Archive of Our Own

The last of Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody No. 6 ends with a flourish, its chord executed with power, resonance, finality. The effect is instantaneous, a braggadocious end to a successful evening, and it lingers in the air like a bold swatch of paint, sun-bright and majestic. Its brilliant sheen fades slowly, reluctantly, sending each second tumbling over the other, stretched like sand in an hourglass, and the concert hall is plunged into silence. The sun sinking into the cradle of a purpling horizon.

Lan Wangji lifts his hands from the ivory keys, black and white filling his vision, no longer obscured by the flash of his pale skin gliding across the surface, and settles them on his lap. His heart is beating at double time, in tandem with the whirling speed of his final piece. At the same time, he lifts his foot from the pedal, setting it against the dark, wood of the stage, gleaming with age and polish. 

The concert hall remains silent. Every breath, every shift he takes is amplified under the dome that curves overhead. The spotlight is hot, almost searing against his face. There’s sweat beading under his collar, and his skin feels damp under the thick fabric of his suit jacket. Strangely, his hands create a stark contrast, each finger bitterly frigid despite having flown across almost all eighty-eight keys mere seconds ago, as if he’d submerged them in an ice bath. 

He stands, it’s nearly mechanical. Having played for over an hour since intermission, his knees feel wobbly, stiff from the lack of use. Instinctively, he holds onto the glossy, obsidian wood of the piano as he bends at the waist, folding into a formal bow. 

There’s one clap. Two. Five. Fifty.

Then, thunder fills the hall, claps and whistles and cries of praise. It’s an inverted storm of applause that threatens to deafen him, and Lan Wangji sighs through his nose as he straightens. He remains rooted to where he stands and bows twice more. Each one receives a new wave of roaring acclaim. 

There’s a slight ringing in his ears as he makes his way off-stage. He’s done this for so long that the urge to flee has long been repressed, squashed under the watchful tutelage of his uncle. His brother greets him with a proud smile, but Lan Wangji’s expression refuses to betray the phantom adrenaline that roils under his skin. 

“Beautiful as ever, Wangji,” Lan Xichen says. “Judging by the audience and the critic in the front row, it’s your best performance yet.” No longer under the columns of concentrated light, his eyes adjust to find a standing ovation—an ocean of unfamiliar faces, most of them in the throes of wonder and admiration. 

His gaze snags against a familiar smile in the front row. The critic catches his eye and gives him a short, excited wave, and he returns the greeting with a nod of acknowledgement. Even after a concert, he’s required to stay and mingle, though ‘mingle’ may be a bit of an overstatement. 

Lan Wangji will greet his supporters with an adequate amount of politeness: a bowed head and a handshake, if necessary. He’ll usually remain silent as they chat amongst themselves and probe him about his performance. How often does he practice? Who is his favorite composer? What is his favorite piece to play? 

Standard questions that Lan Wangji will respond with standard answers: four hours, either Liszt or Chopin, depending on the piece—it’s the last that he deigns not to answer. He’ll say he doesn’t discriminate between pieces, and while it’s true, he prefers to keep that information private and cradled close to his heart. Usually, he deflects by thanking them for their attendance and having his brother handle the rest of the social proceedings. 

Now, he heads to his room, passing staff who congratulate him on a splendid performance. Upon his return, he’s greeted by the overwhelming scent of flowers. They’re sweet, fragrant, overtaking the small preparation room with a chaotic burst of color. 

Normally unperturbed, he feels the oncomings of a burgeoning headache—most likely from the jetlag that comes with touring around the world. Luckily, this is his last performance for the season before he takes up a guest lecturer post at the nearby university. It’ll be good to stay rooted to one area until his next scheduled tour in the following year. 

However tempting it is, he doesn’t collapse into his chair, habits dictated by propriety. Instead, he merely leans against the counter and pulls the bow from his collar, letting it flutter onto the surface next to scattered flower petals. It's a shock of black against a slew of colors. 

It's just one more hour of his time, then he can make his way home. At the moment, a shower sounds divine, and the thought is nearly tempting enough for him to leave Lan Xichen with an excuse to head out earlier. 

Again, propriety dictates habit, so he sucks in his breath and massages his temples. His current state, no matter how little it deviates from his usual self, would appall his uncle. 

Luckily, his uncle is attending a conference six hours away and isn't due back for another month. 

Lan Wangji steels himself and leaves behind the bouquets that crowd his room. It's a pity they'll be thrown away later.

The reception is already underway by the time he appears. VIP guests loiter in clusters—men with their fitted suits and silk ties, women with their floor-length gowns and pearl-drop earrings. It makes for a dazzling display of ostentatious wealth. 

"That was your best yet." 

Lan Wangji's shoulders lose some of their tension as he finds Luo Qingyang twirling a flute of champagne, a friendly sparkle to her eye. 

"And I mean, your best in all the time I've known you, even your senior concert during undergrad can't compare," she elaborates. Lan Wangji hopes not—he plays at a professional level now, on international stages, no less. "All of your performances are flawless, but this one was especially skilful." 

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Thank you," he says. In the presence of someone familiar, his headache recedes a fraction of the way. "I'm glad you enjoyed it." 

She grins at him over the rim of her glass. "And you'll read how much I enjoyed it when I publish my critique in two day's time." 

With a bow of his head, he responds dryly, "Please treat me well." 

