms, and the orchestra dutifully launched into playing the Moldau with practiced ease.

The rest of the concert breezed past; the orchestra worked through their selected repertoire and closed the performance off with Luo Qingyang serving as the soloist to the riveting Saint-Saëns piece she chose for that semester. Lan Wangji felt a sense of pride on her behalf but was grateful he didn’t have to take up solo work to a similar degree; it seemed he had taken on more work than he could manage this semester.

Later, with his instrument tucked securely back into its case, Lan Wangji headed out the door to find his brother in the crowd that lingered in the lobby after the performance. Wei Wuxian bounded along at his elbow, every bit of his usual energy and charisma back. His smile was a comfort. Lan Wangji listened to him babble about the ups and downs of their performance. He admittedly only heard about half of what was said; the rest was swallowed by the noise of the crowd or drowned out by the voice in Lan Wangji’s head that was extolling how beautiful the violinist’s eyes were when he smiled like that.

“How about that cadenza, eh Lan Zhan? Oh! And the double-stop passage, MianMian nailed it,” he was saying.

Lan Wangji nodded sharply after realizing he hadn’t responded in a while. “Mn, Luo Qingyang is exceedingly talented,” he contributed. It was true, but it wasn’t meant as flattery. Wei Wuxian immediately dove to tease him about it, though. “Careful, Lan Zhan, she’s already taken and I wouldn’t mess with—”

“Wei Wuxian!” Hearing his name, his head snapped around, and an impish light filled his eyes. “Speak of the devil,” he whispered to Lan Wangji before addressing the duo in front of them.

“Qing-jie! On your way to shower our MianMian with flowers?”

“I already have, dumbass,”

The crowd around them cleared as they got closer to reveal an amused Wen Qing with Luo Qingyang holding a sizable bouquet at her elbow. Wei Wuxian had dashed over to tease the pair some more (‘Wen Qing, when were you going to tell me you snagged the best violinist at this place! No wonder MianMian is never around to hang out with us—’) when someone called “Wangji!” from the lobby behind him.

His brother stood smiling next to Nie Huaisang’s older brother. Lan Xichen’s warm congratulations mingled with the praise from his teachers and classmates. His brother smiled when he saw that a few of his own students had been in attendance as well. “Have you seen Huaisang?” Nie Mingjue followed up after his polite compliments. He shook his head, searching the crowd.

“Da-ge! You said you were buying this time, don’t say you forgot!” Nie Huaisang waved at them from near the entrance with Wei Wuxian in tow. Nie Mingjue sighed. “Join us for drinks?”

Xichen shook his head, already being dragged into another conversation with a past student.

A week of final exams was all that stood between the last days of class and holiday break. The string quartet had agreed to forgo meeting for the week in lieu of studying and practicing individually for finals, and with the orchestra concert behind them and classes out of session, the only time Lan Wangji saw Wei Wuxian was late in the library that Friday. He was relishing in the sense of relief that came with being done with exams for the semester—his last test had been earlier that afternoon—and helping check back in the myriad of textbooks and musical scores that students had been returning that week. Wei Wuxian had darted in and dropped a stack of music on the front desk with an energetic smile that contradicted the dark circles under his eyes. “Lan Zhan! Not heading home yet?”

“Mn, brother and I are flying out later tonight.”

“Say hello for me! To your brother, not your uncle,” Wei Ying laughed. It pleased him that Wei Wuxian had remembered his holiday plans, though Lan Wangji had been the one to bring them up earlier that week. It had mostly been to let Wei Wuxian know he would be out of town the week before their chamber recital, but he had also wanted to hear Wei Wuxian’s holiday plans in return. Lan Wangji hadn’t forgotten his downcast eyes at Thanksgiving.

He had grinned and chattered about how his siblings would be in town with their parents for a week, and how he would spend the rest of the recess with some family friends upstate. Lan Wangji knew little other than his relationship with his family was complex and tumultuous, but it pleased him to know he wouldn’t be alone.

He looked down at the stack of sheet music and began to sort it as Wei Ying rambled about the project he had been up all night finalizing. But he stopped amidst a run-on sentence about the due date, and a strange expression flickered across his face. “Ah, Lan Zhan, enough about school, it’s winter break now, no? We get a rest for once, so I’ll shut up and let you finish up here.” Lan Wangji didn’t say how listening to Wei Ying ramble was never a chore, but he did look up fondly as Wei Wuxian flicked a two-finger salute his way and rushed out the door, saying “Take care of yourself, Lan Zhan, I’ll see you in January.” Lan Wangji had never thought he’d complain about winter break being too long, but January felt very far away.

