Archive of Our Own

The private plane hums softly around them, a steady, almost comforting vibration that seeps into Lan Sizhui’s bones. It’s the kind of sound you only notice when everything else goes quiet- when the adrenaline has finally drained away and left behind the dull ache of exhaustion. He sits by the window, knees drawn slightly in, hoodie sleeves tugged over his hands. Outside, the sky stretches pale and endless, clouds layered like brushed silk beneath them.

He watches the wing cut through the air and thinks, vaguely, that it looks peaceful. Detached. As if the plane itself doesn’t know how many hours they’ve spent smiling too hard, bowing too deep, pretending not to notice the way their bodies lag behind their schedules.

His hair is braided neatly over one shoulder, something Wen Qing had insisted on before they boarded- it’ll tangle if you sleep like that- and he absently fingers the end of the plait while he looks out the window.

Behind him, Lan Jingyi is very much asleep. Loudly.

Sizhui doesn’t even have to turn around to know that Jingyi’s sprawled halfway out of his seat, shirt wrinkled, boxers unapologetically visible, mouth open in a way that would absolutely go viral if anyone had their phone out right now. The snores come in uneven bursts, punctuated by the occasional soft huff. It’s almost impressive.

Across the aisle, Jin Ling is hunched over a packet of crisps, methodically eating them one by one, eyes half-lidded with contentment. There are crumbs on his hoodie already. He looks comfortable in a way Sizhui rarely feels anymore ever since they rose to fame- guard down, shoulders loose, chewing loudly without a care in the world.

And then there’s Ouyang Zizhen.

Zizhen sits forward in his seat, hair in its usual half-up style, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. There’s a notepad balanced on his knee, a pen spinning endlessly between his fingers. He’s not writing. He hasn’t been writing for most of the flight. Instead, he keeps tapping the pen against the paper, then stopping, then starting again. His foot bounces, once, twice, then stills. Then starts again.

Sizhui notices. Of course he does.

He always notices.

He turns slightly in his seat, the movement careful, like he doesn’t want to startle the thought right out of Zizhen’s head.

“A-Zhen?” Sizhui asks gently, “What’s wrong?”

Zizhen doesn’t look up right away. He smiles instead, quick and practiced, the kind of smile he uses on fans and interviewers alike.

But Sizhui isn’t a fan, or an interviewer.

He’s Zizhen’s best friend.

The smile doesn’t sit right with him at all.

“Nothing, A-Hui,” he says, “Don’t concern yourself about it.”

Sizhui frowns.

It’s small, barely there- but Zizhen sees it anyway.

“Zizhen,” Sizhui says, voice still calm, still soft, “it doesn’t look like nothing.”

Jin Ling pauses mid-crisp. He glances between them, eyebrows lifting.

“We’re going home anyway,” Jin Ling says around a mouthful, “I’m sure whatever it is can wait.”

Zizhen exhales. Slowly. Like he’s been holding his breath without realising it.

He caps the pen, slides it into the spiral of the notepad, and tucks both into the satchel by his feet. When he finally looks up, the tension hasn’t left his face- but there’s relief there, too. Like he’s glad he’s been caught.

“I’ve been struggling with writer’s block,” Zizhen admits, “I can’t find anything that truly fits the concept of our next album.”

Jin Ling’s eyes sharpen.

“What- for Interlude, right?”

Zizhen nods. “Yes.”

He leans back, running a hand through his hair.

“We’ve had Resonance, Dissonance, Chord, and Echo,” he continues, “And now Interlude. But the problem is… I keep coming up with songs that feel better suited for the album after. Cadence.”

Jin Ling shrugs. 

“We’ve got until February. That’s four months away. I’m sure we’ll figure it out once we’re back in Gusu.”

“But we go back to LA in three weeks,” Zizhen says, voice rising despite himself, “And I still need at least seven songs by then!”

Sizhui exhales through his nose.

“A-Zhen,” he says, steady, “it’s fine. Management will understand if the songs aren’t ready yet.”

“But we need a comeback,” Zizhen insists, “Better than ever.”

His voice echoes just loudly enough that Jingyi startles awake.

“Huh- what?!” Jingyi yelps, sitting upright. 

His hair sticks up in three different directions. 

“Are we crashing?!”

“Everything’s fine,” Sizhui reassures him immediately.

“Zizhen’s just overreacting,” Jin Ling adds, “Go back to sleep, A-Yi.”

Jingyi squints at him, eyes heavy, lips pouting in that way that makes Jin Ling’s ears turn pink instantly.

“Okay…” Jingyi mumbles.

He stretches- arms up, spine arching- then, without hesitation, stands and plops himself directly into Jin Ling’s lap. He resettles there like it’s the most natural thing in the world, face pressing briefly into Jin Ling’s stomach before he falls back asleep.

Jin Ling freezes.

He looks like he’s caught between screaming, crying, and combusting on the spot.

Sizhui covers his mouth, laughter bubbling up before he can stop it. Even Zizhen snorts despite himself.

But then Zizhen’s shoulders sag again, and Sizhui turns back to him.

“How many songs do you have so far?” Sizhui asks.

“Only two,” Zizhen admits, “I wanted at least four by now.”

“What are they called?”

Zizhen hesitates. Then-

“Halfway Awake,” he says, “And Cold Takeout on the Floor.”

Jin Ling goes completely still.

“…Cold Takeout on the Floor?”

Zizhen nods, earnest as ever.

Sizhui tilts his head. 

“What’s the concept?”

“Well,” Zizhen says, warming up now, “Interlude is about burnout, right? Emotional exhaustion. Being stuck between who you were and who you’re expected to be. So I imagined one of us as the burnt-out one, and simply put us in a scenario where it’s 2am and you’re looking into the fridge for food because you broke up with your lover and you’re just fucking depressed. Another one of us as the love interest. And the other two…” 

He shrugs.

 “Supporting, observing the other two, I suppose. Filling in the cracks.”

“And?” Sizhui prompts.

“I have Jingyi as the depressed one,” Zizhen says, “and Jin Ling as the love interest.”

Jin Ling chokes.

Jingyi merely nuzzles deeper into Jin Ling’s hoodie, blissfully unaware.

“You want me and him,” Jin Ling says incredulously, “to be lovers.”

“Yes.”

“…Why?”

“The chemistry,” Zizhen says simply, “Fans talk about it all the time.”

Jin Ling grimaces. 

“Isn’t that usually you and Sizhui?”

“On stage we work particularly well together,” Zizhen agrees, “Offstage, in fan meets and the like, fans always tweet at how you and Jingyi almost seem in sync.”

Jin Ling looks away, ears still pink.

Sizhui considers it. Slowly. He can see it, actually- the way Jingyi gravitates toward Jin Ling without thinking, the way Jin Ling softens around him without realising.

“Can I see the lyrics?” Sizhui asks.

Zizhen brightens immediately, pulling the notepad back out and handing it over.

“I have yet to perfect the rest, but I think this is mostly done.”

Sizhui reads.

It’s 2:17, the clock’s blinking red
I never fixed it since you left
The fridge hums like it’s breathing for me
And I’m pretending I don’t notice

He looks up.

“It’s good,” he says honestly.

“Who’s singing it?” he asks.

“Me,” Zizhen says. “It’s an intro. The first verse is yours. Jin Ling gets the pre-chorus. The chorus is us three. Jingyi takes part of the second verse, I take the rest. Second chorus is him and Jin Ling. He raps later. Bridge is him and Jin Ling. The final chorus is all of us.”

Jin Ling blinks. 

“So… me and Jingyi carry most of the song.”

“Yes.”

“And No One’s Watching?” Jin Ling asks, as he flips over a page, looking at the scribbling all over the notepad, and the title at the top.

“That’s Sizhui,” Zizhen says, “Almost entirely.”

Sizhui’s fingers tighten around the notebook.

“Piano,” Zizhen continues quickly, “Minimal choreography. A-capella bridge.”

“Not even background music?” Jin Ling asks, almost desperately.

“Nope.”

“If we perform it live?” 

“Sizhui alone. No background stuff.”

Sizhui laughs softly at the horrified look Jin Ling gives Zizhen. 

“I’ll be fine. I’ve had plenty of practice with Hat Time, A-Ling.”

Jin Ling lets out a groan, as he pinches the bridge of his nose, but nods.

“If you’re so sure.”

Zizhen hums, moving the subject along. 

“The singing isn’t meant to be smooth as well. I’m envisioning it’s pure emotion, so there will be a voice crack somewhere. So it doesn’t matter either way if the bridge is perfect, because the chorus will be perfect, with the four of us together at the end.”

“Is the song not fully written up yet?” Sizhui asks, even if it is an obvious question, from the state of the notepad.