Her laughter tinkers like bells, champagne bubbles that twirl to the surface. Lan Wangji has never been the most apt at conversation, but he's known Luo Qingyang since their first year of college. She's always been content with his taciturn nature; he's satisfied by her lack of prying questions.

Unfortunately, that's their only interaction of the night before he’s spirited off by his brother. Lan Xichen leads through the crowds, expertly maneuvering them so that Lan Wangji only needs to endure the barest amount of social interaction. Still, his headache continues to worsen with each red-lipped smile and pass of expensive cologne. 

After half an hour of this, of being congratulated by almost everyone in the hall, Lan Wangji turns to his brother, who gives him an apologetic nod of his head. There’s a dull throb at the forefront of his mind, and Lan Wangji wants nothing more than to escape through the door. It wouldn’t be too much of an exaggeration to say that it feels almost like someone has taken a sledgehammer to the inside of his skull.

“The driver says it’ll take him another hour. There was an accident on the road, so he’s stuck in traffic. Would you like to wait in your dressing room?” The look on his brother’s face is sympathetic. If anyone can read Lan Wangji like an open book, it would be his brother. “I would offer you a ride, but Nie Mingjue is also stuck on the same road.”

There’s nothing less Lan Wangji would rather do than to endure his personal brand of socializing hell. So he shakes his head, turning down his brother, whose expression takes on a concerned edge. “No need. I will walk.”

“Wangji…” Lan Xichen raises his hand, hovering at the slope of Lan Wangji’s shoulder. He’s gotten more tactile since moving in with Nie Mingjue, and Lan Wangji doesn’t want to think about the implications of that, especially when it comes to his brother’s unconfirmed love life. 

“It’s fine.” He feels a little bad for sidestepping his brother, watching his hand fall to his side. Limp, offer neglected. His brother is kind, but Lan Wangji doesn’t mind stepping out and making his way back on his own. He doesn’t live too far, and it’s always made him uncomfortable to know his driver travels long distances just to get him back home safely in a fifteen minute commute. 

A famous pianist, even a professional, isn’t easily recognized. Not when most of the public has their eye trained on other global phenomena. Lan Wangji is known in certain social circles, among those with a taste for the classics. 

His interpretations are strict replications of their original composers—if it’s meant to be played in presto con fuoco, then his hands will strike upon the keys: a storm, a reckoning. If it’s meant to be played in cantabile, diminuendo poco a poco, then his fingers will glide, pressure lifting higher and higher in flight until his notes are dancing amongst the clouds. 

He won’t mind the walk either. It’ll give him time to think, to process that despite this being his most successful show to date, he doesn’t feel satisfied. There’s barely a sense of accomplishment, just a rote sense of completion that comes with the end of each concert. 

“I will walk,” he says, a note of finality edging his tone. Then, softer, “I want to.” 

At that, his brother can’t argue, not when Lan Wangji has been making his own decisions since his first tour. The corners of Lan Xichen’s smile fall. It’s a fraction of a centimeter, barely visible to anyone else. To Lan Wangji, it’s almost enough to make him flinch. If his brother can read him between the lines, then Lan Wangji can do the same. 

Lan Xichen sighs. It’s an inaudible breath through parted lips, but Lan Wangji knows what it is, regardless. It’s an acquiescence, and he knows what will happen next, down to each word they will exchange. Lan Xichen will offer once more. Lan Wangji will decline. Then, they will part ways as his brother bids each valued guest a good evening in Lan Wangji’s place. 

When he finally pushes open the door to the exit, suit jacket slung over one arm, it’s to a cool, autumn evening. Above, the moon plays hide and seek among the rolling clouds, its spherule light barely feathering through the thick overcast. There are no stars—not tonight. No pinpricks of light thick enough to pierce that ashy veil. 

Lan Wangji watches the sky, breathes in the earthy tones that twine down each branch of his lungs. While cool, there’s a somber weight that sits in the air, a pressure that sits on his shoulders. Perhaps it comes from the sudden change of environment, a result that stems from traveling between liminal spaces: whereas the concert hall had attenuated as much of the outside world as possible, the new exposure hits him like a freight train. 

Perhaps, it comes from the chasm that yawns in his chest, splitting his ribcage wide open, baring his organs to the public. That feeling of dissatisfaction, of unfulfillment—it gnaws on the edges of his demeanor like a persistent ache. It’s not a feeling he’s unfamiliar with, and it doesn’t bother him in the way that it should. Instead, the question of why niggles at the back of his mind. 

He’s played many successful concerts all over the world: Vienna, New York, Beijing, and so many other cities with renowned concert halls. His critics almost never have anything bad to say about his skill: the most scathing review he’d ever gotten had questioned his lack of feeling, but even then, his technique had been labeled flawless. 

All in all, he should be happy. He should be celebrating with his brother, who’s currently on break from his own tour with his quartet. He should be taking the opportunity to catch up with Luo Qingyang and ask how she’s faring at her new job. He should collect an armful of flowers and take them home as a memento of his recent accomplishment.

And yet…

He's currently alone, blending into the evening crowd, albeit slightly overdressed compared to most. His apartment is a few blocks away, chosen for its convenience and location, for the ease of access to the concert hall's grand piano whenever he wants to test the acoustics of his next performance. 