He picked the stack of music back up and flipped through the scores to file them away. Dvořák, Satie, Márquez-- Lan Wangji stopped. There were two pages tucked in the pile, paper-clipped with a red post-it note that read “For Lan Zhan! Merry Christmas”

The piece was untitled; a solo for cello in a simple meter. He blinked at the pages for a moment, staring at the line listing the composer.

Wei Wuxian’s name stared back up at him from the page.

After his shift, Lan Wangji pulled the composition back out. The winter sun had set already, and the apartment was filled with the blue glow of twilight. He flicked on a lamp to augment the glare of the street lights that filed in through the window. Lan Wangji had played original music composed by friends before but had never received a piece as a gift. This felt… He didn’t quite know. He was already in a post-finals daze, and this was adding to his strange cocktail of emotions that evening. He set it on a music stand in the apartment, carefully unpacked his cello from where the case had been standing next to his already-packed suitcase and checked the time on his phone. There was plenty of time before they had to leave for the airport; he was just waiting for his brother to return so they could call a cab.

Setting up to practice was a habitual process, and Lan Wangji focused on the rhythm of it to steady his hands and heart: Click open the clasps on the case. Tighten the bow. Set the endpin. Cursorily tune the strings. Take a breath. Level the bow above the bridge. Play.

Even before the first note sounded, Lan Wangji knew he would love the piece. With the first glance at the sheet music, he had gotten a sense of what it would sound like; the style and range and speed of it were all visible, all easily evident. The arc of the melody was sweeping and slow; Romantic with a capital R in the old sense of the word. It was exactly the kind of piece Lan Wangji would delight in, all subdued but dynamic and deceivingly simple. But even if the piece hadn’t fit his tastes, he would have loved it: Wei Ying was the writer; he put these notes on paper and breathed the melodies into existence. That was reason enough.

Beyond that, the thing that really stole Lan Wangji’s carefully held breath was that it was written for him. Wei Wuxian had taken the time to curate these notes with Lan Wangji in mind, and it was a gesture that was unimaginably sweet and so characteristic of the violinist; he was exactly the kind of person to produce such thoughtful gifts for his friends. If only he knew what his gift had meant to Lan Wangji and what it was doing to his hands as he shakily drew his bow across the strings and began to play.

He was still playing when his brother stepped through the door. “Aren’t you done for the semester?” He looked questioningly at where Lan Wangji was practicing while unwinding a scarf from his neck. Lan Wangji nodded, mind racing as he dutifully re-packaged his instrument and prepared to depart.

When he had managed to pick his thoughts up and start to untangle them during the cab ride to the airport, he pulled out his phone.

Lan Wangji: Wei Ying, thank you for the gift.

Lan Wangji: I am sorry I didn’t have a Christmas present for you

Lan Wangji stared out the window for a moment, considering how to reciprocate, now resolved to find a gift over the holiday break. His screen lit the car interior up with a response a moment later. Lan Wangji glanced over to his brother, who seemed occupied in downloading an audiobook for the flight.

Wei Wuxian: ah Lan Zhan! no need :)

Wei Wuxian: and you’re welcome! merry christmas or happy holidays and all that

The piece played in his head, looping leisurely through the melody all the way through the TSA security lines. If Lan Xichen noticed his brother’s daze, he didn’t say anything. Once he was seated at the gate, suitcase in tow, he swiped to the text conversation again.

Lan Wangji: When did you have time to write it? You had finals

Lan Wangji: I was surprised, it is not in your usual style

He didn’t expect an answer; the first question was more of an expression of concern for the composer’s seemingly irreparable sleep schedule than an actual question. He was, though, genuinely surprised and a little touched that Wei Wuxian had willingly written a piece that was so clearly not his usual genre. The response came just as Lan Wangji was boarding the plane; he was about to switch his phone off while picking his way down the aisle to his seat.

Wei Wuxian: of course not

Wei Wuxian: it’s in yours

Lan Wangji’s emotions felt too large for the tiny airplane cabin. He wanted to tuck his knees into his chest and would have curled up right then and there had he not been seatbelted into the window seat of an airplane that was heading directly away from Wei Wuxian. “It’s in yours” was a set of three words that didn’t seem very damning on their own. Lan Wangji was still embarrassingly crushed with their weight. They unintentionally confirmed that he was seen. That he was known.

