Archive of Our Own

The lights are off.

Lan Sizhui knows this because he can no longer see the edge of the stage beneath his feet, but he knows it more keenly because the atmosphere has changed completely. A stadium breathes differently when it is full. It holds sound the way water holds heat. Tens of thousands of people are waiting, and they are waiting so carefully that even their anticipation feels restrained.

The only light comes from the crowd itself.

Glowsticks sway like a low, living tide- white, pale blue, soft green, muted yellow. Their colours bleed gently into one another, never clashing, never overwhelming. Someone once told Sizhui that the fans had chosen these colours almost instinctively, without any instruction needed. 

He believes it.

There’s a harmony to these colours that makes his chest hurt a little from it all.

It is quiet. Not an empty-quiet, not a peaceful-quiet either. This is the kind of hush that presses in on the ears, the kind that makes every breath feel too loud, too ragged. It almost haunts him. For a moment, Sizhui has that very strange, irrational thought, that if he speaks a second too early, the whole hush will shatter.

He stands at the very centre of the stage, frozen still. 

White fabric rests against his skin- cool, light, unfamiliar despite months of fittings and rehearsals. His long-sleeved shirt is cropped to show his stomach, embroidered carefully with gems that catch even the faintest glimmer of light. The ribbons around his midriff are tied securely, their ends brushing against his sides every time he inhales. His slacks hang loose, decorated with chains and stones that barely make a sound when he shifts his weight interestingly. White platforms ground him to the floor.

The ribbon around his forehead is tied just tight enough to be reassuring.

His hair is pulled back into a high ponytail, waves cascading down his back, heavy and warm. A fringe falls into his eyes. He hasn’t brushed it aside. His hands are still covering his face, palms pressed lightly over his eyes, as though he could hide from what waits beyond them.

He can hear his own breathing through the in-ear monitor. Slow. Measured. Controlled.

The first note sounds.

It is soft. Barely there. A single guitar line that feels more like a question than anything else.

The crowd erupts.

“SIZHUI! IT’S SIZHUI!”

The sound hits him all at once, a wave of voices crashing together as they scream out his name, and something in his chest loosens. He lowers his hands. The spotlight ignites, bright and warm, and for the first time he sees them- faces blurred together by distance and light, hands raised, glowsticks trembling.

He opens his mouth and sings.

His voice is not loud. It never has been. It is clear, warm, steady in a way that comes from habit and practice more than his overall confidence.

“I’ve been walking on tiptoe
Trying not to wake anyone
Counting the cracks in the floor
Wondering how I got this far alone…”

The words settle into the stadium like the falling snow he remembers in Gusu on the mountain tops behind his hometown. Sizhui sings as though he is speaking to himself, as though this is a confession meant only for the dark of his moonlit bedroom.

As he sings, he moves- small steps at first, carefully, restrained. His hands lift, then fall back to his sides. His body remembers the choreography even when his mind drifts away from the adrenaline of it all starting to pump in his veins.

“The silence… it gets heavy sometimes
Like the air itself is waiting for me to break
I think I’ve learned how to fold myself
Into the corners of the world…”

For a brief, dangerous second, he feels too much. The lights. The sound. The weight of the ninety thousand eyes on him. The memory of being younger, quieter, standing behind others and wondering when- if- it would be his turn.

Another spotlight snaps on.

It cuts across the stage and spills onto the runway.

Someone is walking toward him, steps confident, their timing impeccable. Pastel yellow catches the light, soft and bright at once. Flared sleeves sway with each movement. A glimpse of bare skin at the chest. Black jeans. Peonies woven into brown hair, braided long and neat.

Jin Ling lifts his microphone and sings.

The crowd explodes.

“JIN LING! JIN LING! JIN LING!”

Sizhui almost smiles.

Jin Ling’s voice is stronger than it used to be- still sharp at the edges, but steadier now, anchored. He meets Sizhui’s eyes as he reaches the stage, something fierce and familiar flashing between them.

“I keep telling myself, “Stay steady”
But my chest won’t listen
There’s something here, under the ribs
That just… won’t quit…”

They move together now, steps syncing naturally, shoulders brushing as they turn. Jin Ling dances like he does everything else- with intent, with pride, with no small amount of defiance. Sizhui adjusts instinctively, grounding them both and calming themselves down, the way he always has ever since the band had come together.

Before the moment can settle, two figures burst onto the stage.

Lan Jingyi appears first, practically launching himself into the light. His hair is tied in a short ponytail, a pale blue ribbon secured across his forehead. His outfit mirrors Sizhui’s in silhouette, but the details are unmistakably his- short sleeves, a blue collared shirt beneath, silver platforms that catch the light when he spins.

Ouyang Zizhen follows, calmer but no less striking. Pastel green drapes over him in clean lines. A leather jacket rests on his shoulders, sleeves pushed up. White slacks embroidered with green fabric move fluidly as he steps into place. Sunglasses sit atop his head, hair half tied back, half loose in a soft bob.

The four of them come together.

Hands rise. Each of them grips someone else’s shoulders- familiar, grounding, real. They lean into one another as they sing, voices weaving together, bodies moving in sync. It feels less like choreography and more like instinct, like the way they huddle backstage before a show.

Behind them, the screen flares to life.

FOUR NOTES.

The letters blaze across the stadium as lights erupt, flooding everything in white, pale blue, light green, soft yellow. Their colours, worn by themselves and the people in the crowd. Their names on banners. Sizhui can see everything now.

They sing.

“I’m still breathing
Even if I don’t know why
Still moving forward
Even when the world feels dry…”

The crowd sings with them now, voices imperfect, emotional, overwhelming. He feels it in his bones. It rattles him almost, how many people know the lyrics to the song that Sizhui’s best friend had composed with him in his bedroom while his Baba had force fed them enough cookies to fed an army.

Zizhen looks so proud, as he takes the second verse, his voice light and clear, carrying easily across the noise.

Sizhui is proud of him too. 

“I’ve seen you hesitate
Seen the way you bite your tongue
Like you’re holding back yourself
Just to keep the quiet safe…”

Jin Ling follows, softer now, earnest.

“You don’t have to do it alone
Even if the world says you should
Some weight isn’t meant to stay hidden
It’s heavy enough for two…”

Sizhui and Jingyi step forward together for the pre-chorus. Jingyi grins at him, wild and unapologetic, and Sizhui can’t help but shake his head fondly.

