Chapter Text
The air was still as Lan Zhan entered the concert venue, violin case bumping against the small of her back. She always appreciated that about concert venues, the absolute stillness they held outside performance nights, almost like a dramatic pause, as if waiting in quiet anticipation for the chorus to start. The first of 6 rehearsals and Lan Zhan was nervous. She had no reason to be, she’d been singing in choirs all her life and been participating in the Gusu People’s Choir for almost 7 years. A collaboration between her choir and the Yiling Local Choir from the town over didn’t sound too daunting and singing wise, but no matter how much practice she’d gained since she was a child, a part of her stomach still tensed at the thought of meeting new people.
She allowed herself to take a moment in the empty entranceway. An entry desk, files neatly lined up by the computer, a gold plaque or two on the wall remarking a music achievement of some kind, the red carpet – the thin, compressed kind that was slightly scratchy if you ran your hand along it. It was serene. Lan Zhan was serene. She closed her eyes, let her mind become blank from her worries, let the stress she’d experienced the last week as a paralegal solicitor leave her body. It was the weekend, and she needed the release singing had always brought her.
The corridors to the rehearsal hall were comforting, tall concrete walls with high up windows that admitted slants of light to fall in squares onto the carpet. As she reached to door to the back of the rehearsal room Lan Zhan let her mind wonder what the soloist picked for the Local Choir would be like. Lan Zhan had been picked as the female soloist for her choir for this concert, although she had to admit she had been expecting it, being the most confident and experienced in the choir, their choir master usually favoured her for solos.
When she entered, the rehearsal room was dark. She’d entered from the back where the audience seats were plunged in a pitch black, the only light coming from the wide spotlight window that shone directly above the stage. Like always Lan Zhan was early, only a few others were already there, volunteering to set up chairs and stands before the rehearsal started.
Despite being a part of the choir for 7 years, she’d never really formed a proper relationship with any of the other choristers apart from their director. Everyone there was kind, they never judged her for her silence or her awkwardness, even today they smiled warmly and welcomed her into setting up in the usual routine; yet Lan Zhan never seemed to be able to build anything further, as with most people she met, there seemed to be a solid wall blocking her from forming any meaningful friendship with others. There had been a time where perhaps that had been possible, but for Lan Zhan that was long in the past.
She couldn’t complain though, perhaps the other members of her choir didn’t understand her, but they never ostracised her. They accepted her quirks and Lan Zhan felt more appreciated here than anywhere else. So, she let herself be swept up in the kind smiles and small talk that defined pre-rehearsal preparation as the seats slowly began to fill up and people she didn’t recognise introduced themselves. Soon the hall was filled with the low hum of greetings and the rustling of paper and music stands.
Just before the rehearsal was about to begin, the director pulled her aside. Yanling Daoren was small, his linen shirts always drowned him regardless of how fitted they seemed. He had the posture of someone who was trained to take great pride in looking presentable and yet never seemed to notice the holes developing in the elbows of his jumpers or the scuffs that ran across his shoes. Age lined his face, seemingly developing a new wrinkle each time they sang a mistake. Despite this his cheeks filled out with redness and his slight stumbling shyness created a unanimous sense of endearment towards him across the choir. Lan Zhan had always felt a sort of kinship with him. As well as respect for the absolute precision he aspired to when it came to the choir.
“Good morning, Lan Wangji! Exciting isn’t it? To be meeting the other choir.” He mumbled brightly to her.
Lan Zhan nodded mutely. She might be daunted socially, but the opportunity to collaborate with a choir and sing in a concert hall such as this one was exciting, especially with the line-up the Yanling Daoren had released to them last week.
“Anyway, how are you for your solo?”
He gazed at her genially as she spoke:
“I am fine. I have been listening to a recording and practising what I can from the music sheet you gave me.”
