Chapter Text
Lan Wangji is not unaware of her reputation. She does notice the way people stiffen when she walks into the room, cut off their conversations. As she walks into the student symphony orchestra’s first rehearsal of the year, she notices it all over again. Cold, creepy, robotic, scary, bitch – she’s heard it all, occasionally to her face.
This reputation doesn’t bother her. It leaves her free to practice, work and write in peace. It would be improper to be overly modest and say she isn’t worthy of the way people look at her. She is incredibly skilled, and they know that. It means that, even though she’s only a section leader, the music directors of the orchestra ask her advice about which pieces to choose. It means that when Oliver, the conductor, had a family emergency, it was Lan Wangji who was asked to step up for this first rehearsal.
The drone of tuning instruments sends a shiver of anticipation humming up her spine. She has always loved that sound, the sense of potential in those notes, the promise of all that might come next.
Wangji stands at the front of the room, and eyes turn to her before she even raises her voice, a wave of silence spreading across the room. She meets the eyes of those who were there last year, her section mates in the strings. People she can work with, who will follow her direction regardless of what they think about her personally, regardless of the fact that she isn’t supposed to be conducting.
“My name is Lan Wangji,” she says. Her name is not without note, given her family’s standing. It’s still strange to hear the total silence that descends when she speaks it aloud.
“We’ll start with the Elgar. First movement. I am the interim conductor. Oliver may change some of the direction. Be flexible.”
It’s one of the more familiar pieces on the roster this semester, something many will be able to sight read if they haven’t done their homework and looked at it in advance, or don’t simply know it already. It’s for Oliver to work on the challenging things; this week is about cohesion and getting everyone playing together, blending dozens of instruments into a single unit. They won’t achieve this today, but Wangji knows they must step towards it before they can achieve anything else. She knows what this orchestra needs, even if this is not her planned role.
When everyone is done shuffling their music, she raises her hand. The whole room takes a collective breath in, almost imperceptible. It’s like magic.
They aren’t even four bars in when the doors at the back of the hall burst open and a woman practically runs in. She stops short when she sees the orchestra in full swing, Lan Wangji’s hand beating steady time despite the interruption, and she half grins, half grimaces in a way that might be apologetic. Wangji gives her a steady stare in return, letting her disapproval be felt.
To her dismay, the girl simply breaks into a full smile and gives her a little wave. Wangji’s years of careful practice let her maintain control in the face of this unanticipated attack, and she quickly returns her full attention to the score and dozens of musicians before her - musicians who understand and respect the concept of discipline. Musicians who are punctual, even if they are less pretty than the latecomer.
Wangji brushes serenely over that thought like she’s smoothing gravel in a zen garden and looks to the brass to bring them in, focusing on the music. As the piece continues she relaxes into the process, letting the music flow through her mind and fingers. It’s a satisfaction like no other, to have the whole orchestra respond to her every motion, every glance. The simple but magnificent theme rises here in the strings, there in the woodwind. Even as the dynamics shift the energy never stops building, until they reach the final, triumphant chord at the end of the section. It hums through her whole body.
She closes her hand to cut the musicians off and listen to the reverb fade away. Once it does, before she can move or speak, clapping breaks the silence. Her eyes, along with those of the whole orchestra, snap to the source, which is of course the pretty latecomer, who has tucked her fully assembled flute into her belt so she can applaud.
“That was great!” she exclaims. Wangji levels another glare at her, before flicking her gaze meaningfully to the wind section, where - yes, there’s an empty chair. The girl’s mouth drops open, her eyes widen, the very picture of innocence, but it isn’t going to work on Wangji, even if she’s one of those people who seem to be blessed by the heavens with perfect cheekbones, thick, artfully messy hair and round, red lips. “Ah, sorry,” she says, making her way to the seat. “So sorry. Please forgive my lateness.”
Wangji doesn’t watch her as she goes, turning back to the orchestra. “Very good,” she says. “Well watched. I have a few notes.”
