Work Text:
Wei Wuxian didn’t just live music - he breathed it.
By the age of twenty-four, he had already become a virtuoso. The moment he stepped onto the stage with his violin, the hall would freeze in anticipation. His smile was disarming, and his energy seemed enough for ten men. True chaos always unfolded around him: he was late for rehearsals, lost expensive bows, charmed taxi drivers, and made friends in coffee lines. Critics idolized him, calling him the "phenomenon of the generation" and predicting a brilliant future. Orchestras lined up to offer contracts, and socialites dreamed of ending up in his arms.
Now, standing in the empty, semi-darkened hall before the start of the evening rehearsal, he felt anticipation and incredible excitement.
In two months, Wei Wuxian was to present his new aria to the world. It was called "Song of the Wandering Soul" and was written in memory of his mother. This piece was meant to be the pinnacle of his creative journey.
"One more time," he exhaled, brushing a damp lock of hair from his forehead.
He had been bringing his score to absolute perfection over the last year, sacrificing sleep and food. Wei Ying demanded the impossible from himself and worked himself to the bone, unable to stop. It seemed to him that if he loosened his grip for even a moment, something incredibly valuable would slip from his fingers, something he could never get back.
"Wei Wuxian, ready? We start with the adagio," the conductor's voice sounded soft but demanding.
Wei Ying nodded, smiling habitually, and raised the violin to his shoulder.
The first measures filled the hall. Wei Ying’s fingers flew professionally over the fingerboard. He gave the orchestra a slight signal, preparing for the climax, and in that moment, something went wrong. A sharp pain suddenly pierced his chest. Wei Wuxian inhaled to pick up his vocal part, but instead of a pure note, only a hoarse cough tore from his throat. His fingers went slack, and the bow fell to the floor with a dull thud.
A quiet murmur rose in the hall. Someone jumped up from their seat; others looked around helplessly, not knowing what to do. Wei Ying, gathering his last reserves of strength, raised his hand, trying to calm the orchestra. He needed to exit this situation with dignity, without turning his sudden ailment into a tragedy. But in the next second, he collapsed to the floor, his consciousness clinging to one single thought until the end: The violin. Just don't break the violin.
He woke up in a hospital room. He tried to smile at the doctor, to blurt out something cheerful as always to diffuse the tension, but all he could squeeze out was a quiet moan.
Dr. Wen towered over him. The doctor's face was professionally impassive, but fatigue could be read in his eyes.
"You had acute heart failure brought on by chronic exhaustion. Fortunately, we were able to stabilize you," he reported in a dry tone without preamble.
Wei Ying waved his hand weakly. "So... just overwork? Great. When is the discharge? I have a concert in a couple of months..."
Dr. Wen sat on the edge of the chair and clasped his fingers together.
"Listen to me carefully. You have atypical cardiomyopathy, complicated by fibrosis of the left ventricle. The process is irreversible... therefore, all we can offer you now is palliative care."
Wei Ying felt the space around him shrink to the size of the hospital bed.
"What... what does that mean?" his voice trembled treacherously.
"It means your heart is working at its limit. Any stress or strain on the body could be fatal for you. Therefore... singing, playing instruments - all of this is forbidden."
Wei Ying didn't want to believe what he had just heard. He wanted to object, to joke it off, to laugh in the face of this absurdity, but he couldn't even move.
From that day on, Wei Wuxian became the nightmare of the entire ward.
He demonstratively violated the regime and ignored instructions. He hid pills under the mattress, harassed the nurses with arguments about the composition of the broth, and refused physical therapy, declaring that "a genius must fade beautifully." Wei Wuxian made jokes so cynical and vulgar that patients in neighboring rooms blushed, and young residents literally ran away from him. And recently, he had directed all his anger at his new attending physician - Dr. Lan Wangji.
"Saturation is lower than yesterday. Did you take the medication?" Lan Wangji stood by the bed, not taking his eyes off his tablet.
"Dr. Lan, are you out of spirits today?" Wei Ying propped his cheek on his hand, feigning boredom. "You look like you're burying yourself, not me. And no, I didn't drink that junk. It gives me a migraine. You'd better prescribe me something to stop me thinking about how much I hate this life."
Lan Wangji finally looked up.
"Stop it. The medication is necessary to support vascular tone."
He carefully placed a small medicine cup on the table.
He doesn't even get angry, Wei Ying thought bitterly. What a robot.
He wanted a scream, a scandal, at least some lively reaction, but Wangji was impenetrable and remained calm in any situation. It annoyed Wei Wuxian to hell and back.
"You know, Nurse Mianmian was much more accommodating when I asked her for a favor..." Wei Ying narrowed his eyes. "Sometimes medical protocols are powerless before my charm. Want a master class?"
Lan Wangji made a note in the medical chart, ignoring his barb.
"If the violations of the regime continue, we will transfer you to a room with round-the-clock monitoring. I recommend you rest."
He left, carefully closing the door.
"God, you're annoying!" Wei Ying hissed and kicked the bedside table in anger.
On his fourth day in the hospital, he escaped from his room. Pulling on a tracksuit, Wei Wuxian disconnected all the sensors and slipped out onto the stairwell. He simply needed to see something other than these disgusting white walls.
He was sitting on the steps of the third floor, greedily gulping the cool air from a slightly open window, when footsteps sounded from below.
"Wei Wuxian. To your room."