“Maybe it’s okay to crack
Maybe it’s okay to shout
Maybe the silence we built
Was never meant to last…”

The chorus hits again, all four voices rising as one.

Jingyi steps forward, the music stripping back as the rap begins. The crowd is already screaming.

He doesn’t rap like someone trying to impress. He raps like someone who has been waiting too long to speak.

Sizhui knows how much Jingyi has longed to speak his mind.

“I don’t fit in your boxes
Don’t fit in your rules
I’ve burned a lot of bridges
Just to find a place that feels like mine

Every “be quiet”
Every “sit down”
I kept it in my throat
But it’s too loud now

I’m not proud
I’m not saying I’m better
Just… I need to be heard
Before I forget how to feel…”

Sizhui watches him from the corner of his eye, a familiar warmth blooming in his chest. Jingyi has always been like this- loud where others are quiet, reckless where others hesitate, painfully honest even when it gets him into trouble.

Sizhui has always had to pull him out of that trouble, you see.

When Jin Ling’s voice returns, softer now, it catches Sizhui off guard every time.

“I’ve tried to hide it, tried to hold back
But my hands shake too much, my chest… too tight…”

Sizhui answers him without thinking.

“You’re not alone
You don’t have to fight in silence…”

Their voices blend, imperfect but real, and when they sing together, entwining hands-

“We’re still here
Even when it’s messy
Even when we’re scared
Even when it hurts too much…”

It feels like a promise made years ago, finally spoken aloud.

The final chorus crests, harmony pitch-perfect, sound filling every corner of the stadium.

“I’m still breathing
Still standing, still trembling
Still listening, still feeling
Even if nothing’s certain

If we break
If we fall
We’ll find each other
Before it’s too late

Not perfect
Not calm
Not done
But still here…”

Then everything stops.

Sizhui steps forward alone, as the others freeze in position.

The lights dim. The noise fades, slowly, obediently. His voice drops to a whisper, barely carried by the microphone.

“If this is how we start…
then let it be real.”

The stadium explodes.

Cheers crash over the stage, deafening, joyful, unrestrained. Jingyi lunges for the microphone set up for them at the edge of the stage, laughter already in his voice as he looks out at all of the people who are looking at them.

“HELLO, NOTE-TAKERS! HELLO, WEMBLEY!”

The crowd screams. The four of them laugh, breathless, giddy.

Sizhui raises his hands instinctively, trying to calm the noise and failing miserably. 

“Hi- hi! Oh god, there’s so many of you. Thank you all for coming today.”

Zizhen smiles wide, eyes bright. 

“We’re so excited to see so many of you come for our very last performance before we take our big break.”

Groans ripple through the audience.

“We know many of you are sad to see us go-” Jin Ling starts.

“Trust us, we are too!” Lan Jingyi cuts in.

“But it’s really because we’re working on a new album-”

“And because the company is forcing us to take a vacation!” Jingyi stage-whispers.

“Will you keep quiet and let me speak?!” Jin Ling snaps, irritated now.

The crowd laughs. They always do. Sizhui chokes at the urge to roll his eyes- he knows it’s not necessarily polite, but Jin Ling and Jingyi for some reason always bring that mad urge to the surface.

Jingyi rolls his eyes for Sizhui anyway. 

“Fine, fine. Have your turn, young mistress-”

“Hey, fatass-”

“Who are you calling fatass-”

Zizhen wedges himself between them with a practiced sigh. 

“Guys. Guys. All our Note-Takers know we’ll miss them too! We won’t be back until the Grammys, after all.”

Sizhui nods, smiling. 

“That’s right. Thanks to you all, we got nominated for Best New Group and Best Music Video. Which is nuts by the way, considering it’s only our first full year as a band!”

“Sizhui,” Jingyi adds, “we also got nominated for ‘Catch Me If You Can!’”

“Oh- right! Best Group Performance,” Lan Sizhui says, blinking, "Can't believe I forgot that, huh."

“That’s what the email said,” Jin Ling confirms.

“Three Grammys,” Zizhen says, voice full of wonder, “We all absolutely freaked out.”

“Jin Ling started crying,” Jingyi says.

“Did not!”

“Did too-”

Sizhui gives them a look.

They straighten instantly.

He turns back to the crowd, laughing softly. 

“Just know that… a lot of emotions were felt.”

The applause swells again.

Zizhen lifts his mic. 

“Thank you. Truly. For supporting us through our first tour, through everything.”

“Thank you!” they say together.

Lan Sizhui’s watch beeps.

Loud.

He freezes. 

“Uh oh… guys, we’ve got to run.”

“What’s wrong?” Jingyi asks.

Before he can answer, the lights go out.

Screams. Confusion. Darkness.

Then- music.

Lights slam back on.

The four of them stand posed, ready, breath steady, smiles sharp.

Jin Ling smirks.

“It’s time for the next song.”

Sizhui takes a breath the moment the music cuts off- and it is not nearly as steady as he would like it to be.

For a fraction of a second, the stadium is caught in that strange in-between space where sound hasn’t yet returned, where the last note still vibrates in the bones. Then the cheers crash back in, loud enough that he feels them in his chest. His heart is beating far too fast for someone who is supposed to look composed, and he has to consciously remind himself to slow his breathing as the four of them hit their ending pose.

Eighth song. An hour in.

He knows this because he has checked the setlist so many times it has burned itself into his memory, sitting at the forefront of his mind, but also because his body is beginning to protest fully. Sweat clings to the back of his neck. His legs ache faintly, a dull reminder of choreography repeated night after night. Still- when he glances sideways, the familiar sight steadies him.

Jin Ling’s peonies have come loose, petals no longer perfectly arranged, a few strands of hair sticking to his temples. He looks flushed, eyes bright with adrenaline. Jingyi is bent slightly forward, hands braced on his knees as he pants dramatically, chest heaving like he’s run a marathon rather than danced through eight songs with alarming enthusiasm that would make Sizhui panic if he didn’t know that was simply Jingyi. Zizhen stands a little straighter than the others, but Sizhui can see the pallor beneath the stage lights, the way his lips have gone faintly pale. He’s holding himself together out of sheer will, as he always does.

Sizhui laughs before he can stop himself.