She isn’t lying. She won’t praise where it isn’t earned, and she won’t hold back when improvements need to be made. In that way, it’s better to have the reputation she does. She has heard people gossiping about conductors being too harsh, and this is doubly true when that conductor is someone the musician is on friendly terms with. This will not be an issue for her. She can be clear with her expectations and not worry about hurting anyone’s feelings unduly. The musicians listen to her, pencils scratching on scores while the late flautist busies herself tying up her hair. When Wangji sees her clamping a red ribbon between her teeth as she wrestles with her tresses, she only just manages not to pause in the middle of a sentence. She makes it to the end before she has to clear her throat minutely. The girl looks up at this and grins through the ribbon. The hair tie and her lips are the only bursts of colour on her; she’s dressed in all black as if she knows it will make the scarlet stand out more. Wangji looks away.
“From the top,” she says.
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees that girl spin her flute flamboyantly before raising it to her mouth. Wangji clenches her jaw, takes a breath, and raises her hand. She wills herself to be drawn back into the music and stop ruminating on the shape of a flautist’s lips as they blow.
After the rehearsal, the orchestra goes to the pub.
This is not entirely true. After the rehearsal, seemingly the entire orchestra except for Wangji goes to the pub on the uni campus. Even the sound of the hubbub that bursts out through the doors when she walks past exhausts her; it must be unbearable inside. While the others wander off in that direction in little groups, she’ll be heading home and getting some more work done.
As she leaves the hall, though, she’s ambushed.
The flautist in black appears before her like some kind of ghost. A hungry ghost baring its white teeth in a smile to entice its victims in.
“Zhihui!” she says, the smile not diminishing a bit. “Are you coming for a drink?”
Wangji stares at her. “I'm not the conductor.” She would have known that if she had been on time.
“Oh,” she says, before switching to Mandarin. “You can see how I would think that though, given that you were conducting.” She practically pouts at this injustice before the smile returns with full force. “Hey! I should introduce myself. Wei Wuxian.” She sticks out her hand.
Wangji looks down at it, then back up at Wei Wuxian. She doesn’t move to take the hand, and after a moment, the girl pulls it back to twirl her hair in a way that is possibly supposed to be charming.
“Ahah, I should say, I’m new here. I just think it would be good to get to know some people. And you seem like an interesting person. So I thought if you come to the pub, we can sit together and talk a bit!”
Wangji considers this. The pub will be loud. This girl, on her own, is incredibly loud, in every way. She says, “no.”
Wei Wuxian’s face falls at last. “Ah. Okay, okay. It's just that I wanted more friends like you.” Wangji has no idea how to take that. She moves to walk past Wei Wuxian and out the door, but before she can Wei Wuxian says, “Wait, wait, zhihui! Will you at least tell me your name, since I told you mine?”
This does seem polite. “Lan Wangji.”
“Ahhh, Lan Wangji!” Wei Wuxian’s eyes widen but Wangji is already pushing through the doors and escaping into the sweet night air.
From behind her, she hears, “It was nice to meet you, Lan Wangji!”
She isn’t sure what possesses her to turn back around. There’s a certain disbelief. Most people, once they learn who she is or how she is, do not keep pushing her like Wei Wuxian has. Most people don't actively seek out people “like her,” whatever that means, or act as if her company is something enjoyable. But here is Wei Wuxian, beaming and waving, framed in the door and limned by the golden light spilling from the hall.
“See you next week!”
Wangji replies, “Be punctual.” Then she turns, determined to leave.
Wei Wuxian calls out, “Huh? You aren’t the conductor, right? Who says you can tell me what to do?”
A good question. One Wangji has no response for. She keeps moving.
It's not that Wangji is dwelling on this girl. She's only still thinking about Wei Wuxian two hours later, during her nightly yoga routine, when her mind is supposed to be quiet and focused on breathing, because there's something about her name. Has she heard it before? She definitely doesn’t go to the conservatoire where Wangji studies. She would have remembered meeting someone like her. Someone so… distracting.
Wangji does not have time for distractions. She doesn't have space in her carefully structured and planned life for girls who run late and wink at her and try to make her go to the pub, and she certainly can't afford to spend her thoughts replaying Wei Wuxian telling her her name, and the way her mouth fell loose around the sound of it.
She chalks it up to seeing Wei Wuxian written on the list of orchestra members. Another Chinese name would stick in her mind subconsciously. Assured, she takes in a breath, sweeps the thought away, and switches to the next pose.
The next week, when Wangji arrives at rehearsal her usual ten minutes early, Wei Wuxian is already sitting on the edge of the stage, twirling her flute. She smiles as bright as the sun and waves.
Mn, thinks Wangji.