“Good, good, that’s great! Glad to hear that. Normal procedure, we will run through it today to get everyone acquainted with the backing vocals, so no need for perfection. Of course, you are very competent so you will be fine.” Lan Zhan nodded, he rambled on, “and of course we’ll give it a run through a couple of times after rehearsal. The yiling soloist should be joining us after too and rehearse hers. Mo Xuanyu, I believe she is called.”
Again, Lan Zhan nodded. This was routine. Most of this she already knew from the many years of being in the choir.
“Speaking of Mo Xuanyu, I was speaking to Baoshan Sanren – yiling’s director – and we’re worried that there may be a gap in the concert schedule. We were considering if you were up to a performing a duet with Mo Xuanyu so we could up the timings a little.”
Lan Zhan paused. Yanling Daoren fidgeted a little nervously, tapping his fingers against the side of his trousers, before speaking again.
“Of course, I understand that its a lot to ask with your solo and violin parts already. And you haven’t met Mo Xuanyu yet either. But we thought a duet would be nice and you and Mo Xuanyu are already staying behind to practice…”
His sentence petered off with a cough as he waited for her to respond. She was flattered, but running through her mental calendar Lan Zhan felt stressed already without having another piece to practice on top. Her firm had an important court case coming up that she’d been assigned to, extra hours would definitely be required.
“I am unsure. I expect to be become busy with work this month. It would depend on what I am to perform.”
“Hmmm, yes, of course. We were thinking perhaps something you both already know? We’ve brainstormed a few ideas. How free are you today? How about we discuss it after rehearsal and go through a run or two?”
Hesitant, Lan Zhan said rather monotone, “I have no locked plans today.”
“That’s it then. I’ll get Baoshan Sanren to introduce you two at the break and we’ll go over a piece or two later.” He nodded as if assured and smiled with his eyes in a way that made them scrunch up and added a mischievous glint to them and walked off to get the rest of the choir in order. Lan Zhan stood at the edge of the stage for a second, getting the sense that (despite giving no affirmative answer) she’d now been fully roped into yet another performance, before returning to the seat she’d reserved with the rest of the altos.
Despite Lan Zhan’s concerns, the rehearsal was actually really fun. It turned out that Yanling Daoren had been student under Baoshan Sanren when he was studying music at university, although you would have never guessed it given how young and glamorous Baoshan Sanren looked. The joint choir found their dynamic entertaining, after being used to being gently but firmly chastised by Yanling Daoren during previous rehearsals, it was amusing to see him switch from absolute confidence when directing to mumbles whenever Baoshan Sanren criticised him. Lan Zhan didn’t quite know what to make of Baoshan Sanren, she was certainly a formidable lady, someone who had made a major name for herself in the music industry. She had a sharp humour and Lan Zhan could never tell if she was really joking or not, but she seemed to have a close relationship with the Yiling Local Choir, sparring jokes between them and knowing exactly what would encourage them.
An example of said sparring matches happened just after they’d finished the final run of her solo piece, about an hour in to the 3hrs they were scheduled to rehearse for. She’d been midway through singing the second verse when the door at the back of the hall flung open in the corner of her eye. The sudden flash of light it brought to the darkness of the unlit audience stalls caught her attention and she caught the silhouette of someone running through the stalls towards the stage. A glimpse of dark curly hair flung into a ponytail shadowed by the room’s dimness was all she allowed herself before averting her eyes and trying to focus on the music sheet in front of her. It was a little difficult with all shuffling and shifting coming from the soprano section, surely a consequence of this latecomer. In her head she frowned, how could you be an hour late.
After the song had concluded and Lan Zhan returned to her seat, Baoshan Sanren had stood up and was glaring in the direction of the soprano section.
“Mo Xuanyu!” Her arms were crossed and an eyebrow was raised, “What time do you call this?” Sharp as her voice was, Baoshan Sanren added slightly playfully; “this might be a record lateness, even for you!”
A voice called out from what Lan Zhan thought was the back of the soprano section, not sounding at all apologetic.