Zizhen shakes his head. 

“Ah… no. I have the first few bits fleshed out. But nothing else, really.”

“Do you have the chorus?” Jin Ling asks.

“Kind of,” Zizhen says. “It’s not perfect, but… should I just sing it?”

Jin Ling and Sizhui exchange glances. Sizhui then turns back to Zizhen, and silently nods. Zizhen takes a deep breath, before he starts to sing.

“No one’s watching
So I let my shoulders drop
No one’s counting
How long I’ve been holding on

I don’t have to be brave
I don’t have to be strong
I don’t have to explain
What I did wrong

No one’s watching
So I finally breathe…”

The cabin feels quieter after.

“Wait, A-Zhen, it sounds fantastic!” Sizhui says immediately.

Jin Ling nods along, looking as excited as Sizhui feels.

“I tried with this one. For the second chorus,” Zizhen says, “I wanted variation, instead of using the exact same lines.”

“I might have something,” Jin Ling says suddenly.

Both of them stare at him. 

Jin Ling almost never has a verse to offer up- he gets more involved with the choreography of dancing rather than the complexity of scriptwriting. Jingyi mainly gets involved with choreography, and does his hand in rapping when Zizhen struggles, while Sizhui has equal hands in scriptwriting and choreography, thanks to being the leader of the group. Zizhen, meanwhile, stays fully with scriptwriting, being the lyricist after all. 

It’s slightly baffling to see Jin Ling jump to volunteer immediately.

“What?” Jin Ling snaps, “Do you want it or not?”

“Go ahead,” Zizhen says, blushing.

Jin Ling nods, and starts to sing, his voice light, even if it doesn’t sound as confident. 

“No one’s watching
So I sit with the ache
Let it wash over me
Let it stay

I don’t need a mirror
I don’t need a stage
I don’t need your love
If it’s only for show anyway

No one’s watching
So I finally breathe…”

When he finishes, Zizhen actually gasps.

“That’s it,” he breathes, “That’s it. ! Oh god- that’s it! A-Ling, you genius, you’ve got it! Oh my god, I have the last chorus now!”

He scribbles furiously, then shoves the notebook at Sizhui.

“Sing.”

“I-”

“Are you the main vocalist of our group or not?” Zizhen says flatly, “Sing.”

Sizhui does.

“No one’s watching
So I let myself cry
Just a boy in a room
With the truth and the time

I don’t need forgiveness
I don’t need relief
I just need a second
Where I’m allowed to be weak

No one’s watching
So I finally breathe…”

By the end, Zizhen is laughing, borderline hysterical with relief.

“That’s it,” he says, “That’s the album. That’s-”

“Really good,” Jingyi mumbles his interruption, eyes half-open.

They all stare down at him as he grins. Jin Ling snorts, before speaking.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Jin Ling says.

 Sizhui has no idea what is going through his little cousin’s brain but it is definitely on the wavelength of how stupid Jingyi looks with drool all over his face, and of course not at all about how handsome he looks with his hoodie rucked up and hair mussed just right.

Sizhui just knows his cousin well- that is all there is to it.

“We were brainstorming lyrics. Any ideas from you?” Jin Ling continues.

Jingyi shakes his head.

“No, not really. Is there any rapping in this song-”

“No. No rapping. For this masterpiece- absolutely not,” Zizhen says firmly.

They all stare.

Zizhen shrugs. “What? Not everything needs rap.”

The plane hums on. Outside, the sky keeps moving.

The plane touches down with a muted thump, the wheels screeching softly against the runway as Shanghai’s lights bloom beneath them- endless and sprawling, a galaxy stitched into the earth. Sizhui feels the impact through the soles of his shoes, a faint jolt that rattles through his legs and settles somewhere behind his ribs. He exhales only when the engines finally wind down, the cabin filling with that familiar, recycled-air stillness that signals the end of a flight.

Three hours. Somehow both impossibly long and gone in a blink.

He unbuckles slowly, muscles protesting now that they’ve been given permission to rest. Outside the window, night presses close, black glass punctured by white and yellow lights. Shanghai always feels like this to him- vast, humming, alive in a way that never quite sleeps, almost insomniac if you try to do so. 

Gusu is quieter, he notes. It is much softer.

They disembark quickly, masks and sunglasses on despite the late hour. Sizhui pulls his hood up out of habit, fingers tucking the braid back over his shoulder. It’s strange, moving through an airport like this- no security team, no handlers, no carefully managed corridors. Just the four of them, backpacks slung over shoulders, blending into the flow of travellers with practiced ease.

Their parents and guardians had insisted on meeting them back in China instead. Work schedules, meetings, obligations- things that never seem to pause thanks to the cycle of life, no matter how many concerts you headline or awards you get nominated for. Tonight, it’s just them, heading back to Gusu to collapse into familiar beds. Jingyi will go to Lan Xichen’s in the morning. Jin Ling will head to Lanling. For three weeks, at least, Sizhui and Zizhen will be under the same roof again, like they used to be, before they have to head back to LA again.

And thankfully- mercifully- no one has leaked their location this time.

They pass through the airport without incident. No flashes. No shouted names. No breathless crowd pressing too close, like they had in London. Sizhui keeps his head down anyway, heart still jumping every time he hears a voice rise nearby, but nothing happens. Just the low murmur of late-night travellers, the rolling of suitcases, the echo of footsteps on polished floors.

By the time they reach the small tuck shop near the exit, the tension in Sizhui’s shoulders has eased into something closer to exhaustion.

Jin Ling and Jingyi, however, look energised.

They’re already pulling Jingyi’s phone out, crowding together in front of the shelves stacked with buns and pastries, fluorescent lights humming overhead. Sizhui steps back automatically, attention shifting to his own phone as he opens the train app, fingers moving on muscle memory.

Behind him, Jingyi hits record.

“Hello, Note-Takers!” Jin Ling says, voice pitched lower than usual, but still bright, “We’re undercover right now, so we’re not speaking as loud since we’re at the airport.”

“Also,” Jingyi adds, stage-whispering dramatically, “because Sizhui would gut us if we somehow got caught by paps or fans because we have no security with us.”

Sizhui doesn’t look up. 

“I would not gut you,” he says mildly.

“Anyway,” Jin Ling continues, grinning at the camera, “we’re all hungry, so we’re going to get snacks while Sizhui looks at getting train tickets for us!”

“Zizhen is with us too,” Jingyi says, swinging the camera just enough to catch Zizhen hovering nearby, “but he’s too busy being sus for reasons we are not allowed to say, so we’re just going to get him stuff without sugar.”

“Jingyi,” Jin Ling mutters, “are we being deadass right now-”

“Sorry, sorry-”

Sizhui sighs and turns, gently but firmly plucking the phone out of Jingyi’s hands. He raises it, waves once at the screen, eyes crinkling above his mask.

“I promise you guys,” he says evenly, “I am not contemplating murder.”

“Yet,” Jin Ling supplies.

Jingyi snatches the phone back, laughing. 

“It’s like that meme where everyone’s saying nice things and then Sizhui’s just there like, ‘Murder is okay.’”

“Murder is not okay,” Sizhui replies, fixing Jingyi with one of his best glares, honed through years of Lan discipline and idol leadership alike, “And we’re here to get food. So hurry up, Jingyi.”

Jingyi wilts dramatically. 

“Yes, leader-nim.”

Zizhen clears his throat. 

“Guys,” he says quietly, nodding toward the counter, “the old man at the kiosk is glaring at us. We might want to get our food and then get out of here.”

“Fuck,” Jingyi mutters, “Yeah, okay. Jin Ling, what’re you getting?”

Jin Ling scans the shelves with the seriousness of someone making a life-or-death decision, then reaches out decisively. 

“Xiaolongbao and an egg tart. I’ve already got those disgusting energy drinks in my carry-on- I’ll survive off that.”

“I’ll get two baozi, two pineapple buns, and an egg tart,” Jingyi says, already grabbing items. “Sizhui?”

“Just an egg tart,” Sizhui answers without looking up from his phone.

Silence.

He looks up to find three pairs of eyes staring at him.

“…What?” he asks.

Jingyi turns back to the camera immediately. 

“Okay, so the thing with Sizhui is- when he’s hungry, he’ll eat. He doesn’t have a set schedule. The only proper meal he has is dinner- and that’s because his parents force him to sit at the dinner table with us.”

“You’re making it sound like he starves himself,” Jin Ling snaps.

“That’s not what I meant!”

Zizhen laughs awkwardly, shifting his weight. 

“Let’s just say he eats, but at different points during the day. Like little snacks.”