The way he maneuvers through the crowd does little to tame his headache. The concert hall had been stifling, but here, out in the open, despite the night sky blooming overhead, he encounters a different kind of stifling. One that comes from being jostled between people and the new cacophony of noise born from the city. 

From afar, lights flash in the streets, cars gridlocked in traffic. They're a poor substitute for the stars, especially when accompanied by ear-splitting honking and impatient bouts of road rage. Lan Wangji does not wince at the chaos, but it's a near thing.

The shriek from far ahead should have been his first indication that his luck has taken a curve. Whether it's for the worse or for the better, he doesn't know. Not yet. 

He's only four blocks away when he feels the first raindrop land on his brow. It's small, innocuous. Except, it's followed by another. Holding out a hand, he manages to catch the moment one shatters against his fingertips, splitting like crystal shards reflecting the warm glow of the street lamps. Another bounces off his arm. More and more fall until rain presents its mischievous self with steady drums of laughter. 

Around him, there are panicked yelps and shrill cries. It’s strange, he wonders fleetingly, how even something as simple as rain can incite such chaos. Those who come prepared whip out their umbrellas and continue on their merry way. Others shriek with surprise and dash for cover; some laugh with childish glee, others swear under their breath at the inconvenience and lack of foresight. 

Unfortunately, Lan Wangji falls into the latter category, and he ducks under a canopy just as the brief drizzle turns into a downpour. The shop behind him emits a warm glow, and his elongated shadow shimmers behind the curtain of rain. Cars disappear from view, leaving behind ghostly specters and their columns of light. Playful before, the shower takes on a stormy quality; no longer laughing, the clouds begin to openly weep.

In a way, it feels congruent to Lan Wangji’s current mood. With a grimace, he blots at the droplets that darken his dress shirt and swipes at the ones reluctant to part from his skin. The rest of him is safe, unscathed by the aggressive bout of rain. 

Perhaps he can wait out the rain—these flash storms have a habit of coming and going with the snap of one’s fingers, and he’s only a few blocks from home. The possibility of making a mad dash for home is so unappealing that he immediately dismisses it. Thus, he waits and sulks, watching the moon’s whispering light fade from view, leaving a melancholic night sky. 

Maybe he should have taken his brother’s offer. Maybe it’s not too late to call a cab or a Didi, but what’s the point when he lives so close by? Also, it wouldn’t be out of character for prices to skyrocket, not when people are desperate to get home. 

Defeated, he turns to peer at the store he’s taken refuge under. Gold hues pour through the window in slanting fragments, and it’s dim enough not to blind him at first glance. Nothing like the relentless stage lights that commit to broiling its performers, phosphorescent even after escaping its harsh glare. 

He’s pleasantly startled when he realizes that he’s stopped under a bookstore. There’s no one in sight, save for a young woman who mans the counter, a thick tome sitting next to the cash register. The sign on the door indicates that they’re still open, so Lan Wangji takes the opportunity to push open the door, greeted by the bell that chimes overhead. 

Warmth. 

That’s his first impression, and it’s not just the rise in temperature. Here, the light is similar to the sunset, that gentle glow that sweeps across the city and limns high-rises and low shops in a film of gold. It’s nostalgic in the same way one notices the sun sinking into the ocean for the first time, lavenders and roses blooming across the sky. 

Bookshelves line the walls and fill the spaces in between. Each shelf bows under the weight of all of the books, stacked haphazardly in rows and columns, spines crammed together like puzzle pieces that fit just right. Remove one, and Lan Wangji isn’t sure whether the structure will hold. Squeeze another into an empty space, and the entire shelf might collapse. There doesn’t seem to be any form or organization to them, no labels to act as guides. It’s like stepping into a bibliophile’s personal library where everything is sorted in a way that only makes sense to its owner.

“Are you here for the show?” the young woman asks, brow arched in question. Upon closer look, Lan Wangji realizes she isn’t merely reading an extensive novel. It’s a medicine book, complete with a diagram of the human body paired with a picture of a plant. Herbs, he thinks, then moves his gaze up. 

The tag pinned to her chest displays bold characters: Wen Qing. There’s a stern set to her frown, something resembling disapproval. “If you are,” she continues, “it’s already started.” 

“Show?” he parrots. 

Her eyes flit between him and the storm, and she nods in understanding. “Well, you’re free to browse, if you’d like. You’ve probably already noticed we don’t have an organized system. Unorthodox, I know, but it’s a good way to discover new things. If you’re cold, we have a small coffee joint in the back—that’s where everyone’s watching our weekly musical act.” 

That’s when Lan Wangji notices the faint music for the first time, the phantom echo of strings being plucked in succession. Chords broken into quiet melodies. It’d been there when he had come in, but with Wen Qing’s explanation, they become salient. He realizes that it isn’t coming from the speakers. In fact, nothing is playing from them, not even static. They’ve been shut off for their musician. 

Notes weave through the shelves, twining with the smell of old books and freshly ground coffee. Tonight, there’s a hint of petrichor that follows Lan Wangji into the shop. 

Wen Qing must take his silence for confusion because she puffs out a breath, and the loose strand hanging in front of her face flutters with movement. “Every Thursday, one of our friends performs in the coffee joint. It’s good for community engagement. You’re welcome to watch him if you’d like—or, if you’re able to find seating.” She nods toward the back as a way of explanation. “He usually gets a full house every week. Regulars—they love him.” 