“Sorry, you know how it is, time just evaded me!”
Lan Zhan turned her head, trying to discern the person who the voice belonged to and who would be her apparent duet partner but all she could see through the heads of choir members was the dark curly hair.
Baoshan Sanren’s eyebrow seemed to raise even higher, “You better be sorry!” Her glare was intense and unfaltering, presumably holding Mo Xuanyu’s eyes for a second before turning away and dismissively shrugging; “You better make up for it by singing better than perfect.”
To Lan Zhan’s surprise, Mo Xuanyu called back, somehow sounding even cheerier and seemingly disregarding any of the scolding Baoshan Sanren had given her.
“Of course. When have I not?” Eliciting annoyed sighs and tired chuckles across the choirs and if you looked closely, a hint of amusement seemed to strike Baoshan Sanren’s eyes.
If Lan Zhan had been 14, she’d have been horrified at the blatant disregard for authority, but now, at 25, she’d learnt how to find amusement in these situations. No. She’d been taught to find amusement, taught by someone who had a similar disregard for the unspoken rules of respecting authorities and a similar streak of tardiness. A familiar pang of longing overcame her, the same feeling that threatened to overcome her everyday, that threatened to pull her back into desolation and grief. The familiar reminder of what she had lost, who she had lost. But just like the familiarity of old wounds, she had practice with healing over them, suppressing the hurt and clearing her mind. She had to focus on the here and now. She took a deep breath that various counsellors had shown her to do, held it and let go. She pushed her feet into the floor, letting her feel the ground against her feet, swept her hand across the worn parchment of the sheet music, taking in the subtle texture it gave against her fingertips. They’d started another song, and she allowed her mind to drift into it.
Lan Zhan lost herself to the rest of the rehearsal. She loved singing in a choir. There was something about the collaboration of singing with others, having voices sing in harmony to her own. Her voice would disappear into the collective and out of it came something beautiful.
To her, there was a kind of magic to it, something godlike. When Lan Zhan had been younger, an astute Christian and committed chorister at her uncle’s cathedral, she’d been told that singing was what brought you closest to the Holy Spirit. At 25, her understanding of Christianity heavily changed, she still felt there was something otherworldly about the connection singing with others brought.
Yes, it was tedious, resinging a particular line seven times until Yanling Daoren was satisfied. Yes, there was never a practice that ended on time, everyone weary and annoyed at the director’s strict perfectionism by the end. But that was part of the experience. Being in a choir was something she loved. Something she relied upon. The only tool of expression presented to her in childhood. It allowed her to escape, lifted her spirits.
For once, rehearsal ended on time – maybe it was because it was only the first and the directors hadn’t yet panicked that their vision will not be seen through. Perhaps it was due to the relaxed atmosphere that mixing the choirs brought. As everyone cleared out to the kitchen and break room area, she waited behind, packing up her violin and gathering the small homemade lunch she had bought with her as she’d be staying later and past her scheduled lunchtime. Just as Lan Zhan was making her way towards kitchen to brew the green tea she had brought with her, she was stopped by the door leading out of hall by a familiar face that belonged to one of the two bodies that had lingered to chat by the exit.
“Lan Wangji! Fancy seeing you here!” She blinked, she wasn’t expecting to see Nie Huaisang here. Growing up, he’d been the clumsy server at the cathedral that had always trailed behind…
She blinked again in shock, Nie Huaisang had famously been terrible at singing despite the many auditions for the cathedral choir his older brother had forced upon him. Why was he at Lan Zhan’s choir rehearsal?
He continued, unconcerned by Lan Zhan’s lack of response, “are you part of Gusu’s People’s Choir? I think I remember Lan Xichen mentioning that you were part of a choir.”
“Yes.” She replied shortly. Then remembering that she should be polite to someone whose practically her brother-in-law, for Lan Xichen’s sake. “Forgive me, but I didn’t see you in rehearsal. Do you sing now?”