Lan Wangji stood a flight below. Even in the dim light of the emergency lamps, he looked as if he had just stepped off the cover of a medical journal.
"Oh, Dr. Lan!" Wei Ying threw up his hands theatrically. "Are you stalking me? I didn't know such a passionate nature was hiding under that coat. Want to keep me company?"
Wangji slowly climbed a few steps.
"Your saturation is dropping. Return to bed."
"Won't even appreciate the joke?" Wei Ying chuckled, but immediately went pale. His chest tightened again. He really didn't have enough air.
"To your room."
A few days later, Wei Wuxian felt he was starting to go crazy without music. One day, seizing a moment between rounds, he played a backing track of one of his pieces on his phone.
He closed his eyes, raised his hands, embracing an invisible instrument. The fingers of his left hand pressed imaginary strings, the right guided the bow. At first, everything went well; he began to sing along quietly, but on the high notes, a sharp pain suddenly pierced his lungs, and he began to choke.
They found him on the floor, turning blue, gasping for air.
"Did you try to sing again?" Lan Wangji asked when Wei Ying's condition had more or less stabilized.
Wei Ying demonstratively turned toward the wall.
"If this happens again, I will be forced to take measures."
"Going to tie me up?" Wei Wuxian laughed hoarsely. "Then I'll sing mentally, Dr. Lan! Do you have a plan for that case?"
A shadow of emotion flickered in Lan Wangji's eyes, which he immediately tried to suppress.
"Wei Wuxian. Stop it."
That same evening, Wei Ying disappeared again.
Wangji, already accustomed to these antics, merely closed his eyes wearily. He didn't want to raise an alarm; he decided to find the runaway himself.
After checking the therapy floors, he went down to the first floor, where the admission department and the pediatric oncology wing were located - a place Lan Zhan tried not to enter without dire necessity.
Lan Wangji slowed his pace, not wishing to disturb the peace of the sick children. Usually, it was always noisy here - crying, tantrums, parents talking, drowned out by the hum of hospital machines—but now there was a silence that pressed on the ears. He passed through the glass doors and saw a dimmed light burning at the far end of the corridor, near room 203.
Wei Wuxian was squatting in front of the glass partition of a box. He had a torn, poorly secured hospital mask on his face, and the thin tube of an oxygen machine stretched clumsily from his nose, attached to a portable tank. Wei Ying's gaze was riveted on a small figure inside the box. A child, just a tiny thing, lay entangled in wires, sniffing quietly.
Wei Ying's voice, usually brash and mocking, now sounded soft, almost inaudible:
"...come on, A-Yuan. Look..."
He raised his free hand, miming playing the violin.
"It's a dance! The dance of octopuses who aren't afraid of shots! Look how silly they are!" Wei Ying pulled a funny face, puffing out his cheeks.
The boy sobbed, but the corners of his lips twitched slightly upward.
"Like that!" Wei Ying nodded encouragingly, but immediately grimaced in pain, clutching his chest. Waiting out the spasm, he continued: "You know, I'm afraid too... of the dark. And these stupid coats. They're so boring, right?"
He leaned his forehead against the glass. His body trembled from fatigue and lack of air.
"You're scared, I know. But if you want, A-Yuan, I'll come tomorrow. And the day after tomorrow. We'll make faces at this sickness until it runs away in fear. Deal?"
The boy nodded. Wei Ying placed his palm against the glass where the child's palm was.
Lan Wangji stood in the shadows of the corridor, feeling his professional composure beginning to crack. Right now, he didn't see a difficult patient or a capricious star before him, but a man who was burning his remaining oxygen to warm someone else.
He took a step to pull Wei Ying back but stopped immediately. He couldn't destroy this fragile moment, so he just stood and watched as Wei Wuxian, trembling with exertion, continued to play the imaginary violin.
When A-Yuan finally fell asleep, Wei Ying tried to stand up, but his knees buckled, and he was forced to lean against the wall to keep from falling. Turning his head, he finally noticed Lan Wangji.
The mask of cynicism instantly returned to his face.
"Dr. Lan," he wheezed. "What an honor. Did you decide to study the psychology of dying idiots in the field?"
Lan Wangji said nothing about the quarantine violation but simply took two steps forward and took Wei Ying by the elbow. His voice sounded lower than usual.
"You must return to your room," he said quietly. "Immediately."
Wei Ying yanked his arm angrily, freeing himself, and limped toward the elevator. Lan Wangji remained standing, looking from the sleeping child to the retreating, stooped figure.
After his shift ended, Lan Wangji remained sitting in his office. The only source of light was the light box displaying Wei Ying's X-rays. He carefully examined the gray-white web on the lungs, which had become Wei Wuxian's death sentence.
Dr. Lan, a leading cardiopulmonologist, was known as a man who had never shed a tear and never made a single mistake in his entire career.
But the image of Wei Ying sitting on the floor, suffocating, playing an invisible violin for a stranger's child, had breached his armor.
"Madman," Lan Wangji whispered into the void. There was no judgment in his words, only confusion and a strange, frightening awe.
The next morning, Lan Wangji looked into Wei Ying's room first thing.
"Wei Wuxian," he began in a dry tone. "Your violation of the regime yesterday led to a drop in saturation. A repetition of such behavior is fraught with irreversible..."