Sizhui’s smile falters- just a fraction. It’s subtle enough that the camera doesn’t catch it, but he feels it anyway, a small tightening in his chest. He keeps his expression smooth, keeps his tone light.

“It’s just a habit,” he says, “And I’ll get an iced coffee, if it’ll make you worry less.”

Zizhen immediately reaches for one, pressing it into Sizhui’s hands without comment. Their fingers brush, brief and grounding.

“I’ll get mantou,” Zizhen adds.

Jin Ling groans. 

“God, Zizhen, you and the fucking mantou.”

“It melts in your mouth,” Zizhen insists, “Jingyi, I want five.”

Jingyi snorts, arms already full. 

“Now it’s time for checkout. And then we get the train.”

Sizhui watches them- his friends, his bandmates, his family in all but blood- laughing softly under fluorescent lights. He takes a sip of his iced coffee, the cold bitterness grounding him, and turns back to his phone.

Train tickets secured. Home waiting.

The taxi pulls up to the station with a soft jolt, the engine rattling once before going quiet. Lan Sizhui is the first to reach for the door, already halfway out by the time the driver finishes braking. The night air rushes in, cooler than he expects, carrying with it the sharp, metallic scent of rails and electricity. Station lights glare overhead, bleaching the pavement pale and throwing long shadows beneath their feet.

They spill out one by one- Jingyi nearly tripping over his own suitcase, Jin Ling muttering something under his breath, Zizhen steadying both himself and the door with practiced calm. Sizhui thanks the driver, bows slightly out of habit, and watches the taxi pull away before turning back to the others.

The station looms in front of them, all glass and steel and relentless brightness. Even this late, it’s alive- people moving with purpose, announcements echoing faintly over loudspeakers, the hum of something constantly in motion. Sizhui adjusts the strap of his bag on his shoulder and gestures them forward.

“Come on,” he says, “We don’t have much time.”

They head inside, footsteps swallowed by the wide concourse. Almost immediately, Jingyi’s phone is out again.

“We’re going to eat on the train,” Jingyi announces cheerfully to the camera, already settling into his familiar on-screen cadence, “It’s a fast one, right, Sizhui?”

Sizhui doesn’t look at the camera. He checks the departure board instead, eyes scanning for their train number. 

“The app says it should only take thirty minutes,” he answers, “So yes. It’s a fast train.”

“Thank god,” Jin Ling says fervently, “I need jiufu’s cooking in my mouth as soon as possible.”

Zizhen snorts. 

“Please don’t ever phrase it like that again.”

They weave through the station together, a small, tight cluster, and reach their platform with just enough time to spare. The waiting area is mostly empty- late hour, weekday- only a few scattered travellers hunched over phones or slumped against their luggage.

Jingyi immediately drops down onto his suitcase like it’s a throne, legs stretched out, still talking animatedly to the phone. Jin Ling leans in, occasionally chiming in with commentary, while Zizhen hovers close enough to stay in frame but far enough to avoid being directly responsible for whatever Jingyi says next.

Sizhui steps away from them, resting his back against the cool wall. He exhales slowly, shoulders finally loosening now that everything is booked, timed, and accounted for. For a moment, he just listens- to Jingyi’s voice rising and falling, to Jin Ling’s sharp laugh, to the distant sound of a train passing somewhere deeper in the station.

His phone vibrates in his hand.

He glances down.

Baba.

Sizhui straightens instinctively. He lifts a finger to his lips, and Jingyi cuts off mid-sentence without missing a beat, clapping a hand over his own mouth with exaggerated seriousness. Sizhui answers the call.

“Hey, Baba.”

“Hey, baobei!” Wei Wuxian’s voice crackles through the speaker, warm and bright even through the line, “I was just wondering if you were in China yet?”

“Yeah,” Sizhui says, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “We reached a while ago. We’re about to get on the train to Suzhou. Are you guys making dinner?”

“Yes, we are,” Wei Wuxian says proudly, “Your A-Die’s got your favourite mapo tofu ready. The boys are coming along, right?”

“Yep. Jin Ling and Jingyi are staying at ours tonight.”

“Oh, good,” Wei Wuxian replies, “I have yours and Zizhen’s bedrooms all ready- but I assume you’re all camping it out in Zizhen’s room?”

Sizhui glances over at Zizhen, who’s now watching him with a fond, knowing look. 

“Yeah,” Sizhui admits, “I think we are. Zizhen has some lyrics ready for the next album, but he hit a few roadblocks with the new concept earlier. I think we might be up late.”

Wei Wuxian hums thoughtfully. 

“That’s fine by me. Do you need me to get any snacks for you guys?”

“Maybe your cookies?” Sizhui says, “Spiced- and not spiced, for Jingyi. Of course.”

“Of course,” Wei Wuxian laughs, “I’d love to, sweetheart. Oh- just so you know, I’ll be livestreaming in my bedroom tonight, so don’t come in. I’ll tell you when it starts, but my fans have been asking me to for ages-”

“It’s fine, Baba,” Sizhui says gently, “Don’t worry about it. When is A-Die due to be on the news again?”

“He’s got shifts pretty much every day from tomorrow until November,” Wei Wuxian replies easily, “then we all go to LA. After that, he’s using all the extra days he’s saved up until we head back in December.”

A low rumble cuts through the station, vibrating faintly through the floor. Sizhui turns as headlights bloom at the far end of the platform.

“Our train’s coming,” he says, pushing himself off the wall, “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Okay, my radish,” Wei Wuxian says fondly, “Tell my ricepuff I said hello, yeah? Oh- and my bratty nephews too.”

“I’ll tell Zizhen that,” Sizhui says, smiling, “Love you, Baba.”

“Love you too, sweetheart. Come home safe, please! And tell Jingyi not to break his arm on the way home again. I don’t want to have to explain to Xichen-ge that he was doing dangerous balancing acts again.”

“Baba,” Sizhui says quickly, already walking toward the train doors, “he was fourteen when that happened. And I really have to go, so- bye!”

Wei Wuxian’s laughter follows him right up until the call ends. 

“Bye-bye now!”

Sizhui lowers the phone and slips it back into his pocket, exhaling through his nose. He turns-

-and freezes.

Jingyi, Jin Ling, and Zizhen are all staring at him.

For half a second, it’s silent.

Then Jingyi loses it.

Laughter bursts out of all three of them at once- Jingyi doubling over, Jin Ling clutching his stomach, Zizhen laughing so hard he has to grab Jingyi’s sleeve to stay upright.

Sizhui shakes his head, helpless but fond. 

“You’re all impossible,” he says, already stepping toward the carriage.

They scramble after him, laughter trailing behind them as the train doors slide shut with a soft chime.

Home is thirty minutes away.

The rhythm of the train has settled into something steady and lulling, a low hum beneath their feet that seeps into Sizhui’s bones. Twenty minutes in, the novelty of movement has worn off, replaced by that familiar in-between feeling- no longer travelling, not yet home. Outside the window, the darkness slides past in streaks of reflected light, cities thinning into stretches of shadow and back again.

Jingyi is asleep. Properly asleep this time- head tipped slightly to one side, mouth parted, arms folded loosely over his chest as the train sways. His breathing is even, loud enough that Sizhui is vaguely surprised no one else in the carriage has complained yet. Jingyi had barely lasted ten minutes after boarding before slumping against the seat with a soft, boneless sort of resignation, like a cat that had decided this was an acceptable place to nap.

Beside Jingyi, Sizhui sits upright, one leg crossed over the other, iced coffee sweating onto the little fold-down table between them. He’s tried to finish it slowly, but there’s not much left now- just a few diluted sips at the bottom. His phone rests in his hand, screen casting a faint glow across his knuckles.

On the other side of the table, Jin Ling is radiating irritation in the quiet, tightly wound way only he can manage. He’s slouched back in his seat, arms crossed, jaw tense, eyes half-lidded as if the world has personally offended him. Jet lag has always hit Jin Ling harder than he lets on, and tonight it’s written all over him- short fuse, restless leg bouncing beneath the table, fingers tapping out a rhythm that doesn’t match the train at all.

Zizhen, meanwhile, is doing exactly what Zizhen does best: existing at a comfortable midpoint between enlightenment and setting off a bomb. He’s leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin propped on one hand, the other fiddling absently with a pen he must have pulled out of nowhere. He hums under his breath, tune unrecognisable, eyes bright with that restless, creative energy that never quite switches off.

Sizhui exhales quietly and scrolls.

He taps into TikTok without thinking, muscle memory guiding his thumb. The app loads-

-and immediately, he’s staring at himself.

He blinks.