Ever flamboyant, Nie Huaisang waved his hand dramatically, “Oh no, no. That was never my forte, Baoshan Sanren needed someone for percussion, so she called me in as a favour. Put right at the back though.”
Lan Zhan nodded, unsure what to say, she wanted to go make her tea and eat her lunch whilst she still had the chance but instead she was stuck talking to someone that she’d always assumed she’d only ever have to meet when her brother was there to fill in the awkward silences.
Rather fragmented, “How is Nie Mingjue?” She asked.
“Well don’t ask me, you’d be better asking your brother, da-ge never tells me anything. You know how he is, forever overbearing and over concerned about me.”
Nie Huaisang guestered her out of the hall, walking her towards the kitchen, “Come, let’s join everyone in the break room, Yiling Choir has some amazing people, let me introduce you.”
Lan Zhan held back a sigh, Nie Huaisang knew that she hated meeting new people.
“You should spare yourself the trouble.”
“Oh, come on now, I know you hate socialising, but I don’t think you’ll regret this one.” He replied breezily. Nie Huaisang had changed a lot since she’d first met him, scrawny, spluttering and a little loser-ish. The confident, boldly dressed man who sashayed before her, somehow always in the knowledge of every happening was drastically different from the boy who’d spilled the wine over her uncle during the Eucharist, although his desire for gossip had never changed. Lan Zhan furrowed her eyes at him, she had a feeling he was up to something again.
They’d made it to the break room, people huddling in small groups engaging in conversation and circling the coffee table at the back of the room that had been laid out with biscuits and cakes.
“Lan Wangji!” Her director called her over. Really, she just wanted to make her tea and eat her lunch. “Let me introduce Baoshan Sanren.” He continued, pulling her into a conversation with the Yiling Choir Director.”
“This is our Lan Wangji! I mean you heard her sing earlier, isn’t it beautiful?”
Baoshan Sanren extended her hand, “It’s lovely to meet you, Lan Wangji. I’m very excited to work with you from all the praise A-Daoren has spoken of you.”
Lan Zhan took her hand, wishing she didn’t have to , she didn’t like touching people when she was in crowds. “I look to forward to working with you too. I thoroughly enjoyed your Requiem your released.”
Baoshan Sanren raised her eyebrows, “Oh, you do, do you? A-Daoren here, tells me he hates it.”
“You are mistaken; I never said that! I purely stated that I felt the translation could do with a little editing.” Yanling Daoren spluttered.
“It’s insinuating that you hate it.” She said coldly.
“Ignore her, she’s always like this when I criticise her work, but she knows I’m right.”
Baoshan Sanren, ignoring Yanling Daoren, directed the conversation back to Lan Zhan, Yanling Daoren rolled his eyes, “Lan Wangji, you must meet Mo Xuanyu; after hearing you sing this morning, I am sure you two will perfect for a duet. Let me go find her.”
Baoshan Sanren looked around the room, muttering to herself, “where is that idiot?” Before stalking off into the crowd.
Left alone with her director, he leaned into to Lan Zhan, “Don’t worry, she means it endearingly.”
“Mn.” Was all Lan Zhan could think to say, distracted by something beyond Baoshan Sanren where was walking to. She thought she’d seen something in the corner of her eye, it weighed on her with urgency, but she couldn’t find the reason for it.
“You know as a teacher and a conductor, I always found her so intimidating, but as you’ll come to realise too, she’s pettier than the rest of us…” Yanling Daoren was rambling about Baoshan Sanren but Lan Zhan could not find it in her to listen, breaking one of her uncle’s rules that had been drilled into her. She was too distracted by the echoes of conversations that surrounded her, their jagged rhythms causing irritation to flare up inside her. Her eyes were glued to Baoshan Sanren and where she was going with little understanding as to why it felt so important that she followed who Baoshan Sanren convened with. She was losing her grounding on the present.