Lan Wangji notes the exasperation that sits in her tone, nuanced with a complicated mix of friendship that survives on mutual sarcasm, sisterly affection, and fondness. Wen Qing’s gaze is dark and indecipherable as she appraises him before returning to her book, flipping the page and effectively ending the conversation. 

Fully attuned to the fact that there’s a live performance happening in the shop, Lan Wangji follows the music easing from the back. Navigating through the maze of shelves isn’t easy, and while there are books stacked in tall piles against the walls, they aren’t strewn across the hardwood floor. The light dims between the shelves, most likely to add to the ambiance of the hybrid shop.

The music grows louder as he nears the back, and it’s a quiet combination of plucking and strumming. The melody isn’t one that he’s heard of, but it’s soothing, articulated clearly with deft fingers and skill. The notes remain low, accompanied by a base rhythm that complements the melody—it’s gentle, music carefully hewn with a chaotic precision. 

It reminds Lan Wangji of an autumn afternoon with falling leaves and a cup of tea. Simple yet poignant. 

He knows he’s reached the back when he notices the first few patrons. True to Wen Qing’s words, there are multiple people in attendance. Some read under the firefly glow of the round bulbs strung overhead, books cradled in hands or flat on laps. The majority have their attention turned toward the corner of the room, of which is obscured by the wall. 

When he steps inside, Lan Wangji immediately realizes that the store is bigger than he had first anticipated. The back isn’t so much a storage as it is a proper coffee shop, albeit slightly more crowded than many of the traditional coffee shops around the area. There’s barely any space between the chairs and tables, making it the second maze Lan Wangji isn’t keen on figuring out. The walls are in equal, tasteful disarray, decorated with newspaper clippings, polaroid photos, and art prints of all shapes and sizes. 

However, what really catches his attention is the man strumming the guitar. Shoulder-length hair pulled into a short ponytail, full lips shaped into Cupid’s bows pursed in concentration, silver eyes glimmering under the stage lights. From a distance, Lan Wangji can tell his fingers are long and elegant, the hills of his knuckles rolling with the song. 

His forearms are exposed, sleeves rolled to his elbows to prevent the fabric from hindering his playing. He’s slim, lithe, chest broad before tapering into a slim waist hidden behind the body of the guitar. And while his upper body is curled over the instrument, his shoulders are lax as he sits casually, almost languidly on bar stool. 

Stunned, Lan Wangji watches him play with the ease and confidence of a man born with talent. He isn't concentrating on where his fingers slide up and down the neck, whether he’s hitting the right frets, nor is he worried about which combination of the six strings he’s strumming. Instead, he’s able to play freely. Convey a rich palette of emotions that spans from one corner of the universe to the other.

Slowly, the song, mellifluous and melancholic, comes to an end—regrettable, since Lan Wangji would be more than willing to listen to him strum for hours—and the young man lifts his head, eyes crinkling as a blinding smile crooks across his face. Every fiber of his being exudes a sunny afternoon under a canopy of bronze leaves: warm, radiant, lovely.

His gaze drags through his audience, but Lan Wangji knows that what he sees is nothing more than a canvas of shadows. The pianist has been under enough stage lights of varying intensities to know that they’re meant to block out faces as much as they’re meant to highlight the musician. The guitarist’s dark irises are luminous, dazzling enough to fill the waxing moon with envy.

A light smatter of applause fills the small room, a stark contrast to one Lan Wangji had received, like thunder splintering the sky into fragments. This is polite, morning dew rolling off turning leaves. The guitarist receives this graciously, beam growing impossibly wide, impossibly bright. 

But Lan Wangji believes it to be a disservice—he deserves more. He deserves the same level of acclaim Lan Wangji had received not even an hour ago. And when it dies down, the guitarist adjusts his fingers, bows his head, and begins to strum another song. 

This one isn’t as slow, but its rhythm matches the way raindrops beat against the building, begging to be invited into such a cozy atmosphere. It's another song of broken chords, interspersed with arpeggios and legatos. 

Somehow, this one acts as the needle and thread that begin to mend the gaping wound in his chest. Lan Wangji has heard people describe music as healing, and this is one of those rare moments that he understands. 

A cough breaches his attention, and Lan Wangji snaps out of his trance. Scanning the audience, he finds that Wen Qing hadn’t been exaggerating—it’s a full house tonight, and he doesn’t find a single free seat to settle in, all of the mismatched chairs occupied. Even the couch pressed against the wall is overflowing with people, two snug in the cushions, two others perched on its arms. The ones on the cushions whisper to each other, but ultimately, their attention is on the guitarist. 

Helpless, Lan Wangji wonders whether he can get away with simply sitting between the shelves and listening to the man play while reading. But the thought doesn’t seem right, not when he’s riveted by the sight on stage. In a way, he’s become the moon, helpless to orbit this colorful array of music. 

It doesn’t escape his notice that the situation is funny. That he had left his own completed concert, only to accidentally stumble into someone else’s, albeit on a different instrument and on completely different terms. Lan Wangji’s skills are nothing short of perfect, but what he lacks isn’t dexterity or flexibility: what’s missing from his playing sits in the cradle of this man’s performance. The best way to describe the guitarist’s music is raw—bleeding heart cut from his chest, held up for the world to see. 

Lan Wangji can’t leave. Doesn’t want to leave. Not yet.