The video fills the screen, familiar from the first note. It’s from their last concert, only a few days ago. The lighting is dim and blue, stage fog curling around the edges of the frame. He recognises the moment instantly: Train Wreck, the stripped-down cover of his Baba’s second favourite song, the one they performed live a few days ago. The camera angle is slightly off-centre, handheld, shaking just enough to remind him this is a fan recording.

On screen, he’s singing.

Not just singing- finishing the song. Voice raw, cracking on the last note in a way he’d tried very hard not to think about since. The video catches the exact moment the music drops out completely, leaving only his voice echoing through the venue.

Then-

The rush.

Jin Ling is the first to reach him in the clip, arms tight around his shoulders, followed immediately by Zizhen and Jingyi, all three of them colliding into a tangled mess of limbs and microphones and shaky laughter. Someone is crying- he knows, dimly, that it’s him, because he remembers the heat of tears on his cheeks, the way his vision blurred as the crowd roared.

The edit lingers on that moment, slows it just slightly. Four boys on a stage, holding onto each other like the floor might disappear if they let go.

Text flashes across the screen.

best boy band period xxx

Sizhui’s eyes flick down to the numbers without meaning to.

Over two million likes.

He swallows.

For a moment, he honestly doesn’t know whether to curl up and disappear into the seat or watch it again from the beginning. His thumb hovers, betraying him, and before he can stop himself, he taps the heart.

The icon fills in red.

“Well,” he murmurs under his breath, half to himself, half in surrender.

He turns the phone around and slides it across the table to Jin Ling.

Jin Ling raises an eyebrow, clearly prepared to be unimpressed, but takes it anyway. His eyes skim the screen-

-and then widen.

“Fuck,” he says quietly, “How many views does this have?”

“Five million,” Sizhui replies, “I think. It was posted around ten hours ago.”

“Holy shit,” Jin Ling groans, scrubbing a hand over his face, “Now everyone knows what we look like when we cry.”

Zizhen leans over immediately, craning his neck to see. Jin Ling tilts the phone so he can watch properly, and Zizhen dissolves into giggles almost on cue.

“Jin Ling,” Zizhen says between laughs, “you look like a chipmunk. Your cheeks are so puffed out!”

“Hey!” Jin Ling snaps, ears going red, “That’s not-!”

Zizhen laughs harder, shoulders shaking, and the sound is enough to stir Jingyi.

Jingyi blinks awake slowly, confusion etched across his face. He yawns, wide and unashamed, then squints at Jin Ling. 

“What’s… wrong?”

Instead of answering, Jin Ling shoves Sizhui’s phone into Jingyi’s hands.

Jingyi watches the edit in silence, eyes tracking the screen as recognition dawns. When it ends, he groans and drops his head back against the seat.

“Jin Ling may look like a chipmunk,” he says mournfully, “but I have snot all over my face. God. This is humiliating.”

Zizhen snickers. 

“Wei-qianbei is going to lose his shit if he sees this.”

“Don’t remind me,” Jin Ling says, “Dajiu goes insane every time one of us goes viral.”

Sizhui laughs softly, the sound surprised out of him. He isn’t sure what else to do. The embarrassment is there, yes- but there’s something else too. A strange, warm disbelief. That moment had felt small and private, despite the thousands of people watching. Seeing it reframed like this, cherished by strangers… it’s unsettling. And touching.

“Wait,” Sizhui says, leaning forward, “Let’s see what other edits there are.”

He takes the phone back and scrolls.

The next video loads.

He has just enough time to register the opening beat- familiar, heavy, pulsing-

Oh no.

It’s a thirst trap.

Of him.

On stage, during Three Notes, One Sound.

The choreography flashes back into his mind immediately: the sharp footwork at the start, the clean lines, the way the formation breaks and reforms. His part comes halfway through the song, where the choreography shifts- less rigid, more fluid. He remembers stepping forward between Jin Ling and Jingyi, one hand sliding deliberately to his hip as he rolls his weight through his legs, shoulders loose, spine relaxed.

There’s a section where he’s meant to lean into Zizhen’s space, fingers grazing Zizhen’s wrist before pulling away at the last second. Another count later, he turns, back to the audience, hips snapping sharply to the beat while Jin Ling mirrors the movement behind him, close enough that their shadows overlap under the stage lights. It’s controlled, intentional, just suggestive enough to make the crowd scream.

The edit zooms in on all of it.

Sizhui tries to scroll away.

He doesn’t get the chance.

Jingyi’s reflexes are faster. He snatches the phone right out of Sizhui’s hand, watching the rest of the video before bursting into laughter.

“Oh my god,” Jingyi wheezes, shoving the phone toward the others, “You’re lethal.”

Jin Ling gags dramatically. 

“Absolutely not. I don’t want to see that.”

Zizhen, however, just shakes his head, smiling. 

“I swear every edit of Sizhui has to be a thirst trap.”

“I’m just glad it isn’t me,” Jin Ling mutters, “A-Die would freak out if he knew how many sketchy edits people make of us.”

“The ones involving me are usually memes,” Jingyi says thoughtfully, “or friendship edits. So I can’t really complain.”

Zizhen tilts his head, studying Sizhui with open curiosity. 

“Sizhui, I do have to ask, though…”

Sizhui, who is very aware of how warm his face feels right now, clears his throat. 

“Yes?”

“How do you have such good hip coordination?” Zizhen asks seriously, “It rivals those girls from Katseye, honestly.”

“Are you saying Sizhui dances like Daniela?” Jin Ling asks.

“To be fair,” Zizhen says, “that’s an insult to Daniela. She’s one of the best dancers I’ve ever seen. Sizhui, unfortunately cannot compare.”

Jin Ling pouts. 

“Then what about me?”

Zizhen laughs, reaching out to flick Jin Ling’s forehead lightly. 

“A-Ling, sweetheart, I said one of the best dancers. You are the best dancer. Don’t you agree, guys?”

“Very much so,” Sizhui says without hesitation.

“I mean,” Jingyi adds, “Young Mistress’s energy is dramatic, so it works.”

“I’m going to throw my egg tart at you,” Jin Ling threatens, “if you don’t shut up.”

Sizhui takes a small sip of his iced coffee- mostly melted now- then reaches for the phone again. He scrolls, thumb slower this time.

Another edit loads.

This one is Jingyi and Jin Ling.

Burn the Rulebook.

The first half is rehearsal footage: the two of them in a mirrored studio, sweatpants and oversized shirts, hair messy, movements sharp and unpolished. Jin Ling’s precision stands out immediately, every step clean, while Jingyi’s energy fills the space around him, exaggerated and bold.

The video transitions seamlessly to the stage version- both of them dressed in black, lights flashing red and white, the choreography tighter but no less intense. The edit cuts between them in time with the beat, highlighting the way they move together, in sync despite their differences.

Sizhui turns the phone toward Jingyi.

Jingyi watches, then smirks. 

“Damn. I look hot.”

Jin Ling takes the phone next, cheeks colouring as he watches himself for a moment before handing it to Zizhen without a word.

Zizhen whistles. 

“Damn. You both look hot.”

Jin Ling blushes even harder.

“The choreo suits you,” Zizhen adds thoughtfully, “We might have to build on that for Cold Takeout on the Floor.”

“Honestly,” Jingyi says, “the name is still weird.”

“And that,” Zizhen replies smoothly, “is exactly why we’re keeping it.”

“But-”

“Don’t argue with me now.”

Jingyi rolls his eyes and pouts, and Sizhui sighs, fond and tired all at once.

Then the announcement crackles over the speakers.

Their station.

Sizhui straightens, heart lifting. Home is close now.

The station at night hums with a quieter, heavier kind of energy than it does during the day. Not empty- never empty- but slowed, like the whole building has taken a deep breath and decided to let it out gradually. The fluorescent lights overhead cast everything in a pale, almost unreal glow, turning tiled floors slick and reflective, shadows stretching long beneath the feet of passing travellers.

Sizhui stands just off to the side of the main exit, backpack slung over one shoulder, phone in hand as he tracks the little blue dot inching closer on the map. The taxi is only a few minutes away now. He can feel it in his bones- home is close enough to taste. Gusu’s familiar air, his A-Die’s cooking, the quiet creak of the floors in the house he grew up in. Even thinking about it makes some tightness in his chest loosen.

Beside him, Zizhen leans his head comfortably against Sizhui’s shoulder, the weight familiar and grounding. Zizhen smells faintly of soap and airport coffee, and his hair brushes against Sizhui’s jaw every time he shifts. He looks tired too, though he’d never admit it outright- his eyes are softer, his movements less restless than usual.

Sizhui doesn’t move away. He adjusts his stance slightly instead, angling himself so Zizhen can lean more comfortably. It’s an instinctive thing, one he’s done a thousand times without thinking. Zizhen hums quietly in response, content.