That was when she heard it. A sharp laughter that carried above the hum of conversation. Lan Zhan straightened. Tense.
It can’t be.
Eyes searching for the source of the sound, she traced her eyes ahead to where Baoshan Sanren was headed. They landed on curly hair. The same curly hair that had dashed through empty audience seats just hours ago.
It can’t be.
Lan Zhan took a step forward. Eyes trained on the figure with curly hair. Baoshan Sanren had arrived stopping in front of the figure which turned its head to talk to her. Revealing its side profile.
It can’t be.
The shape of her nose. The raise of her eyebrows. Lan Zhan’s stomach sank then danced upward like a kite finding wind. She was wearing a faded grey t-shirt with the arms cut-out and denim shorts. Lan Zhan’s breath was caught in her throat. In her hair was a red ribbon tied around her ponytail – just like when she was a teenager.
Wei Ying.
Baoshan Sanren said something, and the figure smiled, mouth wide and face open and Lan Zhan had doubt in her mind who it was.
Wei Ying, it’s you.
The thrill of thighs touching, separated only by cassocks, as they huddled for bible discourse in crampt corners of the church. Eyes that found each other, always searching for the other’s reaction before the pull of shyness averted them. Eyes filled with mirth and a confidence, that despite being 2 years older, she could never muster an equal to. A confidence that drew her in, it magnetised her, sort her out; it should have been too much, been too cocky, made her blanch in irritation and her skin crawl – and it had - and yet, she couldn’t help longing for something more from her. Like a foreign flavour, it started out bitter and overwhelming and she swore vehemently against tasting it ever again, but somehow, she ended continuing to eat it and somewhere along the line she’d grown used to it, started to crave it.
There was such an innocence to those days. Days spent of Wei Ying laughing, a charisma that followed her through her flurry of tardiness and popularity. To Lan Zhan, awkward and repressed and awfully teenage, Wei Ying felt like a tornado and everything seemed to get swept up in it. Wei Ying would smile at her beneath stone arches, eyes searching, begging for a reaction, and when Lan Zhan could only hopelessly stare, fist clenched, Wei Ying would falter. Tornado both quieting and worsening somehow; leaving Lan Zhan’s mind a mess, chaotic and incoherent as it tried to ignore the inkling of a feeling that dared louder and louder to surface itself in Lan Zhan’s mind each time she tried to sweep it away.
Sometimes though, the tornado would calm, moments of quiet, though rare back then. Lan Zhan would find herself sitting beside Wei Ying in old church pews waiting for a service to begin, or walking up the hill together after choir practice ended and the sky had darkened. Moments that felt like gemstones to Lan Zhan. Wei Ying would shed her flurry of excitement and brazenness, replacing it with hesitance and soft hand brushes. Under leaves spotlighted with the yellow glow of old street-lamps, they might walk in silence. Or maybe Wei Ying would chatter endlessly but passionately and honestly, and Lan Zhan, distracted by supple skin tracing over her knuckles, would answer cautiously.
The leaves would sway, and Lan Zhan would be mesmerised by the fractions of light shining through their translucent, turning green a radiant yellow thing that showcased so many veins and pores. After rain, the air on that hill would smell earthy and fresh, its scent would still clog Lan Zhan’s nose to the present day. Raindrops would cascade between leaves like chimes of the xylophone. If Lan Zhan dared, she’d allow herself a glimpse of Wei Ying. Wei Ying whose ponytail would have fallen out by half, her black hair shining purple under the streetlights. Wei Ying whose eyes, caked in mascara and smudged black eye makeup, would when she spoke. Wei Ying who would turn her head and meet Lan Zhan’s eyes with a gentle smile when they were quiet. Wei Ying with her t-shirts of daring slogans and short skirts and fishnets. She was too much. Lan Zhan found her too much and she’d have to look away.