He might be able to snag a seat if he waits. Maybe, he can indulge in a cup of tea. Tonight, a lone barista stands behind the counter, elbows resting on the surface as he watches the guitarist. His expression is fond and calm, and he radiates a timid sort of kindness. Like most others, he’s watching the performance with a muted delight, swaying slightly with each bass strum. 

Squeezing through the audience isn’t easy, not when everything is practically crammed into the world’s messiest jigsaw puzzle, but he manages, and when he gets to the counter, he’s already caught the barista’s attention.

The barista gives him a friendly smile, leaning over the granite surface to whisper, “Hello! What can I get for you?” His nametag flashes in the low lighting, and Lan Wangji catches a familiar character: Wen. His name is Wen Ning—Wen Qing’s brother? Family, maybe? Siblings?

Now that he looks closer, he sees the same slope of their noses and the wide set of their eyes. While Wen Qing’s face is made with stern lines, Wen Ning’s has been crafted by timid hands.

“Do you have tea?”

The man cocks his head. “What sort are you looking for? Black, green, earl grey…?”

Lan Wangji shifts in discomfort. “Do you have anything decaffeinated?”

“We have a lavender chamomile special, if you’d like? We also have autumn specials, if you want something seasonal. Our hot apple spice and apple cinnamon teas have been our most popular drinks.” Wen Ning gestures to a small blackboard hung behind the counter, its menu scribbled in pastel pink chalk. There’s a childish quality to the letters, uneven and lopsided, lines jagged and unsure.

Lan Wangji mulls over his choice before settling on lavender chamomile. In a way, it complements the rainy evening, a soothing end to a strange albeit warm evening. 

However, when Wen Ning finishes brewing the order and sets it in front of him with a murmured, “Your tea,” Lan Wangji finds that no one has left. No one has even shifted in those few minutes, and he wonders if it would be odd for him to ask if he can wait at the counter. 

Then, he sees it. 

It’s an empty seat hidden in the nook between the counter and the wall, easy to miss even under the dimly lit bulbs that hang overhead. As Lan Wangji nears it, he can’t believe his luck—two seats and a small table. It’s well-hidden from the audience, but it gives him a decent view of the stage, enough to where he can see the slight movement of the man’s fingers as they fly across the strings. 

With a sigh, he sets down the tea and saucer and crosses his one leg over another just as a small figure hops into the seat next to him. Lan Wangji freezes as a little boy, no older than three, climbs into the other unoccupied chair. He kneels on the seat, and with some effort, plucks a large book clamped between his side and arm and sets it on the table. Elbows propped on the surface, cheeks squished and cradled in both hands, the boy pulls open the cover and begins to read. 

Lan Wangji isn’t sure what to do. There are no bags, no beverages or food to indicate the presence of an adult. When he searches the audience, looking for a frantic father or a panicking mother, he finds nothing. Everyone seems preoccupied with their own interests, whether it be in the music, books, or hushed conversations. 

The boy spares him a fleeting glance before returning to his story. Lan Wangji catches sight of a picture book, its illustrations depicting cartoon characters and large, exaggerated caricatures. In fact, when he looks more closely, he finds a herd of bunnies painted onto the page, complete with large eyes, floppy ears, and toothy grins. He shifts onto the edge of his seat in case the boy’s parents come looking for him. 

Even as he tries to concentrate on the guitarist, his attention slides to the boy, whose gaze shoots down whenever Lan Wangji turns his head. When facing the child, the boy quickly ducks his chin, as if absorbed in the family of bunnies that star in the book. But when Lan Wangji turns away, he can feel the child’s eyes boring holes into the side of his head. 

It’s not a malicious stare, nor is it filled with fear. Instead, it’s an innocuous curiosity, an innate wonder that comes from the natural state of being a child. Lan Wangji sips his tea and allows the boy to observe him in the dim light. A few awkward moments pass for Lan Wangji, unaccustomed to being studied so intently by a child, as if being picked apart under a microscope. 

Just as he conjures the courage to turn to the child, lips parting to ask the whereabouts of his parents, a figure approaches in Lan Wangji’s periphery, and he turns to find the barista making his way toward them, a cup and saucer in hand. When he notices Lan Wangji, he gives him a surprised blink before switching his gaze between him and the boy.

“Is he bothering you?” Wen Ning asks, nodding at the boy. 

Immediately, Lan Wangji shakes his head with the faintest uptick of his mouth. “He’s no trouble.” And it’s true. The boy hasn’t done anything to provoke him, nor has he tried to initiate any form of conversation—not that Lan Wangji would be affected in any way. He hasn’t had much experience with children, but he has a few university students who look to him for private lessons. 

Wen Ning gives him a shaky smile before turning to the boy. “A-Yuan, here. Warm milk and honey. Remember, you can’t stay up too late.” Then, turning to Lan Wangji, Wen Ning gives him a small, awkward laugh, clutching the tray to his apron. 

“Family,” he says as an explanation, and Lan Wangji loses the tension that had trapped his limbs in cement. A sense of relief percolates through his veins at knowing the child hadn’t been abandoned—that he is, in fact, related to the people who work at this bookstore. The more he learns, the more he’s convinced that he had wandered into a family-owned bookshop and cafe hybrid. 