"Oh, drop it, Dr. Lan," Wei Ying interrupted him, looking surprisingly peaceful. "I just went out into the corridor. By the way, you didn't even tie me to the bed... I'm disappointed. Where are the promised 'harsh measures'?"
Wei Ying, smiling, watched the doctor's reaction.
"Provocations are useless," Lan Wangji replied, though his voice sounded quieter than usual.
"Boring," Wei Ying sighed. "Fine. Want a joke? Do you know why a pathologist always has clean hands? Because he washes them..."
"Wei Ying." Lan Wangji interrupted him mid-sentence for the first time.
"Silent, silent," Wei Ying raised his palms in a placating gesture. "But tell me honestly, Lan Wangji... Have you ever done stupid things? Something absolutely wrong, but necessary?"
Lan Wangji looked up from the tablet. The scene in the children's ward rose before his eyes again.
"I follow instructions."
"A pity," bitter longing flashed in Wei Ying's eyes. "Life without wrong actions isn't life. It's suspended animation."
He turned away to the window. And Lan Wangji caught himself feeling that for the first time, he didn't want to reprimand the patient. He no longer wanted Wei Ying to fall silent.
Wangji was used to believing in facts. Every effect had a cause, every pain a source, every action a motive. For him, the world was structured; it could be understood by breaking the complex down into simple truths. It was easier to exist this way in the chaos, where human feelings sometimes overshadowed logic and common sense.
But what had been happening to him in recent days did not fit into any classification.
It started imperceptibly. First, he began lingering in room six longer than necessary, justifying it with the complex dynamics of pulmonary hypertension. Then he caught himself studying not just the monitor readings.
He looked at Wei Ying's hands. His long fingers were covered with hard calluses on the tips. Even in sleep, in the semi-delirium of oxygen starvation, these fingers moved, picking at the folds of the blanket, tapping out a silent rhythm.
One afternoon, while filling out a chart, Lan Wangji looked up and saw Wei Ying laughing at something the nurse had said. Sunlight fell on his face, illuminating dust motes in the air. Wei Ying was pale, dark shadows lay under his eyes, but his smile was so alive and bright that Lan Wangji's breath hitched, and something inside clenched painfully.
Tachycardia? he analyzed habitually, feeling for his pulse at the wrist. Stress? Overwork?
He went out into the corridor to catch his breath. It felt like he had caught the lack of oxygen from his patient. But this wasn't viral. It was something else. He wanted to go back to see that smile again, even if it wasn't intended for him. He wanted Wei Ying to look at him not with challenge, not with mockery, but just to look. He felt a strange need to protect this man but didn't know what to call this feeling. In his ordered life, there was no place for such irrational attachment. He had never loved. He didn't know how it felt. So Wangji decided it was just hyper-responsibility... or professional interest. He convinced himself of this until he found himself at the door of room six again.
It was deep in the night. Silence reigned in the ward, broken only by the hum of medicine refrigerators and the quiet beeping of devices.
Lan Wangji finished his shift but didn't go home. His legs carried him to Wei Ying's room on their own. He quietly pushed the door open.
Wei Ying wasn't sleeping. He sat on the bed, knees pulled up to his chest, looking out the window at the blinking lights of the big city. In his hands, he held a music notebook. The sheets were old, covered in pencil writing, with many blots and corrections.
"You're not sleeping," Lan Wangji quietly marked his presence.
Wei Ying flinched, slamming the notebook shut as if caught doing something shameful, but realizing it was the doctor, he exhaled.
"Lan Zhan... that is, Dr. Lan. You walk silently, like a ghost..."
"Why aren't you sleeping? You need rest."
Wei Ying chuckled sadly and placed the notebook on his knees. He ran his palm over the cover as gently as one strokes a beloved pet.
"I can't," he admitted. His voice was quiet, devoid of its usual boldness. "I close my eyes and hear music. It plays in my head so loudly that I can't fall asleep."
Lan Wangji, hesitating slightly, walked closer and sat on the visitor's chair.
"Is that... your aria?"
Wei Ying nodded.
"'Song of the Wandering Soul.' I've been writing it for almost a year. You know..." he stumbled, switching to an informal 'you', but Lan Wangji didn't correct him. "I'm almost finished. The most important part is left... But I'm not sure I'll have time to finish writing it."
He looked at his palms, examining his life lines.
"I wanted to speak to Mom with it. I don't remember her voice at all; I was five when she died. But I remember how she laughed, and I remember she loved music very much. It's stupid, but I thought... if I play it perfectly, if I put everything I feel into it, she will hear... wherever she is."
He raised dry, inflamed eyes to Lan Wangji.
"It's not just music. It's the only thing connecting me to her. And now..." he gripped the notebook tightly. "Now it's locked inside me. And it will die with me. I will never be able to play it."
A heavy silence hung in the room. Lan Wangji saw before him not just a patient, but a man who had been robbed of the meaning of life.
"I understand," he said quietly.
Wei Ying raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"You? Dr. 'Iron Protocol'? What could you understand about loss?"
Lan Wangji lowered his gaze to his hands folded in his lap. His face remained impassive, but his voice became a little duller, a little softer.
"My mother died when I was six."
Wei Ying froze.
"Lan Zhan..."
"She was sick for a long time. I was allowed to visit her once a month. I waited for that day, stood in front of the hospital almost every day, hoping the door would open. But on one of those days, I was told I shouldn't wait for her anymore."
"So, we are alike," Wei Ying whispered and leaned back on the pillow, staring at the ceiling.