A few steps away from them-

Chaos.

Lan Jingyi and Jin Ling are… doing something. Sizhui watches them out of the corner of his eye with the same baffled concern he reserves for Jingyi’s most questionable life choices. They’re standing opposite each other, feet shifting rapidly, shoes scuffing against the floor as they dart in and out of range.

They are playing tag.

With their feet.

Sizhui blinks.

Jingyi makes a quick feint, swinging his leg toward Jin Ling’s ankle. Jin Ling hops back, retaliating with a sharp kick aimed at Jingyi’s shin, which Jingyi barely dodges in time. Both of them are grinning, eyes bright, movements sharp and reckless.

Sizhui exhales slowly. 

“I don’t understand,” he says, mostly to himself.

Zizhen lifts his head slightly, following Sizhui’s gaze. A fond smile tugs at his lips. 

“Oh, foot tag?”

Sizhui looks at him. 

“You know what this is?”

“Of course,” Zizhen says easily, “It’s much easier to tag someone with your hands, but with your feet, you have to be way more dynamic. Better balance, faster reactions.”

He gestures toward Jingyi, who nearly overextends trying to land a hit and has to windmill his arms to keep from falling over.

“If you think about it,” Zizhen continues thoughtfully, “it’s actually a really good warmup for dancing.”

Sizhui considers this. He watches Jin Ling pivot sharply, foot snapping out with surprising precision.

“…Is it not,” Sizhui says carefully, “a bit extreme?”

Zizhen winces as Jingyi attempts a spinning kick that very nearly takes out a passing suitcase. 

“Well,” he concedes, “what they’re doing is a bit extreme. Usually people don’t try to kick each other in the stomach.”

As if summoned by the universe to prove that point, Jin Ling suddenly lunges forward and lands a solid kick squarely against Jingyi’s back.

There’s a startled yelp.

Jingyi stumbles, arms flailing, and goes down hard onto the floor with an echoing thud.

Both Sizhui and Zizhen wince in perfect sync.

“A-Yi?” Zizhen calls immediately, “Are you alright?”

Jingyi lies there for a second, sprawled dramatically, cheek pressed to the tile. 

“…Yeah,” he says after a beat, voice muffled, “I think.”

Sizhui steps forward, heart jumping despite himself. 

“Jingyi,” he says, trying to keep his tone calm, “Bobo will have all of our heads if you break something again, you know.”

Jin Ling scoffs, hands on his hips. 

“He’s just weak. He’ll get up in a moment.”

That does it.

Jingyi springs to his feet like he’s been electrified, face twisting into a snarl. 

“Who’re you calling weak, you little cheat-”

“I’m not a cheat!” Jin Ling snaps back, affronted, “I got you fair and square-”

“Oh, okay,” Jingyi says sweetly, venom dripping from every syllable, “then you’re just a little shit-”

Jin Ling lunges.

“YOU TAKE THAT BACK, MOTHERFUCKER-”

Sizhui reacts on instinct.

He moves fast, stepping between them and catching Jin Ling around the shoulders just as Jin Ling tries to tackle Jingyi. Jin Ling struggles for half a second, pure indignation fueling him, before Sizhui tightens his grip just enough to make a point.

“Breathe,” Sizhui says firmly, voice low and steady, “Please, A-Ling. Jingyi was just messing with you.”

Jin Ling’s chest heaves. He clenches his fists, jaw tight, then inhales sharply through his nose. Once. Twice. Slowly, the tension bleeds out of him, and he slumps forward, forehead nearly bumping into Sizhui’s shoulder.

Sizhui loosens his hold but doesn’t let go completely.

“What do we say now?” he asks gently.

Jin Ling exhales. 

“…Sorry, Jingyi.”

Jingyi rubs the back of his neck, sheepish now that the adrenaline has faded. 

“Sorry, Jin Ling.”

Zizhen smiles, relieved, and steps closer again.

At that exact moment, Sizhui’s phone vibrates in his hand.

He glances down.

The taxi icon has stopped moving.

Arrived.

Sizhui lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. 

“Guys,” he says, a smile creeping into his voice despite everything, “it’s time to go.”

—

The taxi slows as it turns off the narrow road, gravel crunching softly beneath its tyres. Lantern light spills faintly through the trees ahead, reflected in the dark ribbon of the canal that runs parallel to the property. Lan Sizhui leans forward instinctively, already smiling, heart lifting before the car has even come to a full stop.

“There,” he murmurs, more to himself than anyone else.

The taxi pulls up beside the low stone wall, and before the engine has fully quieted, Jingyi is already reaching for the door. The four of them spill out in a tangle of limbs and luggage, laughter echoing briefly into the still night as they haul suitcases from the boot.

“Thank you!” Sizhui says to the driver, bowing slightly out of habit, Zizhen echoing him with an easy grin. Jingyi adds a loud, enthusiastic “Thanks, shushu!” while Jin Ling mutters something polite but distracted, already dragging his suitcase toward the gate.

The gate creaks open, familiar and comforting, and they race through it like they’ve been gone years instead of months.

The house sits quietly by the canal, modest and unassuming from the outside- white walls, dark tiled roof, wooden beams softened by time. To anyone else, it might look like any other Jiangnan residence. To Sizhui, it is unmistakably home.

His eyes skim over everything at once: the lotus pond gleaming faintly in the moonlight, broad leaves overlapping like secrets; the worn stone paths that curve through the garden; the bamboo grove whispering softly in the night breeze. The wooden swing set stands just as it always has, creaking slightly as if greeting them back.

The Jingshi.

Something in Sizhui’s chest loosens. He hadn’t realised how tightly he’d been holding himself together until now.

Before he can say anything, the door to the main house slides open.

Warm light spills out, cutting through the dark, and two figures step onto the threshold.

Wei Wuxian comes first- barefoot, as always, ripped jeans slung low on his hips, a loose shirt hanging open just enough to show the tattoos winding up his arms and along his neck. His wolfcut is tied back into a messy ponytail, strands already escaping. He looks like he’s been pacing.

Lan Wangji follows more quietly, immaculate even after a full day of work. Dress shirt neatly tucked into slacks, sleeves rolled just enough to show forearms, shoes polished. His hair is braided neatly down his back, not a strand out of place.

They could not look more different if they tried.

They look perfect.

“A-Yuan!” Wei Wuxian calls, already breaking into a run.

Sizhui barely has time to drop his bag before Wei Wuxian crashes into him, arms wrapping tight around his shoulders, lifting him slightly off the ground. Sizhui laughs, breathless, instinctively clinging back.

“Baba,” he says, still laughing, voice muffled against Wei Wuxian’s shoulder, “You saw me only a few days ago. In London.”

Wei Wuxian pulls back just enough to look at him- and then immediately starts peppering kisses across his face, loud and exaggerated.

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I won’t miss my baby radish,” he declares.

Sizhui squawks helplessly, trying and failing to dodge. 

“Baba- please-!”

“Gosh, dajiu,” Jin Ling groans from behind them, “Can’t you control yourself for a minute? It’s disgusting.”

Wei Wuxian cackles, finally releasing Sizhui with one last dramatic kiss to the forehead. 

“Ah, youth. No appreciation for affection.”

Then, with zero warning, he lunges again- this time straight at Jingyi and Jin Ling.

“Baby lotus! Baby beansprout! I’ve missed you both!”

“HEY- get off-!” Jingyi yelps as Wei Wuxian grabs them both, spinning them around effortlessly.

“Dajiu, NO-!” Jin Ling protests, voice climbing several octaves as his feet leave the ground.

Sizhui watches, fond and amused, as Jingyi’s laughter dissolves into incoherent yelling and Jin Ling’s dignity evaporates entirely.

While chaos unfolds to his left, Lan Wangji approaches him quietly from the right.

Sizhui turns and smiles, stepping forward without hesitation and wrapping his arms around his A-Die. Lan Wangji’s embrace is firm and grounding, one hand settling at the back of Sizhui’s head.

“Hi, A-Die,” Sizhui says softly.

“Hi, baobei,” Lan Wangji replies, voice low, “Did your journey go well?”

“Yes,” Sizhui says easily, “Did you really make mapo tofu tonight?”

A faint softness touches Lan Wangji’s eyes. 

“Mn. Wei Ying said we must spoil our radish.”

Sizhui laughs, warmth blooming in his chest.

Behind them, Wei Wuxian finally releases Jingyi and Jin Ling, who both stumble back, dishevelled and indignant. Wei Wuxian turns next toward Zizhen- and something about his expression shifts.

Wei Wuxian steps in close and hugs Zizhen gently, one hand resting warm between his shoulders. 

“Oh, my sweet ricepuff,” he says, voice softer now, “I’ve missed you too.”