It comes out soft and breathless as he lifts a hand to rub at his forehead, pushing his fringe back only to have it fall forward again immediately. He adjusts the mic on his face with practiced fingers and steps half a pace forward.

“You guys sure are energetic tonight!”

The crowd screams, delighted.

Lan Jingyi makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a whine and flaps his hands uselessly near his face. 

“Anyone got a fan? Anyone?!”

Before security can even react, something sails through the air from the pit. Jingyi’s reflexes are sharp; he snatches it neatly out of the air and bursts out laughing as he fans himself with wild desperation, hair puffing up with each frantic movement.

Jin Ling rolls his eyes so hard Sizhui is mildly impressed. 

“You’re imitating Fairy right now.”

Jingyi freezes mid-fan. 

“Are you calling me a mutt?!”

Jin Ling shrugs, unapologetic. 

“Maybe.”

The crowd howls with laughter.

Sizhui smiles, helplessly fond, as a familiar memory surfaces- his Baba’s horrified yell the first time Fairy had barrelled into the Cloud Recesses trainee studio, muddy paws and unrepentant enthusiasm in equal measure. Poor dog. Poor Baba. He shakes his head slightly, amused.

Zizhen, apparently deciding he has had enough of standing, wanders over to the corner of the stage and sits down, legs dangling casually over the edge toward the audience. The fans nearest reach up instinctively, hands waving. 

He smiles at them, soft and tired.

Without really thinking about it, Sizhui goes to join him. He sits beside Zizhen and leans his head gently against his shoulder. Zizhen tilts his head so their temples touch, familiar and tethers Sizhui from floating away. With his free hand, he nudges his mic aside just enough that it won’t pick up what he says.

“A-Hui,” he murmurs, “Check-in, please?”

“I’m fine,” Sizhui answers honestly, though his voice is quieter now, “Don’t worry. Just tired.”

Zizhen hums, satisfied enough.

The crowd makes a collective cooing noise when Jin Ling and Jingyi join them. Jingyi drops down beside Zizhen with a thump, while Jin Ling settles on Sizhui’s other side and reaches for his hand without ceremony. His grip is warm and firm, a silent question and reassurance all at once. Sizhui squeezes back.

“Like Sizhui said,” Jingyi declares, fanning himself one last time, “you tire us the fuck out. I’m honestly glad this break has come around.”

“Me too,” Jin Ling says, “All I want is to go back home and hug my sweet puppy. And maybe get some hot chocolate.”

“I want mantou,” Zizhen says dreamily, “The really soft kind. It would just melt in your mouth.”

“And I want chicken,” Jingyi adds immediately.

Jin Ling snorts. 

“You always want chicken, you freak.”

Jingyi grins, unashamed.

Sizhui finally lets himself laugh properly as he straightens, resting his hands on his knees. 

“I think we’ve established already that we’re hungry, guys.”

Zizhen and Jin Ling laugh with him. Jingyi, instead of responding, leans forward and flips open a small trap door embedded in the stage floor.

The scream that follows is deafening.

Sizhui’s heart sinks in a way that is both fond and resigned as Jingyi pulls out a familiar object: a black top hat, slightly battered from travel, and absolutely infamous.

“You guys seem to know what time it is!” Jingyi announces gleefully.

“Oh no,” Sizhui mutters, even as heat floods his cheeks.

Zizhen sings it out cheerfully, “It’s Hat Time!”

Hat Time.

The bane of his existence.

The fans love it. Of course they do. It is a tradition now, as much a part of their concerts as the opening VCR. A song chosen by the fans, pulled at random, sung on the spot, picked on the spot by Sizhui, to be sung by Sizhui. It’s absolutely ridiculous. It’s a nod to the reason Sizhui had been noticed in the first place by the general public- grainy YouTube covers filmed late at night, voice soft and earnest, before anyone properly knew his name.

The less public reason is simpler: Jingyi, Jin Ling, and Zizhen find immense joy in bullying him.

“I wonder which song it’s going to be this time,” Jin Ling says innocently.

“Last time it was Fire on Fire,” Zizhen adds, smiling, “Even I didn’t know Sizhui’s voice could sound that dreamy.”

Sizhui tips his head back and stares up at the open sky of the stadium, silently asking whatever higher power might be listening for mercy from whatever he’d committed in his past life.

Jingyi thrusts the hat toward him. 

“Here you go! Best to get it over with.”

“I wish I could say I hate you all,” Sizhui says sincerely, “But I can’t.”

“We know,” Zizhen replies fondly, “We love you too!”

Jin Ling and Zizhen lean in and hug him, squeezing him tight. Jingyi makes a dramatic gagging noise, then straightens as Sizhui steels himself and reaches into the hat.

“Drum roll, please!” Jingyi shouts.

The stadium obliges. The sound is thunderous, vibrating up Sizhui’s arms. He pulls out a slip of paper purely to save his ears.

“Stop!” Jin Ling yells, “My eardrums are going to burst- bloody hell!”

The crowd quiets obediently.

Sizhui unfolds the paper- and groans aloud before he can stop himself.

Zizhen laughs the moment he sees his expression.

Sizhui passes the paper to Jin Ling. Jin Ling bursts out laughing, then hands it to Jingyi, who cackles like he’s just been handed the best gift of his life.

“This is great,” Jingyi says gleefully, “This is GREAT!”

The fans shout for answers, but Sizhui crumples the paper and hands the hat back. They all stand.

Zizhen quickly covers his mic. 

“I’ll grab my guitar and get a stool set up. A-Ling, help Sizhui rearrange his mic- don’t let it tangle with his ribbon again. Jingyi, entertain.”

Jingyi salutes and immediately launches into chatter as he rushes forward and adjusts the mic stand. 

“This song embarrasses Sizhui because he sings it very well.”

Sizhui’s face is burning now.

“He also sang it at his parents’ second wedding,” Jingyi continues cheerfully, “So either whoever submitted it was there, or they’re psychic. His Baba loves this specific song anyway.”

By the time Jin Ling finishes adjusting his mic and gives him a gentle pat on the shoulder, Sizhui is entirely pink.

“Good luck, A-Yuan,” Jin Ling says softly.

Jingyi taps the mic. 

“Mic check!”

“U-um,” Sizhui says, voice cracking just slightly, “Hi, guys.”

The crowd roars back.

Zizhen returns with the guitar.