"Lan Zhan, tell me honestly," Wei Wuxian turned his head toward him. "What would you choose? To live long, until eighty, but never do what makes your heart burn? Or... or to live perhaps just one, but such a bright and happy day, even knowing that tomorrow will not come?"
Lan Wangji froze. This question was a blow to the gut. As a doctor, he should have said: "Life is the highest value. A long life is better." But now, looking into Wei Ying's eyes, he hesitated.
"Go home, Lan Zhan," Wei Ying said softly, not waiting for an answer. "You need to rest. Thanks for sitting with me."
Lan Wangji stood up, but before leaving, for some reason, he adjusted the blanket on Wei Ying's legs, which was definitely not written in any protocol.
"Good night, Wei Ying."
His apartment met him with the scent of sandalwood and sterile cleanliness. Lan Wangji walked to the window. His mind, trained for the most complex diagnoses, feverishly sought a solution to a problem that had no solution.
Wei Ying cannot play; that is a fact. His lungs won't withstand the strain, and his heart will simply stop from the load. But this music must be heard. That is also a fact. For Wei Ying, this was more important even than his own life. If Wei Ying cannot play it... then someone else must do it. But who? Invite a strange musician? Wei Ying wouldn't trust his aria to anyone - it was too personal, too intimate.
It needed someone who understood his pain.
The thought that came to Lan Wangji's mind was insane and absolutely absurd.
He had never held a violin in his hands. He played the cello in childhood, but the violin is a completely different instrument, requiring years of practice.
Doubts vanished when he remembered Wei Ying's question again: "A short but bright life?"
Lan Wangji turned sharply and decisively left the apartment.
He found a 24-hour pawn shop on the outskirts of the city. The old man behind the counter looked in surprise at the man in an expensive coat asking for musical instruments at three in the morning.
"A violin?" the old man asked again. "There is one. Not a Stradivarius, of course, but the sound is good. A student brought it in a week ago."
Lan Wangji took the instrument in his hands.
"I'll take it."
Returning home, he placed the case on the table.
He acted methodically: turned on the computer, found video tutorials and scans of sheet music for beginners. He knew music theory, he had perfect pitch, but his hands... his hands were used to a scalpel, not a bow.
Standing in the pose he saw in the video, he pressed the violin to his shoulder. The hard chin rest pressed against his jaw, and his left arm bent unnaturally.
He drew the bow across the strings. A terrible, scratching sound rang out, like the yowl of a dying cat.
Lan Wangji grimaced. It was hopeless.
I can't, he thought. Learn to play a complex aria in a month? It's impossible.
Wei Ying's face flashed before his eyes again, expressing despair and resignation to the fact that his music would die.
Lan Wangji clenched his teeth and raised the bow again. Wangji tried to watch the angle and pressure on the strings. Finally, the sound became a little purer. But it was just one note, "A". There was still a lot of work ahead.
Lan Wangji didn't sleep that night. He stood in the middle of his empty living room, drawing the bow across the strings again and again until his shoulder began to burn with fire, and red stripes appeared on his fingers.
When he was getting ready for work in the morning, his hands trembled slightly from the exertion. He hid them in his pockets. No one must know. Especially Wei Ying. Until he started to get it right.
Days in the hospital dragged on in a viscous, gray procession. Wei Ying learned to tell time by the clatter of the breakfast cart and by how the angle of light falling on the sterile white wall changed. His world had shrunk to the perimeter of the room, but the center of this universe was not the illness, but the tall figure in the immaculate coat.
On Tuesday, Wei Ying was allowed to go down to the winter garden. It was a small glass room with a couple of ficus plants and benches. Wei Wuxian sat in a wheelchair because he was forbidden to walk even short distances, and boredly flipped through a magazine. Suddenly, he heard a familiar voice.
"The dynamics are positive. You are recovering quickly."
Wei Ying jerked his head up. Through the glass partition, he saw Lan Wangji. The doctor was standing next to a young girl. She was pretty, with long hair, and judging by appearances, was already being discharged. She was saying something to Lan Wangji, smiling shyly and tucking a lock of hair back. And Lan Wangji... nodded to her. Not just a dry nod, like usual, but he tilted his head slightly, and the corner of his lips twitched.
Something dull snapped inside Wei Ying.
A hot, caustic wave rose from his solar plexus to his throat. He didn't even notice himself crumbling the glossy pages of the magazine.
Why is he looking at her so... softly? the thought was angry and petty. She's just ordinary. Another boring patient.
The girl handed the doctor a box of chocolates. Wangji, naturally, refused with a polite gesture, but this didn't calm Wei Ying. He felt like an offended child having their favorite toy taken away.
"Hey!" he called out louder than he should have. "Dr. Lan! I think I'm having tachycardia here! Urgent resuscitation needed!"
Lan Wangji turned instantly. The girl recoiled in fright. The doctor briefly apologized to her and walked quickly toward Wei Ying.
"What happened? Pain, shortness of breath?" he was beside him in an instant. His fingers habitually, professionally settled on Wei Ying's wrist.
Wei Ying looked at his concentrated face, at the long eyelashes cast downward. The anger left as suddenly as it had appeared, leaving behind a strange, pulling feeling in his chest. He wanted these hands to touch only him. For this attentive gaze to belong only to him.