Zizhen chuckles, relaxed and unbothered, hugging back easily. 

“Missed you too, Wei-qianbei.”

Lan Wangji clears his throat lightly. 

“How about dinner?”

“Yes,” Sizhui says immediately, glancing at his friends, “Let us just put our things away.”

He turns, already halfway into motion. 

“C’mon, guys!”

They follow him inside, laughter trailing behind them, the house welcoming them back without question.

—

By the time they make it back into the dining room, the air itself feels different- warm, fragrant, alive.

Lan Sizhui slows instinctively at the threshold.

The table is full.

Not just full- abundant, in the way only his parents ever manage, dishes crowding every inch of space as if the wood itself has been challenged to hold more than it reasonably should. Steam curls lazily upward, carrying familiar scents that wrap around him before he can even take another step.

Sweet and sour lotus root slices glisten under the light, thin-cut and perfectly balanced. Pressed tofu sits neatly arranged, sesame oil catching the light, scallions scattered with careful intention. A bowl of cucumber salad sweats gently, vinegar sharp and refreshing even from a distance. Mapo tofu- his mapo tofu- bubbles faintly, red oil shimmering around soft white cubes. There’s another dish of it too, made less spicy, for A-Die and Jingyi. 

There’s steamed fish laid out with scallions and ginger, skin pearlescent, eyes clear. Braised eggplant so dark and glossy it looks almost lacquered. Stir-fried shrimp curled pink among bamboo shoots. A clear soup of mushroom and winter melon that smells clean and grounding. Bok choy flash-fried just enough to stay bright green. Lotus root and wood ear mushrooms tangled together in a savoury stir-fry. Bowls of white rice stacked nearby, fluffy and steaming.

Along the side sit tofu dumplings, chili oil, soy sauce, pickled vegetables arranged with care. And at the far end- rice cakes and a bowl of oranges, unmistakably from Wei Wuxian’s own small garden out back.

Sizhui feels something in his chest tighten, then loosen.

Home, his heart says, quiet and sure.

They don’t need to be told twice.

Jingyi all but dives into his seat, already reaching for chopsticks. Jin Ling sits with a determined air, sleeves rolled up as if preparing for battle. Zizhen pauses just long enough to admire the spread- actually admire it- before sitting down beside Sizhui, bumping shoulders lightly.

They leave two seats untouched, side by side.

Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji enter moments later, carrying plates and chopsticks, looking entirely at ease amid the chaos they’ve created.

“Help yourself,” Wei Wuxian says cheerfully.

The boys immediately do exactly that.

Jingyi goes first- straight for the mapo tofu, spooning a dangerously generous portion over his rice before adding shrimp and bok choy like he’s afraid it might vanish. Jin Ling takes a more strategic approach, selecting fish first, then eggplant, then lotus root, carefully balancing flavours the way he does everything else. Zizhen piles his plate high with mantou-adjacent items- rice cakes later, he’s already decided- and plenty of vegetables, plus a piece of fish that Wei Wuxian nudges closer to him with a fond look.

Sizhui serves himself more slowly.

He takes a little of everything, instinct guiding his hand- pressed tofu, cucumber salad, a careful scoop of mapo tofu, lotus root, a ladle of soup into the bowl laid next to his plate. He adds rice last, steam warming his face. His stomach tightens pleasantly, not with hunger exactly, but with anticipation.

Wei Wuxian loads his plate with dramatic flair- extra chili oil, shrimp, eggplant, fish- and Lan Wangji mirrors him in quieter fashion, selecting similar dishes but in neater proportions. He makes sure to include soup and bok choy, nudging a piece of fish toward Sizhui’s bowl when he thinks no one is looking.

Jingyi takes a bite and immediately groans.

“Wei-qianbei, shushu,” he says around a mouthful, eyes bright, “This is so good.”

Wei Wuxian beams. 

“Aiyah, Jingyi, when are you going to stop calling me Wei-qianbei and instead start calling me shuzhang?”

Jingyi doesn’t hesitate. 

“Never. Wei-qianbei makes you sound old. So I’m going to keep using it!”

Wei Wuxian clutches his chest. 

“I’m only thirty-five!!!” He turns dramatically to Lan Wangji, “Lan Zhan, tell him I’m still young.”

“My husband,” Lan Wangji says calmly, “is still young.”

Zizhen swallows his food and tilts his head. 

“But Wei-qianbei?”

Wei Wuxian turns to him immediately, indulgent smile softening his features. 

“Yes, ricepuff?”

“Your birthday’s in… three weeks.”

The effect is immediate and catastrophic.

Wei Wuxian gasps, staggering slightly. 

“Lan Zhan! Lan Zhan! They’re calling me old! Xianxian is only three years old!”

“Airen-” Lan Wangji begins.

Wei Wuxian barrels on. 

“Lan Zhan, I’m going to be grey!”

Jin Ling rolls his eyes so hard Sizhui is surprised they don’t get stuck. 

“Dajiu, you still look like you’re in your twenties. Calm down.”

Wei Wuxian straightens instantly, preening. 

“You’re just like your mother, baby lotus!”

Sizhui laughs, the sound slipping out before he realises it. The table feels warm, loud, alive in a way no backstage catering ever does.

His phone rings.

He glances at the screen- Wen Ning- and stands. 

“I’m going to take this outside.”

No one objects; Jingyi is too busy stealing Jin Ling’s shrimp.

Outside, the night air is cool and quiet. Sizhui answers softly.

“Ning-ge?”

“H-Hey, r-radish,” Wen Ning says, “J-Just wanted to check up on you. Did you guys get to Xian-ge’s s-safe?”

“Yes,” Sizhui says warmly, “We’re home now.”

“I-I’m glad. M-Management wants y-you all to rest b-before we go t-to LA to put the new album into production.”

Sizhui smiles, leaning against the doorframe. 

“I’ll make sure everyone rests, Ning-ge.”

“J-Jiejie says you need to r-rest your voice. Eat warm food. D-Drink lots of water.”

“I will,” Sizhui promises.

“And- ah- t-tell Jin Ling his jiumu and jiujiu are coming t-tomorrow afternoon w-with his mother and father.”

“I’ll tell him. Thank you.”

“See y-you soon, A-Yuan.”

When Sizhui returns to the table, he slips back into his seat easily, chopsticks resuming their rhythm.

“A-Yuan,” Wei Wuxian asks, eyes gleaming, “Who was that?”

“Ning-ge,” Sizhui says, “He was checking we got home safe.” 

He glances at Jin Ling. 

“Qing-jie and Jiang-shushu are coming tomorrow with your parents.”

Jin Ling freezes, then nods. 

“Okay.”

Wei Wuxian grins. 

“Qing-jie’s coming?”

Jingyi lights up immediately. 

“Oh great-”

Sizhui sighs fondly as the argument begins, laughter rising again. 

The fort takes shape slowly, the way all their best ideas always do- messy at first, half-collapsing, then steadily becoming something solid through shared effort and a lot of noise.

Zizhen drags the thick quilt off his bed and spreads it across the floor like a foundation, while Jingyi wrestles two mismatched pillows out from under a chair, complaining loudly about dust and the injustice of having allergies that hinder you from the full potential of making forts. Jin Ling shoves a suitcase aside with his foot, muttering about how Zizhen’s room is somehow bigger every year and yet still impossible to organise. Sizhui watches them all with a soft, private smile, folding a blanket with careful hands even though it will immediately be rumpled again.

They used to do this when they were little.

Back then, forts were their castles, their secret bases, their hiding places from imaginary enemies. Now they are… something else. A way to gather themselves back together after being pulled apart by airports and stages and schedules that never quite fit inside of them. 

A small way to remember that they still belong in the same small space.

Sizhui lowers himself under the canopy first, careful not to dislodge the pillows propped up against the bedframe. The ceiling is low, the air faintly scented with detergent and old paper and Zizhen’s incense sticks. It feels familiar in a way that makes his chest loosen.

Jin Ling crawls in after him without ceremony, knees knocking against Sizhui’s shin as he settles beside him. Zizhen and Jingyi stay outside a moment longer, adjusting the last pillows, arguing about symmetry versus “vibes,” before Zizhen ducks inside and immediately shuffles closer.

Without asking, without explanation, Zizhen arranges them the way he always does- Sizhui’s back pressed to his chest, their shoulders touching, Zizhen’s chin tucking instinctively near Sizhui’s shoulder. He hides his face there like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Sizhui exhales and lets himself lean back, just a little.

Jingyi flops down next, dramatically, his head landing across both Sizhui’s and Zizhen’s legs. The impact knocks the breath out of Sizhui in a soft huff. Before Jingyi can adjust, Jin Ling stretches his legs out and presses them firmly over Jingyi’s calves, effectively trapping him.