A-Yuan takes the cup, his hands not big enough to wrap around the circumference, then shrinks back, still sending surreptitious glances toward Lan Wangji when he thinks he isn’t looking. Wen Ning pats A-Yuan’s head before returning to the counter, where he begins to wipe down the surface. 

With each sip of warm milk and honey, the child relaxes, tension bleeding from his shoulders. Intermittently, he switches his attention between the bunnies hopping along the page, the guitarist on stage, and strangely enough, Lan Wangji. 

Lan Wangji does the same, except he has the courtesy not to stare directly at the child, giving him the opportunity to see that the pianist means no harm. Soon, he finds himself caught up in the guitarist’s music, eyes shutting as he listens to each note hum through the air like dandelion seeds scattering through the wind. In this rare moment of vulnerability, he allows himself to simply enjoy the song. To absorb the melody for what it is. 

Then, a small voice. So faint, Lan Wangji nearly misses it. Gradually, his eyes flutter open, and he turns his head to see the child watching him openly. It’s almost paradoxical—his wide eyes, illuminated with naked curiosity; his shrinking shoulders, pulled in with shyness. 

“Does gege like rabbits?” he repeats, barely above silent, tone inundated with timidity. 

Surprised at being addressed, it takes Lan Wangji a second to respond, but when he does, it’s with an affirmative nod and a faint smile pulling at his lips. A-Yuan smiles back, then pulls the book off the table, holding both edges of it over his face to hide his expression from Lan Wangji. 

Behind his thin fortress, Lan Wangji hears him giggle, and the sound harmonizes beautifully with the guitar’s gentle melody.

--

“You seem different,” Lan Xichen observes. It’s not a question, just a statement as casual as one commenting on the weather. His brother raises the teapot high into the air, allowing the thin stream of tea to cascade into the snow-white pinming cup before moving to do the same with his own cup. 

Lan Wangji takes the cup, moves it in a small circle, and breathes in the steam. It’s perfectly brewed. Not too light, not too bitter. Years of being raised by his uncle have honed their tea-making skills, and it has done wonders for entertaining guests, especially when Lan Wangji uses the opportunity to remind them not to speak in order to appreciate the proper tea fragrance. It’s the perfect excuse to avoid socializing. 

However, the trick doesn’t work with his brother. Still, Lan Wangji takes his time to sip at his tea, barely letting the hot liquid slip over the thin rim. Unfortunately, his brother is just as patient. When Lan Wangji pulls the cup away, cradling it in his hands, he lowers his gaze. “I don’t understand.”

Lan Xichen tilts his head, a glimmer to his eye. “You’re distracted. What has you spacing out these days?” 

Rather than answering, Lan Wangji thins his lips, averting his gaze. He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about the quaint bookstore, the little boy, and the guitarist whose music has ensnared Lan Wangji’s soul with six strings. When he’s not practicing his own music, fingers warming up through Hanon’s exercises and running through all the scales and their complementing arpeggios and chords, his ears ring with guitar music. 

Last Thursday replays in his mind more times than he’d like to admit. It’s been a week, and the second performance is tonight. Fervently, he wonders whether the guitarist will be present once more. Will he be performing, or will it be someone else? What songs will he prepare? 

Part of him is eager to attend. The other part of him fears that the magic will be lost, rose-tinted glass shattering upon impact.

Lan Wangji sips at his tea. "It is nothing." 

"Is it?" Lan Xichen's eyes form crescents, his version of raising a dubious brow. As always, his brother's ability to read Lan Wangji has been both a blessing and a curse. 

"Brother," Lan Wangji starts, then pauses. At his uncharacteristic hesitancy, Lan Xichen loses all traces of his teasing, taking on a somber furrow of his brow. "Why do you play music?" 

His brother doesn't respond for a few moments, visibly caught off-guard. Lan Wangji waits. He knows this is a monumental question that varies widely among all musicians. It would be unfair for anyone to drop the question and expect a perfectly seasoned answer.

Finally, Lan Xichen sighs and sets down his pinming cup. "I do it because I enjoy it," he says. "I know I'm good at it, but I love playing with the quartet."

Mercifully, he doesn’t ask why Lan Wangji is asking such a heavy question. Rather, he fills their cups with more tea, and Lan Wangji watches the steam coil through the air before disappearing from view. 

“Speaking of the quartet,” Lan Xichen begins, and Lan Wangji knows what his brother will ask next. “We’re going to dinner tonight after rehearsal. Would you like to join us? The others haven’t seen you in a while. They ask about you from time to time.”

Lan Wangji highly doubts it. The only one he can think of that might inquire after him may be Qin Su, but from what he last heard, the violinist had been dealing with her strained friendship with their other violinist, Jin Guangyao. With his brother moving in with Nie Mingjue, Lan Wangji sees the taciturn cellist enough that they know the general events of each other’s lives. 

Normally, Lan Wangji would cite practice as his reason for not going, but tonight, it pleases him to have a legitimate reason to decline the dinner. The last one had ended with a strange tension between Qin Su and Jin Guangyao, who had apparently spent their rehearsal arguing over one’s musical interpretation of piu mosso in the score. Dinner had been an…affair, to say the least. 

Lan Wangji isn’t eager for a repeat.

“I won’t be able to make it,” he says. “Apologies.”