Sizhui swallows.

He isn’t ready.

But he never is- and somehow, he always sings anyway.

Zizhen sits carefully on the stool the stagehand places at centre stage, adjusting it with a small scoot before slinging the guitar over his shoulders. It isn’t his guitar- the one plastered in stickers, marker scribbles, and half-faded inside jokes- but a sleek, polished instrument meant for the stage. Even so, the way he holds it is familiar, like it is an extension of himself, just like Sizhui holds his épée whenever he’s sparring with his Bobo.

Jingyi and Jin Ling crouch near the amp, conferring briefly, fingers twisting knobs with quick, practiced movements. Zizhen strums a few test notes.

The sound rolls outward, clean and resonant, rippling through the open air of the stadium.

Sizhui shivers.

It isn’t cold- not really. The stage lights still warm his skin, sweat still damp at his collar- but the sound hits something deep and quiet inside him. It always does. Live instruments have a way of making everything feel suddenly real, inescapably present.

“Guitar’s working fine,” Zizhen says, glancing up. 

His voice is calm, steady. 

“Sizhui, you ready?”

Sizhui shakes his head automatically.

“Ready,” he says anyway.

Jingyi giggles, the sound sharp and unrepentant, and grabs Jin Ling by the wrist, dragging him down to sit at the very edge of the stage.

“We’re part of the crowd now!” Jingyi declares, kicking his legs like a child.

Jin Ling rolls his eyes but doesn’t pull away. 

“Pretend we don’t exist,” he says, looking at Sizhui, “The spotlight belongs to you anyway.”

Sizhui doesn’t have time to process that sentence before the lights cut.

“Wait-”

The word barely leaves his mouth before a single spotlight blooms overhead, stark and white, pinning him in place.

The stadium disappears.

Or rather- it transforms. The roar dims into a held breath altogether. Thousands of glowsticks flicker, then shift, one by one, until the entire audience is awash in white light. It looks like the stars he can see above in the night sky. It looks like Cloud Recesses in winter, silent and almost endless.

Sizhui’s chest tightens.

Zizhen begins to play.

The first notes are gentle, almost cautious, as if asking permission to exist. They float out into the night, unmistakable now, and Sizhui hears the ripple of recognition move through the crowd like a wave.

They know what this song is.

He closes his eyes.

He sings.

At first, his voice is quiet- not weak, but restrained, carefully held. He’s afraid that if he lets go too much, something inside him might fracture. His tone is clear, warm, edged with something rawer beneath it. He doesn’t embellish. He never does with songs like this.

“Laying in the silence
Waiting for the sirens-”

Each word lands deliberately, shaped with care. He sings like he’s speaking to someone who is standing very close, someone who might shatter if he raises his voice just a bit too much.

“Signs, any signs I’m alive still…”

The sound carries farther than he expects. He feels it vibrate back into him, into his ribs, into the hollow space behind his sternum. He swallows, keeps going.

“I don’t wanna lose it
But I’m not getting through this…”

His grip tightens around the mic stand. His shoulders loosen as he exhales into the next line.

“Hey, should I pray?
Should I pray, yeah-”

He opens his eyes.

The crowd is utterly still.

“To myself? To a God?
To a saviour who can-”

Jingyi makes a noise, sharp and instinctive, half a cheer, half a gasp-but Jin Ling’s hand shoots out, palm up, firm and wordless, covering Jingyi’s mouth. Jingyi freezes mid-breath.

Sizhui doesn’t notice.

Something shifts as the chorus comes, like a door creaking open inside his chest. His voice grows stronger, fuller, confidence blooming not from some hidden bravado, but from pure honesty.

“Unbreak the broken-
Unsay these spoken words…”

The words resonate within himself. He leans into them now, letting the emotion show through the sound, letting the ache live in his voice instead of hiding behind the technique he had been taught by his betters.

“Find hope in the hopeless-
Pull me out the train wreck…”

He lifts his head slightly, eyes shining under the spotlight.

“Unburn the ashes,
Unchain the reactions now…”

His voice cracks- just a little.

“I’m not ready to die, not yet.”

The crowd exhales as one.

“Pull me out the train wreck-
Pull me out, pull me out, pull me out…”

Glowsticks sway gently now, a sea of light moving to the rhythm of Zizhen’s expert playing. The guitar grows more assured beneath Sizhui’s voice, supporting rather than leading.

He breathes in.

“Underneath our bad blood,
We’ve still got a sanctum…”

His voice softens again, tenderness threading through it.

“Home- still a home, still a home here…”

His throat tightens, but he pushes through.

“It’s not too late to build it back,
’Cause a one in a million chance…”

He lifts his chin.

“Is still a chance- still a chance-
And I would take those odds.”

The second chorus hits harder. Sizhui lets it.

The crowd sings with him now, thousands of voices folding into his, imperfect and earnest and mind-blowingly beautiful. He grips the mic properly this time, fingers curling around it as if anchoring himself to the moment.

When the bridge comes, the music strips back again- and he’s alone.

“You can say what you like,
Don’t say I wouldn’t die for it…”

His voice trembles.

“I’m down on my knees,
And I need you to be my God…”

The tears come before he realises they’re there.

He sees it all, suddenly- his A-Die spinning his Baba across the floor, laughter bright and unguarded, the way the light had caught on black fabric and white sleeves, the way his Baba’s grin had softened into something real and vulnerable. The way his A-Die had cried openly, unashamed, as Sizhui sang.

“Be my help, be a saviour who can-”

The chorus crashes in, the stadium singing with him, and Sizhui pulls the mic free from the stand. He moves without thinking, walking the stage, reaching out toward the audience as if he could touch them all.

“Unbreak the broken-
Unsay these reckless words…”

The lights swell, white and gold.

“Pull me out the train wreck-
Unburn the ashes…”

Zizhen’s guitar soars beneath him.

“Unchain the reactions now-
I’m not ready to die, not yet…”

His voice rings, strong and clear, unafraid.

“Pull me out the train wreck-”

The final lines are quiet again, intimate, just him and the mic and the notes of the song.

“Pull me out, pull me out, pull me out…
Pull me out, pull me out, pull me out…”

The last note fades.

For half a heartbeat, there is silence.

Then the stadium erupts.

The sound hits him like a wave, and Sizhui laughs, breathless and exhilarated, head tipping back as tears spill freely now. Before he can even wipe them away, arms wrap around him from all sides.