“Hey-!” Jingyi protests, immediately trying and failing to wriggle free.

“No moving,” Jin Ling says, satisfied, “You’ll ruin the structural integrity of this fort and then everyone will rightly blame you just like they should.”

“This is a human rights violation,” Jingyi mutters, but he stays put.

It’s an odd configuration- too close, too tangled, objectively ridiculous- but it works. Their breathing settles into something shared. The fort creaks softly but holds.

For a moment, no one speaks.

Sizhui stares at the underside of the quilt above them, watching the shadows shift as someone moves outside the room. He thinks about how strange it is, being sixteen and feeling both too old and not old enough all at once. Too old for childish things, not old enough to stop needing this.

He clears his throat gently.

“So,” Sizhui says, voice calm, steady, “Back to songwriting, hmm?”

Jin Ling nods, resting his elbows on his knees. His jetlag-softened irritation has mellowed into focus.

“Zizhen,” he says, turning slightly, “Have you had any more ideas for songs? If not, we can move on to producing beats.”

Zizhen hums, thoughtful.

“I finished another one on the way to the airport,” he admits, “I don’t know if it’s perfect, but… it’s one I want to be more involved in.”

Jingyi immediately sits up, causing Jin Ling’s legs to slide off him.

“Give it to us.”

Zizhen reaches for his satchel, tugging it closer and pulling out a well-worn notepad. The pages are bent at the corners, ink smudged in places. He flips until he finds what he’s looking for and hands it to Jingyi, open.

At the top of the page, written in Zizhen’s neat, slightly slanted handwriting, is the title:

Between Days

Their initials are scrawled beside different sections.

Sizhui leans forward, reading over Jingyi’s shoulder. His breath stills as the words sink in. 

LSZ & JL: Morning light through half-closed blinds
Coffee cold, I’ve lost track of time
Yesterday feels like last week’s skin
I swear I blinked and we’re here again

His chest tightens, slow and familiar.

Same streets, different state of mind
Calendar pages flipping by
I’m moving but I don’t feel it move
Like standing still while the world runs through

Zizhen’s pre-chorus lines follow, aching and restrained.

OZZ: I keep saying I’ll slow it down
But the seconds don’t listen now
Every promise feels postponed
Like I’m living life on hold

By the time they reach the chorus, Sizhui has stopped pretending he’s not emotional.

ALL: We’re living in the space between days
Where nothing ends, nothing stays
Every hour bleeds the same
And I can’t tell loss from change

If I’m honest, I’m scared to say
I don’t know where the time went away
I’m still here, but I’m not the same
Stuck somewhere between days

He swallows.

Jin Ling goes very still.

When they reach Jingyi’s rap, Sizhui feels something quiet and heavy settle in his chest.

LJY: I don’t remember when it started
Just know it never really stopped
Running circles round the moment
Trying not to watch the clock

Everyone says “you’ll miss this”
But I’m already missing now
Feels like life’s a moving train
And I forgot where I got on

I keep photos I don’t feel
Of smiles I don’t recall
I swear I was just seventeen
Now I don’t know me at all...

By the end of reading it, the fort is fully silent.

Jingyi’s eyes are wide, almost comically so. Jin Ling’s mouth hangs open. Sizhui looks at Zizhen and smiles, bright and unguarded.

“A-Zhen,” Sizhui says softly, “It’s brilliant.”

Jingyi finds his voice.

“He’s right- it’s fucking fantastic.”

Jin Ling nods, firm. 

“The fans will love it. You know that, right?”

Zizhen’s ears turn pink. He ducks his head.

“Thanks,” he says, “Though… I was wondering if you had ideas for the other three songs.”

Jingyi shifts, suddenly sheepish.

“Well,” he says, “I might have one? It’s not as good as Zizhen’s, obviously, but-”

“Spill,” Jin Ling says immediately.

“I need a guitar.”

Jingyi crawls out of the fort and grabs the guitar hanging on the wall. When he returns, he settles back into place, careful not to knock anyone’s knees, and starts strumming softly.

Then he sings.

His voice is rougher than usual, unpolished. Honest.

“Phone lights up like it knows my name
I flip it over, do the same damn thing
I tell myself I’ll answer later
Later turns into another day

Your voice lives in my voicemail now
I swear I listen, just not out loud
I don’t know how to say I’m tired
Without sounding like I don’t care…”

Sizhui claps before he can stop himself. Zizhen joins in immediately.

Jin Ling shoves Jingyi’s shoulder lightly. 

“Where did all this talent come from?”

Jingyi grins. 

“You didn’t contribute to class, so you can’t talk.”

Jin Ling freezes.

“I actually do have a… contribution,” he says stiffly, “Or whatever.”

Sizhui watches him carefully. He already knows.

“Rap?” Jingyi guesses.

Jin Ling bristles. 

“Yes.”

Silence.

Zizhen blinks. 

“Uh. Go ahead.”

Jin Ling exhales, then starts.

His voice is shaky at first, then steadies.

“I saw your name light up the screen
And I froze like I always do
I thought, “If I answer now
I’ll have to tell the truth”

And the truth is I don’t know
How to be present anymore
Every question feels too b-big…”

He trails off halfway through, ears blazing red.

Jingyi stares at him. 

“When did you get so good at rap?”

“I- uh-” Jin Ling mumbles.

Then his voice trails off, and he squeaks something that cannot be heard by anyone. Sizhui has a feeling he knows what it is, though.

Zizhen squints. 

“From what?”

Jin Ling yells it.

“FROM WATCHING JINGYI!”

Jingyi goes pale. Then pink. Then red.

Jin Ling shoves a pillow into his face. 

“Why are you looking at me like that, idiot?!”

Sizhui presses a hand to his mouth, unsure whether to laugh or cry.

Sizhui lies awake beneath the quilted ceiling of the fort, staring into the dim, fabric-shadowed dark.

The room has settled into that particular kind of quiet that only comes when everyone is truly asleep. Not the silence of people pretending just so they can attract his attention, but the deep, uneven hush of real rest- soft breaths, the occasional shift of a blanket, a muffled sigh.

Jingyi is curled around Jin Ling’s back, one arm thrown over his waist, fingers curled into the fabric of Jin Ling’s shirt like he might drift away otherwise. Jin Ling, for once, hasn’t complained. His face is slack with sleep, lashes dark against his cheeks, breath puffing out warm and steady. They fit together with the unconscious ease of people who have done this a thousand times before, arguments forgotten the moment sleep takes them.

Zizhen is closer still.

His head is tucked into the hollow of Sizhui’s neck, breath brushing warm against skin, hair tickling Sizhui’s jaw with every inhale. Their hands are intertwined between them, fingers laced, palms pressed together. Zizhen’s thumb twitches every now and then, a small unconscious movement, like he’s checking that Sizhui is still there.

Sizhui doesn’t move.

He doesn’t want to wake them.

But sleep refuses to come.

His body is tired- aching in that familiar way after travel and rehearsals and dancing on borrowed adrenaline- but his mind won’t slow. Thoughts drift in and out, unformed and overlapping: lights on stage, edits on his phone, Zizhen’s lyrics, Jingyi’s guitar, Jin Ling’s flushed ears, the weight of responsibility that sits in his chest like a second heart.

He exhales slowly through his nose.

Carefully, gently, Sizhui loosens his fingers from Zizhen’s grip. Zizhen makes a soft sound in his sleep, brows knitting faintly, but he doesn’t wake. Sizhui shifts inch by inch, easing himself free from the warmth at his back, from Jingyi’s feet pressed against his calves, from Jin Ling’s knee knocking against his thigh.

He crawls out of the fort, lifting the quilt just enough not to collapse it, and straightens slowly once he’s clear. He glances back once- just to make sure they’re all still breathing, still settled- then pads quietly out of the room.

The corridor of the Jingshi is cool beneath his feet, polished wood faintly reflecting the moonlight filtering in through the windows. The house feels enormous at night, every sound amplified: the soft creak of the floorboards, the whisper of fabric as he walks.

As he passes his parents’ room, he notices the door is slightly ajar.

Sizhui hesitates, then peeks inside.

Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian are tangled together in sleep, limbs loosely entwined, skin warm against skin. Both are shirtless beneath the thin blanket. Wei Wuxian’s arm is slung possessively across Lan Wangji’s waist, his face pressed into Lan Wangji’s shoulder, hair falling loose from its tie. He snores softly- an unrepentant, unmistakable sound.

Lan Wangji sleeps on his side, one hand resting against Wei Wuxian’s back, fingers curled like he never quite lets go, even in sleep.

Sizhui smiles.