"No," Wei Ying mumbled, looking away. "You were just chatting there for so long, and I thought you forgot about your most difficult case."
Lan Wangji stopped counting the pulse but didn't remove his fingers.
"I never forget about patients."
"About all of them? Or about me?" Wei Ying blurted out before he could bite his tongue.
Lan Wangji looked him straight in the eyes. There was such depth and seriousness in that gaze that Wei Ying forgot how to breathe.
"It is impossible to forget about you, Wei Wuxian."
His heart skipped a beat. It was a simple statement of his unbearable character, but it sounded like a confession. Wei Ying felt blood rush to his cheeks. He didn't yet understand that what he had just experienced was jealousy. He thought he simply wanted to be a special friend to this closed-off man. But then why did he want to bury his forehead in that... horribly annoying coat so badly?
That same night, Lan Wangji entered room six again.
Wei Ying slept restlessly, kicking off the sheets. On the nightstand, next to the inhaler, lay the cherished music notebook. Lan Wangji took out his smartphone and turned on the camera. In the dim light of the night lamp, the screen seemed too bright. He opened the notebook to the first page. Wei Ying's handwriting was just like him—flying, chaotic, with sharp flourishes. Notes jumped across the lines; some were crossed out with such force that the paper tore.
Lan Wangji photographed page after page. He felt like a thief; it seemed to him he was stealing the most intimate thing this man had.
On one of the pages, in the margin, he saw a small note in pencil: "It should hurt here. Hurt A LOT. As if I'm being torn apart."
Lan Wangji froze. He ran his finger over this inscription, as if touching Wei Ying's thoughts.
"I will play this," he whispered with his lips alone. "I will do it as you want."
He finished shooting, carefully closed the notebook, and placed it exactly as it had lain. Then he adjusted the blanket on Wei Ying's shoulders, lingering his hand for a second longer than necessary.
At home, the violin waited for him. Two weeks of his secret training had already passed. The fingers of his left hand were worn to blood, the pads had hardened and lost sensitivity, and his neck ached from the unusual head position.
Lan Wangji turned on his phone, opened the photos of Wei Ying's notes, and set them in front of himself. It was incredibly difficult. Wei Ying wrote for himself, for his genius level, making no allowances for the abilities of ordinary people, let alone beginners.
Lan Wangji played scales for hours. His perfectionism, which made him the best doctor, now worked for music. He didn't allow himself to play out of tune. If a note sounded dirty, he would repeat it a hundred times, or even two hundred.
He looked at the notes and tried to understand Wei Ying's logic. Here - a sharp rise. Here - a pause full of despair. Lan Wangji closed his eyes and imagined Wei Ying conducting him.
"Smoother, Lan Zhan!" his laughing voice sounded in his head.
Lan Wangji took a breath and drew the bow again. Slowly, clumsily, but he felt that it was starting to work.
Trouble came on Thursday, close to lunchtime.
Wei Ying felt decent and even persuaded the nurse to bring him yogurt instead of hospital porridge. He sat on the bed, swinging his legs, and told another joke to the orderly changing the linens.
"So, a violinist walks into a bar..." he began, laughing, but a second later suddenly fell silent. Wei Ying grabbed his chest, his eyes widening in horror.
"Wei... Wei Wuxian?" the orderly dropped the stack of sheets.
The monitor above the bed howled a piercing, continuous signal. The saturation line plummeted.
Lan Wangji was at his post. Hearing the alarm from room six, he bolted and flew into the room faster than the resuscitation team.
The scene was terrifying. Wei Ying lay on his side, convulsively gasping for air, his face turning blue rapidly, and the veins on his neck bulging.
"Oxygen to maximum!" Lan Wangji barked at the nurses running in after him. "Prepare epinephrine and the defibrillator!"
He leaped to Wei Ying. He was already losing consciousness, his eyes rolling back.
"Wei Ying! Look at me!" Lan Wangji grabbed him by the shoulders. "Breathe! Don't you dare close your eyes!"
"Can't... " Wei Wuxian's blue lips moved weakly.
"Intubation! Fast!" he commanded. "Laryngoscope!"
He inserted the tube into Wei Ying's trachea. Every movement was precise, but a single, entirely non-medical thought beat in his head: Don't die. Please don't die.
"Saturation 60... 55..." the nurse dictated in a trembling voice.
"Epinephrine IV!" Lan Wangji began chest compressions.
"We have a rhythm! Saturation is rising!" the nurse shouted after an infinitely long two minutes.
Lan Wangji stopped. He was breathing heavily, sweat dripping from his forehead.
Wei Ying lay motionless, connected to the ventilator. His chest rose and fell mechanically, but his heart was beating on its own.
Lan Wangji looked at Wei Ying's pale face, and in that moment, beneath the beeping of instruments, realization washed over him.
He didn't just pity him or want to help him. He loved him. He loved this chaos, this laughter, this impossible thirst for life. He loved him as he had never loved anyone.
And the thought that this person might cease to exist caused him physical nausea.
"Dr. Lan?" the nurse called cautiously. "We've stabilized him. Transfer to ICU?"
Lan Wangji slowly straightened up. He looked at his hands, which were still trembling with a fine tremor.
"Yes," he answered hoarsely. "I will oversee the transport myself."
He walked to the gurney, took Wei Ying's cold hand in his, and squeezed it tight.
A week had passed since that day. Wei Ying was transferred from the ICU back to the ward. But now his world was limited by the length of the tubes coming from the stationary oxygen concentrator.