Jingyi squeezes him tight, voice rough. 

“Holy shit,” he mutters, “That was beautiful, man. It was beautiful.”

Zizhen nods fiercely, eyes shining. 

“It really was.”

Jin Ling’s grip is firm and steady at his back. 

“We loved it,” he says simply.

Sizhui laughs again, soft and wet, pressing his forehead briefly against theirs.

“Thank you,” he says, voice trembling, “Thank you, guys.”

The crowd screams louder, and it feels like Sizhui’s on top of the world.

They lace their fingers together without thinking about it, a habit formed somewhere between their first small showcase and their hundredth rehearsal. Four hands, four pulses still racing from the stage lights and the roar of the crowd. Sizhui feels Jingyi’s grip warm and slightly damp with sweat, Jin Ling’s firm and grounding, Zizhen’s gentle but steady.

They bow.

Deep. Sincere. Their final bow.

The sound that greets them is almost physical- screams crashing over the stage like a tsunami, so loud Sizhui feels it in his bones. When they straighten, they raise their arms together, hands still linked, and the stadium erupts all over again.

“Thank you, guys!” Sizhui calls, voice bright and open despite the ache settling into his chest, “We love you!”

Zizhen leans into his mic, smiling so wide his cheeks ache. 

“We’ll miss you, Note-Takers!”

Jin Ling lifts his chin, expression fierce in that familiar way, like he’s daring the world to listen properly. It reminds Sizhui of his Jiang-shushu.

“Remember to take care of yourselves! We want you guys to be healthy when we come back!”

“And keep listening to our music!” Jingyi adds, practically bouncing on his heels.

Sizhui squeezes their hands once more. 

“Goodbye for now!”

They don’t linger. If they do, Sizhui knows- knows- he’ll cry again, and this goodbye will turn into something messier than he can afford onstage.

They break into a run.

The runway stretches out before them, lights blazing, fans reaching up as they pass. They laugh as they run, breathless and giddy, bumping shoulders, Jingyi nearly tripping when Jin Ling shoves him forward on purpose. The wide bubble platform waits at the end, glossy and absurd and somehow comforting in its ridiculousness.

They climb in together, hands everywhere as they buckle each other in, fingers fumbling from adrenaline and exhaustion. Sizhui double-checks Jin Ling’s harness without even thinking about it. Jin Ling slaps Jingyi’s hand away from his own buckle and does it himself. Zizhen murmurs something soft and grounding, his voice cutting through the noise like it always does.

They wave.

The crowd screams louder, if that’s even possible.

The contraption begins to lift, slow and steady, and Sizhui keeps waving until his arm aches, until the fans blur into light and color and sound. He watches faces tilt upward, glowsticks still swaying, mouths forming words he can’t hear but somehow understands anyway.

Thank you. Come back. We love you.

Then they rise too high to see clearly.

The platform turns, the stadium falling away behind them, and begins its slow descent. The cheers fade into a distant echo, replaced by the hum of machinery and the sudden quiet of backstage.

The bubble settles with a soft thud.

For a second, none of them move.

Then they’re unbuckling each other again, faster this time, laughing too loudly in the enclosed space. Jingyi is the first to hop out, throwing his arms into the air.

“That was our best concert yet!”

Zizhen exhales, long and disbelieving, running a hand through his hair as he gets off the bubble. 

“I can’t believe that actually went smoothly.”

Jin Ling groans, scrubbing a hand down his face. 

“There’s going to be edits already, you know. The whole thing was being livestreamed.”

Sizhui laughs weakly, tugging at the damp fabric clinging to his back. 

“I’m all sweaty now, though…”

They fall into each other again, a messy, bone-crushing hug that smells like stage makeup and heat and adrenaline. For a moment, Sizhui just stands there, eyes closed, letting himself exist in the middle of them.

Then they separate.

The backstage area swarms instantly, stagehands moving with practiced efficiency. Sizhui barely has time to orient himself before Jin Ling is surrounded- one person thrusting an energy drink into his hand, another carefully plucking peonies from his hair, petals falling into a waiting palm, a third wiping sweat from his face with a soft towel.

Zizhen is intercepted next, a stagehand easing his sunglasses off his head and another helping him shrug out of the pastel green leather jacket.

Jingyi gets handed an electric fan and a soda at the same time. He grins, leaning into the fan dramatically while sipping through the straw like he’s been dying of thirst for years.

Two stagehands approach Sizhui, and he instinctively lifts a hand.

“I’m okay,” he says gently, taking the water bottle one of them offers but waving off the rest. His head is still buzzing, ears ringing faintly, body humming with leftover energy.

He takes two steps, then reaches back and grabs Jingyi by the wrist.

“Hey- come on.”

Jingyi stumbles after him, still holding the fan. 

“Where are we going?”

Sizhui doesn’t slow. 

“Where’s Ning-ge?”

A stagehand answers quickly, a little breathless. 

“He’s waiting for you guys out the back, sir. He and Dr. Wen are in the back, sir.”

Jingyi’s mouth curls into a grin immediately. 

“Wen Qing’s here?”

Jin Ling makes a choking sound as he and Zizhen catch up, all four of them veering toward Sizhui’s dressing room.

“God, Jingyi,” Jin Ling groans, “you’re not flirting with my jiumu.”

“She’s a literal art form, Jin Ling,” Jingyi replies solemnly, “You can’t blame me. Your jiujiu has good taste.”

Zizhen snorts. 

“Jingyi, you flirt with everyone. You flirt with Wei-qianbei, you flirt with Wen Qing, you even flirt with poor Yao-xiansheng- and he’s your stepfather.”

“Hey!” Jingyi protests, “Wei-qianbei, Wen Qing, and Jifu are all hot people. And Jifu says it’s good practice for flattering politicians.”

Sizhui finally cuts in, deadpan. 

“Jingyi, You-xiansheng is a politician. You’re an idol.”

Jingyi brightens. 

“Okay, but for the Grammys? Beyoncé’s going to be there!”

Sizhui stops walking just long enough to look at him. 

“Jingyi, you’re sixteen. And she’s married.”

“And have we all forgotten about the whole ‘Thank you, Beyoncé!’ debacle?” Jin Ling adds pointedly.

Zizhen laughs outright. 