The sight fills him with a quiet, grounding warmth. Proof, perhaps, that some things endure.

He moves on, heading deeper into the house until he reaches the main living room. The space opens up around him, wide and familiar. He slides the main door open and steps outside, the cold air brushing against his bare arms, sharp and bracing.

The courtyard is hushed. Moonlight glints off the surface of the lotus pond, rippling faintly. Bamboo rustles softly in the night breeze. Sizhui breathes it in, letting the cold seep into his lungs, steadying him.

He crosses the courtyard, past the pond, toward the annex.

The Heshi.

He pulls the key from his pocket, unlocks the door, and steps inside, closing it gently behind him.

The studio smells faintly of wood and resin and something indefinably clean. The floor is smooth beneath his feet, pale and worn just enough to show use. A barre runs along one wall. A desk sits off to the side with a computer and tangled wires. Mirrors line the far end, reflecting him back at himself- sleep-softened, eyes a little too awake.

Sizhui’s gaze drifts to the cupboard.

He opens it, scanning its contents: trainers, knee pads, resistance bands… and then-

Ballet shoes.

His fingers still.

He doesn’t question it.

Tonight, apparently, is a ballet night.

He slips off his slippers and pulls the shoes on, tying the ribbons with practiced ease. He’s grateful, suddenly, that he wore shorts and a fitted vest to bed. No loose fabric, nothing to get in the way.

He sets his phone on the tripod at the edge of the room and presses record. The small red light blinks on.

Then he crosses to the computer and scrolls through his playlists, stopping on a familiar piece.

Tchaikovsky’s Serenade for Strings begins to play, swelling softly through the room.

Sizhui steps into the centre of the floor.

At first, his movements are tentative- testing the space, the music, his own balance. A slow plié, arms floating up into fifth position. The opening notes guide him, gentle but insistent.

Then he lets go.

His body remembers what his mind cannot quiet. He moves through tendus and développés, feet brushing the floor with precise intention. He rises into relevé, calves burning faintly, then turns- clean, controlled pirouettes that leave him dizzy but focused. His arms carve the air, soft yet deliberate, following the swell of the strings.

The music builds, and so does he.

Grand jetés carry him across the floor, landings silent despite the force behind them. His breathing deepens, matching the rhythm. He arches into cambrés, spine bending, chest open, eyes following the sweep of his hands. Each movement bleeds into the next until thought dissolves entirely.

He is not Lan Sizhui of Four Notes.

He is just a body and a pulse and sound moving through him.

When the final notes fade, Sizhui stands in the centre of the studio, chest heaving, sweat cooling against his skin. His arms lower slowly. Silence rushes back in.

Then- 

Soft clapping.

Sizhui startles, spinning toward the door.

Wei Wuxian leans against the frame, a night robe thrown loosely over his boxers, hair messy, expression smug and proud all at once.

“A-Yuan,” Wei Wuxian says, “Well done.”

Sizhui scratches the back of his neck, embarrassed. 

“Sleepless night,” he admits.

Wei Wuxian steps closer. 

“Caffeine?”

“Iced coffee on the train.”

Wei Wuxian hums knowingly. 

“Ah. So. What now? Back to bed, or more exercise?”

“Stretches,” Sizhui says after a beat.

Wei Wuxian grins. 

“Guide or observe?”

“Guide.”

“Gentle or harsh?”

Sizhui considers it. Then, quietly: “Harsh.”

Wei Wuxian raises a brow, clearly impressed- not just at the dancing, but at the choice. Ballet, tonight. He doesn’t comment on it aloud. He never does. Instead, he reaches past Sizhui to stop the recording, the small red light on the phone blinking out, and then turns fully toward him.

“Down you go, radish.”

There’s no teasing in his tone now- just calm authority.

Sizhui nods and lowers himself to the floor, legs sliding apart as he sinks into the splits. His palms brace briefly against the wood before Wei Wuxian’s hands are there, warm and sure, correcting the angle of his hips with practiced ease.

“Square,” Wei Wuxian murmurs, “Don’t cheat.”

Sizhui adjusts, the stretch biting sharper immediately. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t pull away.

Wei Wuxian presses down- not suddenly, not cruelly, but firmly, enough to push Sizhui just past where he would stop on his own. It’s a familiar kind of pain, clean and precise, the kind that demands attention.

“Point your toes.”

Sizhui obeys, feet lengthening, ankles trembling faintly. He focuses on his breathing, slow inhales through his nose, controlled exhales through parted lips. The studio is quiet except for the faint creak of muscles under strain and the whisper of fabric as Wei Wuxian shifts.

“Back,” Wei Wuxian says softly.

He guides Sizhui’s spine into a gentle arch, one hand steady at his lower back, the other between his shoulder blades. The stretch flares bright along Sizhui’s sides and hips.

Sizhui hisses despite himself.

Wei Wuxian clicks his tongue. 

“Breathe through it.”

Sizhui does, the sound thin but steady.

“And hold.”

Ten seconds stretch into something much longer. Sweat beads at Sizhui’s temples, his thighs quiver, but he stays where he is, trusting the hands anchoring him.

Finally, Wei Wuxian eases the pressure, helping him come out of the split with care rather than mercy. Sizhui draws his legs together slowly, exhaling hard as sensation rushes back in.

“Good,” Wei Wuxian says, “Again.”

They move through three more stretches, each more demanding than the last.

Wei Wuxian sets blocks beneath Sizhui’s ankles for over-splits, watching closely as Sizhui lowers himself inch by inch. He keeps a steady hand at Sizhui’s knee, correcting the line, making sure the strain stays productive rather than dangerous.

Then come the backbends- deep, controlled arches supported only at the waist. Sizhui’s arms fall back, fingertips brushing the floor, chest opening painfully wide as Wei Wuxian holds him there, unyielding but attentive.

“Don’t collapse,” Wei Wuxian warns, “Lift into it.”

Sizhui’s whole body shakes, but he adjusts, muscles engaging properly, pain sharpening into focus.

The standing needle holds are last. Sizhui balances on one leg, on point, the other drawn impossibly high behind him, torso folding forward as Wei Wuxian steadies his ankle and upper back. His hamstrings scream, his standing leg trembles, but his gaze stays fixed on his reflection, determined.

By the time Wei Wuxian finally steps back, Sizhui is breathless, hair damp with sweat, but grounded in a way he hadn’t been before.

Wei Wuxian studies him for a moment, then nods. 

“Better?”

“Yeah,” Sizhui says honestly.

They move to the barre. Sizhui grips it lightly as he lifts his leg into a high extension, foot sliding up until it’s level with his head. The burn is immediate, sharp and insistent.

Wei Wuxian doesn’t crowd him. He only steadies Sizhui’s ankle and presses lightly between his shoulders, encouraging length rather than force.

“Everything alright in that head of yours, A-Yuan?” Wei Wuxian asks, quieter now.

Sizhui’s lips curve into a faint smile. “It just gets… loud sometimes.”

“You must be tired from your tour, baby,” Wei Wuxian says sympathetically.

“You don’t know how tired I am. I’m glad for the three week break we get, honestly.”

Wei Wuxian hums in understanding. 

“My sweet boy being the breadwinner of this family- you don’t understand how proud of you I’ve been. I wish I could stay with you at every point. So I was thinking…”

“Yes?

There’s a pause, then-

“Your A-Die and I have been talking… and we think it might be good for him to switch departments at the news firm for a while. ”

Sizhui’s focus wavers just enough that his leg dips an inch.

“Sweetheart, we don’t like leaving you or Zizhen alone. Even with Wen Ning and Wen Qing looking after the both of you, we just wish that we could see you everyday, especially since you and the others debuted so young. And so we were thinking that we could… come with you. For your travels. At least for a little while.”

Sizhui freezes entirely.

“What?” he breathes.

Wei Wuxian’s face breaks into a wide, unapologetic grin. 

“Really.”

Something warm and sudden floods Sizhui’s chest, pushing the tiredness aside. His smile this time is bright, unguarded, almost boyish.

“I’d love that,” he says, “I really would.”

Wei Wuxian gently lowers Sizhui’s leg and pulls him into a hug, solid and reassuring. They’re nearly the same height now- close enough that Sizhui can feel his father’s heartbeat against his chest.

“I love you, radish,” Wei Wuxian says softly.

“I love you too, Baba.”

Wei Wuxian lets go, all softness gone in an instant as he turns back toward the computer. His posture straightens, expression sharpening into the familiar instructor’s calm severity.

“Another song?”

“Yes,” Sizhui says, stepping back into position.

The music begins.

Wei Wuxian’s voice cuts clean through the room.

“Begin.”

Sizhui begins to dance.

-fin-