The hum of the engine accompanied the music that was still ringing in his ears.

He checked his phone again the minute the plane touched down.

Wei Wuxian: did you like it? a composer needs his critics

Lan Wangji: Very much.

Lan Wangji: What is it called?

There’s a pause after this, and Lan Zhan watched as the three dots indicating that Wei Ying was typing appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again hesitantly. Uncertainty was uncharacteristic for Wei Ying, and he was left even more confused by the eventual response.

Wei Wuxian: what do you think it should be called?

Lan Wangji frowned, this wasn’t a response that required much deliberation, he took it as an indication that the composer had simply neglected to title his composition. So when the next message came, it took him by surprise.

Wei Wuxian: i did give it a name but wasn’t sure you’d like it

He didn’t dwell on it; he was honestly not certain any name that anyone put to it would properly encompass what it meant to him, certainly not any name that Wei Wuxian gave it. It was almost better to leave it nameless. He was often more comfortable leaving anything that was too large to be expressed unsaid.

The holidays passed in a haze of snow and sleep and celebration. Music overflowed into the quiet moments; fugues and duets and something sweeter all filled Lan Wangji’s ears just as often as carols and conversation and praise from family members he saw once a year. He found it funny how much easier it was to love music when it wasn’t what’s required of him, and how the minute he got a break from practicing, it was all he really wanted to do. His cello was lonelier than usual these weeks while he did his best to make use of the break he’d been given. It didn’t go unused, though, with the chamber recitals approaching in the new year and his uncle’s appraising ears closeby, he still had to play to maintain his proficiency.

Wei Wuxian never ceased texting him on and off over the break. The week between Christmas and New Years always felt like a liminal space, but at least this was a constant.

Wei Wuxian: Lan Zhan!! who’s taking care of your bunnies over break!

Lan Wangji: Nie Mingjue is over to feed them every day.

Lan Wangji: and they’re Xichen’s rabbits, really.

He was standing in an indie bookstore, waiting for his brother to pick up a novel he’d ordered. There was a stand of novelty stickers and art that he spun idly, still staring at his phone screen.

Wei Wuxian: whatever, you love them, don’t lie

Wei Wuxian: they’re gonna be so lonely

Wei Wuxian: Mingjue-ge is boring company

He looked up to see Lan Xichen softly smiling while watching him. From across the shop, his brother gave him a look that said something sweet about Wangji keeping up with his new friends. Lan Wangji returned his look with a scowl that asked his brother to mind his own business.

Lan Wangji: Brother doesn’t seem to think so.

Lan Wangji: But you can go visit them if you’re concerned

Wei Wuxian: mmm no,

Wei Wuxian: without you there to stop me i think i’d steal them away to my apartment

Wei Wuxian: and i’m pretty sure that wouldn’t go over well with my roommate. or landlord.

Lan Wangji flipped through the prints in front of him for a moment before picking up one shaped like a rabbit, thinking of Wei Ying’s sticker-plastered violin case. He ignored his brother’s knowing look when he checked out at the register.

The smile that sprung up on Wei Ying’s face when he got the chance to give him the sticker once they were back on campus later that week warmed Lan Wangji enough to forget it was January and still frigid in New York. The violinist hadn’t even waited till they got to the rehearsal hall to add it to his instrument case when he accepted the gift and had dragged Lan Wangji to a nearby bench to apply the vinyl to his collection. He felt a satisfied smile tug at the corners of his lips as he waited, listening to Wei Ying catch him up on all the happenings of his winter break.

The quartet’s last practice was more like a dress rehearsal; they were scheduled to have the recital hall to themselves to run through their repertoire and adjust to the acoustics of the new space. It also gave them a chance to make sure they could still play together cohesively after some time apart. Nie Huaisang was arguing with a stage technician but turned and gave them a Cheshire cat grin when they arrived. His inquiries after both his and Wei Wuxian’s winter breaks were sidelined when Luo Qingyang gently reminded them they only had a couple of hours to practice on stage. He made them promise they’d catch up before the new semester started and everyone got busy again.

It took near an hour to run all the movements. Though an hour was a long time to be playing, the fugues were ordered to increase in complexity, so the energy and interest of the quartet didn’t wane as they played. Luo Qingyang suggested ways to adjust their articulation to account for the acoustics in the large space.