“Jin Ling, you cannot still be on about that.”

“I like my conspiracy theories, okay?” Jin Ling mutters, “Leave me alone.”

“What, that Beyoncé’s an alien come to torture us humans?” Jingyi scoffs, “Let the woman be- she’s a literal beauty!”

Jin Ling sniffs and looks away, ears pink.

Sizhui watches them with a fond, tired smile tugging at his mouth. He knows- of course he knows- about Jin Ling’s awkward, carefully hidden crush on Jingyi. He also knows Jingyi is, somehow, completely oblivious. He turns his attention to himself, fingers working at the ribbons of his stage top. He loosens them carefully, slipping the fabric off his shoulders and folding it over his arm.

“We should change and get going,” he says softly, “Qing-jie doesn’t like to wait.”

All three of them shiver in unison.

No one argues.

Parts of costumes are peeled off and draped over chairs, water bottles are passed around, damp towels pressed to overheated skin. The adrenaline is still buzzing through Sizhui’s veins, a faint tremor beneath his exhaustion, like his body hasn’t quite realized yet that the concert is over. That there’s no next cue in his earpiece, no count-in waiting just offstage.

He slips his white top over his head, careful of the ribbon, and folds it neatly despite the sweat clinging to the fabric. Old habits die hard. Lan habits, his Baba would say fondly.

Jingyi, on the other hand, has already abandoned all dignity.

He kicks off one platform shoe, hops awkwardly to free the other, and collapses backward onto the couch with a groan dramatic enough to rival a death scene, as he shucks off his shirt, leaving him fully shirtless.

“I can feel my soul leaving my body,” Jingyi declares, “If anyone sees it, tell it to come back after dinner.”

Zizhen snorts as he shrugs out of his jacket. 

“You said that after Seoul too.”

“And Tokyo.”

“And-”

“Yes, yes,” Jingyi waves him off, “My soul is very busy.”

Jin Ling has already towelled off his hair, braid loosened into something softer as he grabs a red ribbon and ties his hair up into his signature ponytail. He drinks half an energy drink in one go and grimaces. 

“Ugh. These still taste awful.”

“They taste like heaven on earth,” Jingyi says solemnly.

“They taste like battery acid, Jingyi- are you fucking high or something?”

Sizhui smiles faintly, pulling on a loose black hoodie. The fabric is soft, grounding. Normal. He can feel himself slowly settling back into his own body, breath evening out, heartbeat no longer racing quite so fast.

The door knocks.

Three short raps. Precise. Controlled.

Every single one of them freezes.

Jingyi bolts upright. 

“Ah fuck- she’s here.”

Zizhen winces. 

“We’re going to die.”

Jin Ling straightens instinctively, shoulders back. 

“Why do I feel like I’m about to be scolded and I didn’t even do anything?”

“You exist,” Jingyi says, “That’s enough for Wen Qing.”

The door opens before anyone can respond.

Wen Qing steps in like she owns the room- which, functionally, she does. Clipboard tucked under one arm, sharp eyes already scanning them from head to toe. Her ponytail is as neat as ever, lab coat traded for a black blazer, expression hovering somewhere between professional and unimpressed. Behind her, Wen Ning peeks in cautiously, hands folded in front of him, eyes bright behind his glasses.

“Ning-ge,” Sizhui says warmly, relief washing through him. He steps forward without thinking, and Wen Ning lights up immediately.

“S-Sizhui!” Wen Ning says, voice soft but excited, “You- you were amazing. All of you. I- I cried a little.”

Jingyi points triumphantly. 

“See? We’re fucking art.”

Wen Qing clears her throat.

Jingyi wilts.

“You,” Wen Qing says, pointing directly at Jingyi, “are icing your knees tonight. I don’t care how ‘fine’ you think you are.”

“Yes, doctor,” Jingyi says meekly.

She turns to Jin Ling. 

“You overexerted again.”

Jin Ling opens his mouth. Closes it. 

“Yes, jiumu.”

“Hydration?”

“Yes.”

“Stretching?”

“…Yes.”

Her gaze slides to Zizhen. 

“You skipped your breathing exercises.”

Zizhen coughs. 

“In my defence-”

“No defence.”

“…Yes, Wen Qing.”

Finally, she looks at Sizhui.

Her expression softens, just a fraction.

“And you,” she says, quieter now, “You pushed yourself during the solo, A-Yuan.”

Sizhui nods. 

“I know.”

There’s no reprimand. Just a sigh, fond and resigned. 

“You always do.”

Wen Ning steps closer, offering him a thermos with both hands. 

“Warm t-tea,” he says, “For your throat.”

“Thank you,” Sizhui says sincerely, fingers brushing Wen Ning’s as he takes it. 

He takes a careful sip, the warmth soothing in a way he hadn’t realized he needed.

Wen Qing checks her watch. 

“Car’s waiting. You have ten minutes.”

“Ten?” Jingyi squeaks, “We just survived a whole journey on that stage.”

“You survived,” she agrees, “Now move your asses.”

They scramble.

Clothes are stuffed into bags, shoes swapped for sneakers, hair tied back or left blissfully undone. Sizhui moves through it all with quiet efficiency, helping Jingyi find his phone, handing Jin Ling his jacket, reminding Zizhen not to forget his guitar pick case.

It feels strange- this shift from spectacle to normalcy. From lights and screams to the mundane choreography of leaving.

As they file out, Sizhui glances back once, at the abandoned costumes, the empty room.

A chapter closing.

The corridor backstage is quieter now, echoing with distant dismantling, voices and footsteps fading into the night. The stadium feels far away already, like something half-dreamed.

The car waits just outside, dark and sleek. Thankfully, there are no paparazzi, or fans waiting for them. Wen Ning had truly cleared out the place for them.

As they pile in- Jingyi immediately sprawling across two seats, Jin Ling shoving him over with a scowl- Sizhui settles by the window. He watches the venue recede as the car pulls away, lights shrinking behind them.

His phone buzzes.

A message from Baba.

baba 💗: baby radish we’re so proud of you! we watched the whole livestream! You were amazingggggg a-yuan <33333

Another from A-Die, seconds later.

a-die 💞: You sang beautifully. Drive safe, A-Yuan. We love you.

Sizhui exhales, leaning his head back against the glass. The exhaustion finally settles in properly now, heavy but gentle, earned.