Lan Zhan treasured those moments. Lonely, cold, friendless Lan Zhan. She knew what the everyone called her. These moments, though far and in between, had such a peacefulness, a meaningfulness that seemed to acknowledge her differences in their quiet crevices in a way that made Lan Zhan feel safe. It struck a chord within her. Perhaps it was an escape for her, for the both of them, a chance to pretend they were living different lives. An escape from the ever-deafening sadness and unnatural stillness that permeated Lan Zhan’s home, the duty she had as the bishop’s niece, the grief she felt for her mother, and a complicated hatred that was growing at an absent father. She held onto those moments like a lifeline, like a breath underwater; the glances, the touches, Wei Ying’s smile.
Wei Ying in-turn, escaped from her character of herself, a break from the rule pushing, dazzling personality that laughed loud to hide the disagreements she had with her brother, and what Lan Zhan always suspected but Wei Ying never admitted, the growing tensions between her and her foster family.
Moments that were short-lived and yet seemed eternal, like they would keep forever, droplets would continue to fall through the leaves and the sun would never rise.
It was a time filled with heavy emotions, none of which Lan Zhan was able to understand or identify, only to feel. Feel deeply. Lan Zhan entered adolescence with the ground giving way beneath her feet. The air was rife with political uncertainty, setting everyone’s teeth on edge and Lan Zhan was distracted by a girl who’d broken every single rule and understanding she had of the world. She was angry, she was scared, she was confused. So confused. So, she acted rashly. Pushed Wei Ying away, cut her off, trying to maintain the only secure she’d ever had. But then she’d see Wei Ying whispering with friends before the conductor started, secretly passing sweets between the others during the service, she’d see Wei Ying laughing with her siblings as they’d walk home and a stab of jealously would spread through her. Envious and lonely.
They were teenagers, and looking back, Lan Zhan couldn’t fault either of them for how they’d acted in the end.
They slid through each other’s fingers; understanding there was something there they should cling to but never quite daring to grasp. Their interactions felt like music, a plucking of a string, a facade of shallowness that in reality reverberated through them like the hollows of an instrument. There was a purity, a thrill between the torment, that only existed through a yellow tinted glow, a dazed fuzziness of a desire to want but an inability to understand what that fully entailed.
She swallowed. “Wei Ying.”
Her body froze, abruptly pausing mid sentence. A second. Two seconds. Lan Zhan could feel her heart pounding against her ribcage. Wei Ying turned, smiled plastered, ponytail swinging and Lan Zhan was locked in place.
“Lan Zhan!” Ecstatic. Energetic. Just a little too much. “What are you doing here?”
She was bouncing on her toes, twiddling with her fingers, eyes dancing on the floor, failing to meet Lan Zhan’s.
“I haven’t see-”
“Wei Ying.” She repeated, harder, not able to entirely hide the disquiet of her mind.
Wei Ying’s smile dropped, mouth pursed from interruptions and finally did her eyes reach Lan Zhan’s. Silver specked irises, dimmed a little but just as beautiful as when she’d first met them. Now they held permanent eye bags beneath them and the beginnings of smile lines in the corners. Her cheeks has thinned, lost their baby fat, cheekbones more prominent. The makeup on her eyes was intricate, at least to Lan Zhan, bold but precise lines marked their way from her waterline with a dot of red eyeshadow. She’d improved. A rise of envy, of longing swept through Lan Zhan, irrational though it was, at the idea that she’d not been there to see these changes happen to Wei Ying. That she’d missed Wei Ying grow. That she missed Wei Ying. She searched her eyes, her face, her clothes, her hair. Unable to do anything but take her in, caught in Wei Ying’s fishing line.
Once when Lan Zhan was small, left alone to entertain herself she’d spotted a bug crawling across her floorboard. It was tiny, barely bigger than a speck of dust. She’d watched it crawl round and round in circles seemingly lost in the great expense of her floorboard, unaware of the giant watching over its every step. She wondered if that’s what she looked like now, a tiny creature lost under the expense of Wei Ying’s gaze.