He became quiet; almost all his strength went into breathing. He no longer joked with the nurses, didn't try to distract himself with nonsense. He lay staring at the ceiling, and his face, once mobile and bright, now resembled a porcelain mask.
Lan Wangji came to him every free minute. He sat nearby, checked indicators, adjusted the IV. They hardly spoke—it was difficult for Wei Ying to speak, and Lan Wangji never needed words to express presence.
"Lan Zhan," Wei Ying called one evening. His voice was weak, barely audible over the noise of the device.
Lan Wangji immediately put down the tablet and leaned toward him.
"I am here."
"You know what I want?" Wei Ying squinted at the window, beyond which the wall of the neighboring building was visible, lit by a yellow streetlamp. "I want to see the stars... not this ugly wall. I feel... like I'm in a shoebox."
Lan Wangji looked at the monitor. Wei Wuxian's condition remained serious but stable. He realized that moving the patient was a big risk. The protocol stated: strict bed rest.
But looking at Wei Ying, Lan Wangji understood that longing was killing him faster than hypoxia.
"Wait," he said briefly.
He left the room and returned ten minutes later. Wangji rolled in a special wheelchair with mounts for equipment.
"What are you doing?" Wei Ying smiled weakly, watching as Dr. Lan methodically disconnected him from the wall system and connected him to a portable tank.
"You want to look at the stars," Lan Wangji replied, checking the valves.
Gently, incredibly carefully, he lifted Wei Ying. The musician's body was frighteningly light, almost weightless. Wei Ying, finding himself in Lan Wangji's arms, instinctively pressed his cheek to his shoulder.
Lan Wangji settled him in the chair, wrapped him in a warm blanket, tucking in the edges so there were no drafts, and hung the portable monitor on the handle.
"Ready?"
Wei Ying nodded. His eyes glistened.
They moved through empty corridors. Lan Wangji pushed him to the transition between buildings - a glass gallery on the fifth floor, from where a view of the city and sky opened up.
When they entered the gallery, Wei Ying exhaled in relief.
The city spread out below, and bright stars hung above it. There weren't as many as in the mountains, but enough to feel infinity.
Lan Wangji rolled the chair right up to the glass.
"Beautiful," Wei Ying whispered.
But he wasn't looking at the stars. He was looking at Lan Wangji's reflection in the dark glass. At how this stern, cold man stood behind him, resting his hands on the back of the chair, as if protecting him from the whole world.
"Lan Zhan," Wei Ying said quietly.
Lan Wangji walked around the chair and squatted in front of him to be at eye level.
"Are you cold? Shall we return?"
"No. I'm warm."
Wei Ying slowly, overcoming weakness, raised his hand. His fingers touched Lan Wangji's face.
Lan Wangji froze. His heart pounded so hard his chest ached. He leaned forward slightly, pressing his cheek into Wei Ying's cold palm.
"Why are you so kind to me?" Wei Ying asked. There were tears in his eyes, reflecting the city lights. "I'm just another patient of yours..."
Wangji took Wei Ying's hand in his, interlacing their fingers. His thumb gently stroked the back of Wei Ying's hand, where the marks from injections were visible.
Wei Ying looked at him with disbelief and delight.
"Lan Zhan... You..."
He didn't finish. He didn't have enough air, and didn't have enough courage. But the answer was in Lan Wangji's eyes. In the way he looked at him like the only star in this universe.
All the following days, Lan Wangji took extra shifts. He practically lived at the hospital. When he wasn't busy with other patients, he was with Wei Ying. He brought a small record player and his vinyl collection from home. Now, instead of the noise of ventilation, Brahms, Mahler, and Bach played in the room. Wei Ying lay with eyes closed, listening to the music. Sometimes his fingers twitched, following the melody.
"Lan Zhan."
Lan Wangji, who was sitting nearby reading a medical journal—though, in reality, he was simply watching Wei Ying over the pages—set aside his reading.
"Does something hurt?"
"No. Just thinking about things..."
Wei Ying smiled weakly. Now that his mask of sarcasm had fallen away, he seemed very young and defenseless.
"You know, I've been running somewhere all my life," he said quietly. "I rushed to live and was afraid to stop because I thought if I stopped, I would disappear."
He turned his head to Lan Wangji.
"And now I've stopped. And it's... strange. I don't feel like I've disappeared."
Lan Wangji took his hand.
"You will never disappear," Wangji stated firmly.
"You know what I regret?" Wei Ying continued, ignoring his words. "That we didn't meet sooner. Somewhere in a park... or at a concert. I would have invited you to dinner, and you would have refused because I'm too annoying. But I wouldn't have given up..."
Wei Ying laughed, but the laugh turned into a cough. Lan Wangji immediately sat him up, helping him catch his breath, holding the oxygen mask.
When the attack passed, Wei Ying leaned back against Lan Wangji's chest, listening to the steady beat of the other man's heart.
"But you know, Lan Zhan," he whispered. "I'm glad."
Lan Wangji froze.
"Glad about what?"
"That I got sick."
Lan Wangji felt everything inside him turn cold.
"Don't say that."
"No, listen," Wei Ying squeezed his hand insistently. "If I hadn't ended up here... maybe I never would have known you. I would have lived my life on stage, in applause, but I never would have known what it's like when someone holds your hand in the dark like this."