Beside him, Jingyi is already half-asleep on Jin Ling’s shoulder, mumbling something about Beyoncé.

Jin Ling scoffs but doesn’t move away.

Zizhen hums softly under his breath, fingers tapping an absent rhythm against his knee.

Sizhui closes his eyes.

They did it.

For now, at least, it’s enough.

The car rolls to a stop beneath the hotel’s covered entrance twenty minutes later, tires crunching softly over gravel that sounds far too loud in the sudden quiet. For a brief, fragile moment, there is peace- dim lights, tinted windows, the hum of the engine idling.

Then Jin Ling elbows Jingyi hard in the ribs.

“Oi. Wake up.”

Jingyi jerks awake with a startled noise, hair sticking up at impossible angles. 

“What- did we win another award?”

From the front seat, Wen Qing groans, long-suffering and deeply unimpressed. She pinches the bridge of her nose before turning around.

“Fair warning, ducklings,” she says, “There’s paparazzi outside. A lot of them. Someone leaked your location.”

There is a split second of stunned silence.

Then-

“Oh fuck,” Jingyi says, immediately.

“Fuck,” Jin Ling echoes, more resigned than shocked.

Zizhen leans forward, peering uselessly through the darkened glass. 

“How bad?”

Wen Ning twists in his seat, anxiety written plainly across his face. 

“I-It’s… it’s crowded,” he says carefully, “Lots of cameras.”

Lan Sizhui exhales through his nose and closes his eyes for half a heartbeat.

Of course.

He reaches into the pocket of his hoodie on autopilot, fingers closing around the familiar fabric of his mask. He’s done this enough times now that the motions come easily, muscle memory overriding the unease curling in his chest. Mask on. Hood up. Breathe.

He pulls the hood over his hair, shadowing his face, and feels Zizhen shift closer beside him. Zizhen gently takes the mask from Jin Ling’s hands and helps him loop it properly, fingers careful, practiced. Wen Ning passes around sunglasses, one by one, his hands trembling just slightly.

“Thank you, Ning-ge,” Sizhui says softly as he takes a pair. He pauses, then asks, quietly, “Are A-Die, Baba, Jiang-shushu, and Bobo already inside?”

Wen Ning nods. 

“Y-Yes. They’re waiting.”

Something in Sizhui’s chest loosens at that. Just a little.

Wen Qing steps out first, already bristling with barely contained fury. She opens the door sharply, scanning the scene like a general surveying a battlefield.

“Rules,” she says flatly, turning back to them, “No responding. No eye contact. No stopping at all.”

Her gaze snaps to Jingyi and Jin Ling. 

“And don’t you dare flip anyone off.”

“Yes, Qing-jie,” Sizhui says immediately.

“Yes, jiumu,” Jin Ling adds, dutiful.

“Yes, Wen Qing,” Zizhen and Jingyi chorus- Jingyi with a grin he wisely keeps hidden under his mask.

Wen Qing steps aside.

The door opens.

Sound crashes over them like a wave.

Shouts, flashes, the rapid-fire click of cameras- too many, too close. Sizhui’s heart jumps painfully as they step out into the glare, light bursting white behind his closed eyelids even through his sunglasses. His shoulders tense instinctively, spine stiffening as if bracing for impact. Zizhen loops his arm through Sizhui’s without hesitation, firm and grounding. The contact anchors him, solid and warm through layers of fabric.

Sizhui lets himself lean into it.

They move forward as one, Wen Qing leading, Wen Ning hovering anxiously at their flank. Jin Ling and Jingyi trail just behind, close enough that Sizhui can feel Jingyi’s presence like static at his lower back.

“Deep breaths,” Zizhen murmurs, pitched low enough that only Sizhui can hear, “In, out. I’ve got you, A-Hui.”

Sizhui nods, eyes fixed on the ground. One step. Then another. Then another.

“Hey! Can’t we at least get a photo of them?” someone yells.

“No comment!” Wen Qing snaps without breaking stride.

Another voice, louder, sharper. 

“Who the hell are you? You don’t even have anything to do with Four Notes!”

Wen Qing stops dead and whirls around.

“No comment,” she says again, icy. Then, with dangerous emphasis, “Now move away, fuckers.”

The crowd surges.

There’s a sudden lunge- too fast, too close. A cameraman barrels forward, arm outstretched, lens swinging toward Zizhen’s face.

Sizhui reacts without thinking.

He gasps and yanks Zizhen backward, grip tightening desperately as they stumble together. For a terrifying second, Sizhui loses his footing, flashes exploding around them, noise collapsing into a high-pitched roar-

Then they’re through the doors.

The hotel lobby swallows them whole, glass sliding shut behind them with a blessedly solid thud. The noise dulls instantly, reduced to a distant, frustrated murmur.

Behind them, Wen Qing explodes.

“What did I just say, you fucking dipshit-”

Jin Ling and Jingyi rush in after them, nearly colliding with a decorative table. Wen Ning slips in last, breathing hard, already fumbling in his pocket.

“H-Here,” he says, thrusting a keycard into Sizhui’s hand, “Y-Your key.”

“Thank you,” Sizhui says, voice still a little shaky.

Wen Qing storms in moments later, fury radiating off her in waves. She scans them quickly, making sure no one’s hurt, then jabs a finger toward the elevators.

“Top floor. We’ve booked the whole level. Go. Now.”

They don’t need telling twice.

The four of them practically sprint across the lobby, sneakers squeaking faintly on polished marble. Sizhui doesn’t slow until the elevator doors slide shut in front of them.

The moment they do, the world goes quiet.

Jingyi slumps against the wall with a dramatic groan. 

“I hate cameras.”

“I hate people,” Jin Ling mutters.

Zizhen exhales slowly, finally loosening his grip on Sizhui’s arm- though he doesn’t let go entirely.

Sizhui leans back against the cool metal wall, chest rising and falling as the adrenaline drains out of him in a dizzying rush. His hands are still trembling slightly. He curls them into the sleeves of his hoodie and focuses on breathing.

Safe. Inside. Family waiting upstairs.

The elevator begins to rise.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime, and the four of them spill out onto the quiet, carpeted hallway in a clumsy, half-running tangle of limbs and laughter. The air up here feels different- muted, insulated, the chaos of the outside world sealed far below them. Sizhui feels the tension finally ease from his shoulders as he takes in the familiar layout. Same floor. Same suite at the far end.