During the slower moments, Lan Wangji looked up at Wei Wuxian whenever he got the chance to pry his eyes away from the sheet music. Chamber music was about watching your group and listening and attending to their style, so this wasn’t out of line, but Lan Wangji was extra indulgent. He watched the first violinist concentrate and emote while lilting along a phrase, watched him dip his scroll or visibly breathe to direct the timing for the rest of the quartet. He was eager to watch Wei Ying’s face after two weeks of absence, and followed as his deft fingers led them through the music.

The last four movements excluded Nie Huaisang and Luo Qingyang, so they took seats in front of the stage to watch the rest of their quartet sound check the duets. Lan Wangji turned the page on his music stand, Wei Wuxian gave a slight nod then breathed softly to signal the start. It had been two weeks since they’d rehearsed the canons together, but even now, at full performance speed, they played wordlessly in sync. Their dual lines of music rang in the near-empty hall: a subject and answer, a call and response, a cry and an echo.

Nie Huaisang wolf-whistled from his seat in the empty front row when they finished. Wei Wuxian laughed and gave an exaggerated mockery of a bow, and Luo Qingyang applauded and looked delighted. She swung back up onto the stage lightly and swiped him on the shoulder. “That was good. You trying to one-up me? The hell, Wei Wuxian.”

He snatched the sheet music back from her hands. “Oh please, you’d never let me.”

She turned to Lan Wangji with eyes full of laughter, backed by Nie Huaisang’s catcalls and applause (“Encore, that was hot, give us another!”), and Lan Wangji wondered how it was possible he had once felt lonely at this place.

The auditorium was busy that evening; a different chamber ensemble played before their group was slated to, and the crowds were overlapping. Teachers, directors, and mentors all showed up to support their students or judge their progress. Everyone else just came for the spectacle. Friends, classmates, community, and family members were welcome. Lan Wangji wove his way backstage and found his quartet conversing quietly in the wing.

They nodded their greetings. Nie Huaisang butted him with his shoulder. “Xichen-ge is here,” he whispered and gestured with his chin towards where his older brother sat with Nie Mingjue. A couple of professors were leaning across the aisle to chat with him, recognizing the man from his time at the university.

Lan Wangji smiled slightly, a close-lipped thing that only a few people would know to identify as a smile.

Wei Wuxian seemed to be one of those few and followed his line of sight to see Lan Xichen. “Such a supportive older brother,” he whispered with something like guilt shaping a frown on his forehead.

Lan Wangji studied his face in the dark wing and stopped himself from smoothing the expression off his brow. He seemed otherwise quite composed, though his grip on his instrument was tense and he fidgeted on his feet. This was less formal than a true concert; both the crowd and the recital hall were smaller. But a more intimate setting and a less intimidating audience might not compensate for the fact that this was a higher stakes performance; it was only the four of them in the battle against the silence rather than a whole orchestra. Lan Wangji didn’t know what Wei Ying’s performance anxiety entailed, but he knew that talking it out hadn’t done much to help his brother back in their years of playing alongside each other. He contented himself with silently watching the violinist rock on the balls of his feet and stare out of the wing at the crowd. He was there to give whatever was needed, would do whatever was wanted if Wei Wuxian allowed him to help. He only needed to ask.

But he knew Wei Wuxian wouldn’t ask and would act like he didn’t need to. Perhaps that was a good thing; it almost scared Lan Wangji, how much he was willing to do and how much he was willing to give for the brilliant, perplexing musician in front of him.

His eyes traced the dim profile of the violinist in the quiet minutes before they stepped on stage, and though Lan Wangji would never ask, he wondered what it was that Wei Wuxian wasn’t saying. Silence was just as important as sound when it came to music; what people don’t express is often equally as charged with importance as what they do allow themselves to say.

When the lights dimmed in the house and brightened on the stage, the din of the crowd quieted enough for him to hear Wei Ying’s breath hitch. Luo Qingyang and Nie Huaisang stepped out of the wings. Wei Wuxian stepped to follow them, bow and instrument in one hand, but Lan Wangji snatched at his wrist.

“You will be ok,” he said softly, willing his eyes to say the rest: because I am here. Because you are talented. Because you are brilliant. Because you are brave. Once again, it was more of a statement than a question, but Wei Wuxian swallowed and nodded anyway. They joined the musicians where they were arranged in a half-circle at center stage.

The crowd hushed when the quartet lifted their instruments and readied themselves, poised like animals primed to pounce. Nie Huaisang nodded at Luo Qingyang. She lifted her bow, and the quartet breathed as one before the silence was broken, and the first notes were dragged expertly into existence.