He raised his eyes to Lan Wangji. Wei Ying's gaze was clear, frighteningly adult and wise.
"Do you remember I asked you? A long boring life or a short but happy one?"
Lan Wangji clenched his teeth. The muscles in his jaw worked.
"I choose the second, Lan Zhan. And I always chose it. Now... now, with you, these days - this is my happy life. Let it be short, but I wouldn't trade it for anything. Not even for a healthy heart."
Lan Wangji turned away. For the first time in years of self-control, he felt his eyes burn.
How could one be so cruel and so tender at the same time? How could Wei Ying thank fate for a disease that was killing him, just because it gave them a meeting?
"You shouldn't..." Lan Wangji's voice broke.
He buried his forehead in Wei Ying's shoulder, hiding his face. His shoulders trembled slightly.
Wei Ying, gathering his last strength, raised his hand and placed it on Lan Wangji's head, running his fingers through his black hair.
"There, there... Dr. Lan. Lan Zhan. Don't. I'm right here... I'm with you."
In the silence of the room, to the sound of the violin on the record, Lan Wangji made a vow to himself. Wei Ying was absolutely right: it is not the length of life that matters, but its brightness. And he, Lan Wangji, would do everything to ensure Wei Ying's final chord resounded.
His fingers on his left hand ached from calluses, reminding him of the violin hidden at home. Just a little more.
The next morning, Lan Wangji came to Wei Ying with a small laptop. His eyes lit up with curiosity.
"What's that?" Wei Wuxian whispered.
Lan Wangji placed the laptop on the bedside table.
"A small... job," he answered, avoiding direct eye contact. He felt a nervousness he hadn't experienced even during complex heart surgeries.
He pressed the "Play" button.
A video appeared on the screen. The dim light of his own living room, the black violin case, and Lan Wangji himself. He sat on a chair, holding the violin. His face expressed tension and deep concentration.
Music began to play.
At first, it was uneven. The bow trembled, notes broke in places, Wei Ying's virtuoso passages were replaced by simplified ones, but Lan Wangji did not give up and continued to play.
Wei Ying, choking on emotions and lack of oxygen, watched the screen. He recognized his "Song of the Wandering Soul."
And then came the moment Wei Ying had marked in pencil as: "It should be very painful here." In this place, Lan Wangji closed his eyes and, forgetting about technique for a moment, poured all his pain, all his love, and all his fear of loss into the bow. The sound became purer, deeper, more tragic.
By the time the video ended, Wei Ying was crying. Tears flowed down his temples and soaked into the pillow.
Lan Wangji quickly turned off the laptop, unable to look at Wei Ying's reaction.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "It's... it's unprofessional. But it's all I could learn in a month."
Wei Ying reached out his hand to him; his breathing hitched from sobbing. Lan Wangji immediately jumped up to check the concentrator.
"Hush, Wei Ying. You can't get agitated."
Wei Wuxian shook his head. He grasped Lan Wangji's hand and brought it to his face, pressing it against his wet cheek.
"Lan Zhan," his voice was hoarse. "Don't apologize. It... it was beautiful. You... you understood me. It's better than I could have done."
He looked at Lan Wangji with such tenderness and admiration that the doctor's breath hitched again.
"Thank you," Wei Ying whispered. "Thank you for existing."
In that moment, they both knew their feelings were absolutely mutual. Lan Wangji leaned down without hesitation and kissed Wei Ying on the forehead.
After that day, they began working on the aria together. Wei Ying, forgetting about the illness, came alive again. Lan Wangji brought the music notebook, and they dissected it measure by measure.
"Here," Wei Ying pointed a thin finger at a note, "grief. It shouldn't just be sad, Lan Zhan. You have to imagine being torn away from the most precious thing in your life."
"Mn."
"And here, passion! You know... the last hope, Lan Zhan! Imagine the sun breaking through the clouds!"
Lan Wangji wrote his words in a notepad. He absorbed not only the technical instructions but the emotions Wei Ying poured into every note.
Wei Ying was happy. For the first time in a long time, he felt his life had meaning, that his music lived. He even contacted the organizers and confirmed that the concert would take place as planned in a week. He said he wouldn't be able to play it himself, but the world would hear his music.
Lan Wangji, on the other hand, was terrified. He knew this concert, even if Wei Ying didn't play himself, would drain his last strength. But at the same time, he saw how Wei Ying blossomed, and his eyes shone again. Wangji couldn't take this last hope away from him.
At night, Lan Zhan rehearsed until his fingers went numb. The bow fell from his hand, muscles cramped, but he continued not for the stage, and not for the public, but for one single person.
On Wednesday, four days before the concert, Wei Ying was weaker than ever. He barely spoke and slept most of the time.
That morning, Lan Wangji had to step away for an emergency meeting.
"I'll be quick," he whispered, kissing him on the forehead.
"I'm waiting," Wei Ying answered weakly. His lips stretched into a light, almost childlike smile. "Hurry, Lan Zhan. I need to tell you something."
Lan Wangji hurried to the conference room.
The meeting dragged on for twenty minutes. Lan Wangji couldn't focus at all. He felt anxiety, a cold, sticky fear squeezing his heart.
Finally breaking free from the room, he ran down the corridor, ignoring colleagues trying to stop him.
A nurse standing at her post, seeing Wangji, called out to him anxiously.
"Dr. Lan! Room six!"