Still, he hates to see that disappointed smile flicker across his brother’s face. One of these days, he’ll accept the offer for his brother’s sake. Hopefully, by then, the tumultuous relationship between the two violinists will smooth into harmony, and the atmosphere won’t be as stifling. 

“Next time,” Lan Xichen says, and the brothers drink the rest of their tea in silence. 

--

“You’re back.” The arch in Wen Qing’s brows betrays her surprise, and Lan Wangji greets her with a nod of his head. Tonight, the skies are clear, and the moon dangles a brilliant smile overhead. A few stars scatter across the midnight canvas, stubborn as they fight through the city’s pollution. “I didn’t think you’d come back.” 

She has the same tome splayed on the counter. This time, it’s accompanied by a small notebook and an old fountain pen. There are notes scribbled in the margins, characters barely legible, but he catches the ones for ‘theory’ and ‘practice.’ And this time, instead of a plant, Lan Wangji catches the mushroom that grows on the page, its cap red and spotted and poisonous. 

“Why?” he asks. He has his own notebook tucked into his bag with its soft leather cover and a pen. It’s custom-made, an early Christmas gift from his brother that Lan Wangji has yet to use. Rather than other notebooks, this one contains empty staffs, all devoid of notes and clefs and keys. 

“For compositions, should you ever feel inspired,” Lan Xichen had said. Until now, it had sat on Lan Wangji’s bookshelf, a thin layer of dust settled over the top. Until now. 

Wen Qing tilts her head, and the hand that's been taking notes pauses midway. “Don’t know. We usually have regulars attend Wei Ying’s shows—friends and family. We get the occasional straggler on days with bad weather, like last week.” 

I’m surprised you’re here again remains unsaid, but they both hear it as clear as a bell. 

But that’s not what catches Lan Wangji’s attention. His concentration narrows down to two words: Wei Ying. His lips shape around the name, tasting the way it feels on his tongue. It’s sweet, playful. Dynamic in that there’s a heavy emphasis at the start of his name, one that tapers into something soft. A jacket that gradually molds onto a person’s frame.  

It’s fitting, he decides. 

Wei Ying, Wei Ying, Wei Ying. 

“I enjoy music,” he says absentmindedly. It’s the greatest understatement he’s ever uttered, but Wen Qing takes it at face value. 

She nods, then gestures toward the back. “You’re right on time. We’ve got another full house, so if you hurry, you might find somewhere to sit. If you’re not as lucky, I’ve seen people camp out between the shelves. We’ve been told that his music goes great with reading.” 

To others, yes, it can be considered background music, a complement to reading. To Lan Wangji, it’s an art to be studied. The way Wei Ying plays is unfettered, unrestrained, baring the fabric of his soul, emotions carefully woven into intricate patterns. 

It’s fascinating. 

Lan Wangji thanks her quietly, and that ends their conversation—if it can be considered one. She returns to her notetaking, finger lifting from her spot in the book as her other hand flies across the page. He catches a glimpse of an herbal concoction for chest pains and briefly wonders whether Wen Qing plans on opening a traditional apothecary. 

Tonight, rather than the sensuous pull of guitar strings, Lan Wangji follows the quiet murmurs of conversation. Hushed whispers, gossamer laughter, and the faint rise and fall of someone tuning a guitar string. When he reaches the small coffee joint, he finds that once more, all of the seats are occupied. There are a few faces he recognizes from the week before, such as the senior woman with lines feathering around her eyes and the middle-age man with a balding scalp and what looks to be a flask of alcohol sticking out of his bag. 

And there, in the front, perched on the barstool, sits Wei Ying. 

The makeshift stage light casts sharp shadows across his face as he angles his chin toward the instrument, one ear pressed against the body of the guitar. Eyes fluttered shut, his body remains still as he focuses, one hand plucking the strings, the other pinching each corresponding peg. It creates a reverent picture, a renaissance painting Lan Wangji had seen once when touring in Italy. 

Snapping himself out of his stupor, he makes his way to the counter, where Wen Ning seems much busier than he had the previous week. Currently, he’s in the midst of warming a pastry as he hauls in a bag of coffee beans. When he notices Lan Wangji, he gives him a small wave, then holds up a finger as he moves from behind the counter to deliver an order. 

When he returns, he slips on a smile. “Lavender chamomile?” he asks, “or would you rather try something new?” Lan Wangji is pleasantly surprised to find that Wen Ning had remembered his preference from a week ago. With a slight tilt of his head, he places his order, and Wen Ning bustles off to gather the ingredients for a hot cup of lavender chamomile tea.

The problem comes after Wen Ning leaves him with a steaming cup of tea. Once more, the joint is crammed full of people, who hush at the first strum of Wei Ying’s guitar. The guitarist lifts his head, eyes gleaming like two silver coins, and Lan Wangji’s grip tightens on his cup and saucer. 

Wei Ying’s first chord is tentative, a dragonfly landing on the water’s glassy surface. The notes ripple in concentric rings that grow and grow. Larger, faster, louder—all of it swelling until the song breaks into a jaunty tune. His guitar sings, melodies and harmonies weaving seamlessly into one. His mouth crooks into a self-satisfied smile, as if he knows his effect on his audience, knows the way he captivates them with each strum, each pluck. 