Home, for tonight.

“There,” he says, pointing needlessly. 

They all already know.

Together, they head for the last door, footsteps echoing faintly as Jin Ling fumbles with the keycard and Sizhui nudges it into the slot properly. The door clicks open, and they tumble inside in a rush, shutting it firmly behind them as if the paparazzi might somehow have learned to teleport.

The suite opens up wide and welcoming- soft golden lights, plush carpets, curtains drawn back just enough to reveal the city glowing beyond the windows. It smells faintly of clean linen and expensive soap.

Jingyi doesn’t even pause to appreciate it.

“MAN, I have missed the Ritz!” he whoops, sprinting forward and launching himself onto the nearest bed with zero hesitation, bouncing once, twice, arms spread wide like he’s greeting an old friend.

Jin Ling follows more sedately, yawning as he drops onto the edge of the same bed, shoulders sagging now that the adrenaline has finally worn off. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, “Those paps were brutal.”

Jingyi rolls onto his side, grinning like he’s reliving it already. 

“But you’ve got to admit- Wen Qing cussing them out was art. Absolute performance.”

Zizhen exhales heavily and lowers himself into one of the armchairs, long legs stretched out, head tipping back until it rests against the cushion. 

“I don’t care about art,” he says faintly, “I just want mantou. I’m starving.”

Sizhui laughs softly, the sound small but genuine, as he pulls his mask down and slips his sunglasses off, setting both carefully on the table by the door. Without them, the room feels warmer somehow, less distant.

“I think,” he says, voice gentle, “I’m just glad we finally get to rest.”

There’s a knock at the door- firm but familiar.

Sizhui hums in acknowledgment, already turning toward it. 

“I’ll get it. You guys just relax.”

Jingyi doesn’t even lift his head from the pillow. 

“Sizhui, you absolute angel,” he says lazily, “I cannot get out of this bed. Love you.”

Sizhui chuckles, hand already on the handle. 

“Love you too, A-Yi.”

He opens the door.

And immediately gets tackled.

“BAOBEI-!”

Wei Wuxian barrels into him at full speed, arms wrapping tight around Sizhui’s shoulders as he lifts him clean off the ground. Sizhui yelps, laughter bursting out of him as Wei Wuxian spins them both around, carrying them fully into the suite.

“Baba! Baba- let me down!” Sizhui protests, though he’s smiling so hard his cheeks ache.

Behind them, Lan Wangji steps inside with measured calm, followed closely by Lan Xichen and Jiang Cheng. The door shuts quietly behind them, sealing the room once again.

Jingyi looks up, eyes lighting instantly. 

“Fuqin!” he calls, waving enthusiastically at Lan Xichen.

Lan Xichen laughs and raises a hand in greeting, though he barely has time to respond before Jingyi launches into rapid, breathless chatter.

Jin Ling is already on his feet, crossing the room to Jiang Cheng and hugging him tightly around the waist. 

“Hi, jiujiu!”

Jiang Cheng huffs, but his hand comes down to rest on Jin Ling’s shoulder all the same. 

“You did fine,” he says gruffly.

Zizhen smiles warmly from his chair. 

“Hey, Ji-shushu. Chen-shushu. Jiang-qianbei.”

“Watch it!” Sizhui suddenly yells as Wei Wuxian loses his balance.

The two of them go down together in a heap of limbs and laughter, collapsing onto the carpet. Sizhui lands half on Wei Wuxian’s chest, half on his shoulder, both of them laughing too hard to move for a moment.

“Baba!” Sizhui groans, covering his face with his hands.

Wei Wuxian beams up at him unapologetically. 

“Sorry, radish. I might’ve gotten a little excited. Seeing my sweet baby sing live on TV does things to a man.”

Lan Wangji is already there, reaching down with steady hands to help them both up. Wei Wuxian takes it easily; Sizhui is lifted a moment later- and then immediately pulled into Lan Wangji’s arms.

The embrace is firm, grounding, familiar.

Sizhui feels it before he sees it- the slight tremble, the careful restraint. When he looks up, he notices the faint redness around Lan Wangji’s eyes.

“Hi, A-Die,” Sizhui says softly.

“Hello, baobei,” Lan Wangji murmurs back, voice low and close to Sizhui’s ear, “I missed you.”

Sizhui exhales and tucks himself into his A-Die’s chest without thinking, arms sliding around his waist. The scent of sandalwood and clean fabric steadies him completely.

Behind them, Wei Wuxian has already set his sights on his next victim.

“My sweet ricepuff!” he cries, launching himself at Zizhen and tackling him back into the armchair, “You were fantastic!”

“Wei-qianbei!” Zizhen laughs helplessly, trying and failing to fend him off, “Please let me up!”

Sizhui snorts softly, still tucked against Lan Wangji, and lifts one hand to wave at Lan Xichen. Lan Xichen smiles brightly in return, though he’s currently being half-hugged, half-held hostage by an animated Jingyi.

Jiang Cheng’s gaze shifts to Sizhui, expression softer than he lets on. 

“You did incredibly well,” he says, “Especially the solo.”

Sizhui freezes.

Then blushes violently.

Jingyi and Jin Ling notice instantly.

“Oh my god,” Jingyi cackles, “He was so embarrassed the crowd started asking if he was okay!”

“It was hilarious,” Jin Ling adds smugly.

Lan Wangji looks down at Sizhui, thumb brushing lightly at his shoulder. 

“Your solo was beautiful,” he says quietly, “Your Baba and I cried when you began to sing.”

Wei Wuxian pops back up immediately and pulls Sizhui into another hug, pressing a loud kiss to his forehead. 

“Absolutely stunning, baobei. Mind-blowing. I am emotionally devastated.”

Sizhui hides his face in his hands, mortified and glowing all at once.

After a moment, Wei Wuxian straightens, clapping his hands together. 

“Alright! Why don’t me, you, your A-Die, and Zizhen go grab dinner? Jingyi and Jin Ling can wait for the rest of their families here.”

Sizhui looks over at Zizhen. Zizhen meets his gaze and nods eagerly, eyes bright. Mantou is clearly motivating him.

Sizhui turns back to Wei Wuxian, smiling wide and unguarded.

“Yes, Baba,” he says, “Let’s.”

-fin-