Lan Wangji didn't wait for explanations. He burst into the room, where doctors and nurses were already crowded.
The chief resuscitator placed a stethoscope on Wei Ying's chest and, exhaling loudly, straightened up.
"Time of death," he said quietly. "10:47. Cardiac arrest due to acute pulmonary failure."
Lan Wangji froze at the threshold. He didn't understand anything yet; the words didn't reach his brain. He looked at the white coats, the bed, the ventilator still mechanically pumping air but unable to help anymore.
"No..."
He pushed the resuscitator aside and rushed to the bed, grabbing Wei Ying's hand. His skin was still warm, so Wangji still tried to find a pulse.
"Wei Ying!" he shook him by the shoulder. "Wei Ying! You promised! You promised to wait for me! You promised to tell me something! Wake up!"
Lan Wangji fell to his knees beside the bed and pressed Wei Ying's cold hand to his cheek.
"Why... why couldn't you wait just four more days..."
For the first time in twenty years, hot tears burned his face.
Wei Ying's face was pale, but that same, last, light smile was frozen on his lips. He looked peaceful... and happy.
Lan Wangji leaned over him, pressing against his chest.
"Forgive me," Lan Wangji whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. "Forgive me that I couldn't save you. But I... I love you. I love you, Wei Ying."
He looked up and saw the music notebook lying on the nightstand. It was open to the last page. There were no notes on it, only one phrase written in pencil - what Wei Ying wanted to tell him:
"I am leaving, but I am happy. And you, my Lan Zhan, be happy always."
The day of the concert.
Lan Wangji stood backstage. He was dressed in a strict, custom-tailored black suit that fit his tall, athletic figure perfectly. In the spotlight, his skin seemed even paler, and his eyes darker. In his hands, he held Wei Ying's violin. It was wrapped in soft, old velvet cloth. Lan Wangji knew for certain that if he wanted to play Wei Ying's music, he must play only on his instrument.
The hall was packed. Critics, fans, colleagues, and simply the curious waited for the genius no one had ever seen but everyone had heard of. They waited for the Aria Wei Ying had promised the world.
Backstage smelled of dust and old wood. Lan Wangji wasn't nervous anymore; he felt only icy emptiness and sharp, burning resolve. He had to play. It was his duty, his farewell, and his declaration of love.
The organizer approached him.
"Mr. Lan, are you ready? You're on in a minute."
Lan Wangji nodded, not even looking up at him, and walked onto the stage.
The spotlights blinded his eyes, and the huge, humming hall suddenly exploded with applause. But Lan Wangji didn't hear them. He scanned for one spot - the center of the first row, the empty seat that Wei Ying would have occupied himself had he survived.
He walked to the stand, placed his foot on the rest, and raised the violin to his shoulder. Lan Wangji closed his eyes. Wei Ying's face floated in his memory: his laughter, tears, a finger pointing at a note. "And this is the last hope!"
The first chord tore from the violin. The music was loud, wild, almost chaotic. The bow flew swiftly over the strings.
Wei Ying demanded pain from Lan Wangji, and Lan Wangji gave it in full measure. His fingers, trained to the limit, now moved with that very "flying" passion Wei Ying valued so much.
Then the melody changed abruptly. It was the "Song of the Wandering Soul." Here, Wei Ying wrote about his mother and lost memory.
Lan Wangji tilted his head, his long hair falling onto the violin; he pressed it to himself, imagining he was embracing Wei Ying. He poured everything he didn't have time to say to him into this fragment.
I love you, I love you, I love you.
The hall froze; it seemed no one even breathed.
Finally, came the coda. The finale. The last hope.
Lan Wangji straightened up. He took a deep breath, giving Wei Ying the last, strongest chord. He played brightly, powerfully, with such force that it seemed the violin would crack.
The bow froze in the air, and the sound cut off.
A second later, the hall exploded. People jumped up, shouting, clapping, whistling. Critics wept without shame. It was not just a performance, but a true miracle created by love and grief.
Lan Wangji stood motionless. He didn't lower the violin but simply stared into the void. There was no pride or relief on his face, only numbness.
He felt something warm roll down his cheek. Finally, Wangji slowly lowered the violin and took a step forward, to the edge of the stage where it was dark. He looked at the empty seat in the first row.
"Wei Ying," he whispered almost inaudibly. "Did you hear?"
At that same instant, a bright beam of light from a spotlight directed somewhere to the side suddenly shifted and fell directly on the spot where he stood. It was an accident, but Lan Wangji saw a tiny, almost invisible glint flare up on the wood of his violin.
In that moment, Lan Wangji felt absolutely certain that Wei Ying was here. He heard.
A light, barely noticeable, but completely sincere smile appeared on Lan Wangji's lips.
He nodded. He needed nothing more.
"Thank you," he said quietly to the hall, and it was addressed not to the audience, but to the one for whom he had made this entire journey.
He turned and walked off the stage, not waiting for the ovation to end. Wei Ying's violin was pressed tightly to his chest.
Their life had not been long. It was shorter than a single spring, and it definitely hadn't been easy. It was filled with pain, anger, fear, and medical terms. But it was bright.
And Lan Wangji learned that even when death wins, music continues to live. It lives in a heart that has learned to love. Yes, he didn't save Wei Ying. But he saved his last aria. And Wei Ying taught Lan Wangji that sometimes in life, you need to commit the most wrong, the most insane acts.