Now, Lan Wangji understands. His first exposure to Wei Ying’s music hadn’t been through rose-tinted glasses. Hadn’t been influenced by the dissatisfaction of Lan Wangji’s own performance. The magic isn’t lost, nor has it attenuated since that first week. In fact, it has amplified the same way the sun breaks through the horizon, scattering peony petals across the clouds. 

Someone brushes past him with a whispered, “excuse me,” and that’s when he realizes that he’s still standing at the counter, back pressed against the cold granite. He cranes his neck, but the search is futile. There are no empty chairs close to the stage.

While he would’ve liked to settle closer to Wei Ying’s playing, the fact of the matter is that he’s still in the vicinity. He can hear Wei Ying’s music, can listen to whatever message he’s tossing to the wind. A man shouting from the top of the world. That’s all that truly matters—despite the acute sense of wanting, he’s also content with what he has. 

The back of his neck prickles, as if he’s being watched, and he turns to find a small set of eyes watching him from the counter. The boy gasps when he notices Lan Wangji has noticed and ducks his head. The sight causes fine threads of frost webbing across his heart to melt, and curious, he rounds the corner of the counter to find A-Yuan curled in his seat. 

There’s a new book about a family of radishes sitting on the table. Where Lan Wangji had sat previously is now occupied by someone else. No, something else. The pianist blinks, befuddled, at the sight of a stuffed white bunny slumped in the chair. It’s not old, but there are bite marks against one of the ears, the white fur no longer resembles snow, and there’s a small tear along the side, patched up with some red thread: all signs of a well-loved toy.

When A-Yuan lifts his chin and meets Lan Wangji’s gaze, he holds it. They stare at one another until A-Yuan reaches over and pulls the stuffed bunny into his lap, leaving the seat empty. It’s a deliberate move, one filled with purpose and intent, and Lan Wangji can tell when he’s being offered a seat. 

He takes it as A-Yuan pulls the bunny tight against his chest. Like before, the boy returns to his book, occasionally shifting his attention onto Lan Wangji, studying him when he doesn’t think he’s looking. Even when Lan Wangji loses track of A-Yuan’s curiosities, he’ll turn to find the boy eyeing the same page he had been on when he’d offered him the seat. 

Lan Wangji would know. The radish holding the umbrella hasn’t changed in the past ten minutes since he’d claimed the seat. And again, the pianist doesn’t try to strike conversation, nor does he give A-Yuan anything more than the barest uptick of a smile. Rather, he indulges the boy. 

When he reaches into his bag, A-Yuan perks up in his periphery, wide eyes trained on Lan Wangji’s hands as he pulls out the notebook and a pen, then flips it open. In the dim lighting, decorative bulbs feathering out light across the pages, the empty lines beckon for notes and symbols, for a clef and a rhythm. Despite the unmarked lines, in the midst of Wei Ying’s music, they feel far from bereft.

Too soon, the joyous tune comes to an end, and Wei Ying bows his head as the audience breaks into applause. There’s a whistle from the back of the room, from the man with the flask of alcohol in his bag, and a shout of encouragement. The old woman swats at him, and the others around them erupt into titters as she playfully chastises him. 

Wei Ying’s eyes crinkle before he throws his head back and laughs, revealing a column of sun-kissed skin. Mirth shakes his shoulders, and he shakes his head as he returns to his guitar. His next song is fast-paced, notes flung wildly without care. Brilliant, bordering euphoric. 

“Why is…” A-Yuan’s tiny voice barely breaks through the music, much closer than Lan Wangji expects, and when he turns, he finds that the boy has shifted his seat closer, leaning over the table to peer at Lan Wangji’s notebook. The bunny is still clutched to his chest like a lifeline, squished between him and the table. 

Lan Wangji tilts his head in question, and A-Yuan lifts his chin. For the first time, they gaze upon each other, face to face, and Lan Wangji takes in the full force of round cheeks and dark, wide eyes. His nose is pink from being scrubbed at every once in a while, and there’s a naked curiosity that radiates from him. 

Instead of speaking, he points toward the lines that cluster the page in clumps of five, and Lan Wangji understands. He leans down, speaking quietly so as to not disturb the performance. “This is for writing music.” 

Writing music, A-Yuan mouths, fascinated. “My baba plays music,” he says timidly. “He says he’ll teach me when I’m older.” There’s a hint of petulance as he pouts at the page. “But I want to learn now. Xiao Tuzi wants to learn too.” 

“Patience is important when learning,” Lan Wangji says. A-Yuan’s pout deepens, but he nods solemnly, as if absorbing Lan Wangji’s wisdom. The slight jut of his lower lip tugs on Lan Wangji’s chest, and he adds awkwardly, “You may watch.”

This explicit permission causes A-Yuan to perk up, and he slides off his seat, pushing it closer to Lan Wangji’s chair before clambering back on. Now, they’re much closer than before, A-Yuan barely an inch away from Lan Wangji’s arm, one of Xiao Tuzi’s ears flopping against his elbow. Strangely enough, up close, he’s much smaller than he appears from far away. 

The direct comparison only highlights his youth. Lan Wangji can feel his every shift, can hear each rustle of the bunny against his shirt, every breath he takes. Yet, it doesn’t disturb him as he sets his left hand on the table, fingers drumming almost mindlessly against the surface. 

From under his lashes, his attention returns to Wei Ying, a moon drawn back into an inescapable orbit. Slowly, as he watches the man play, a melody begins to take root in his heart, nurtured with passion, a love for music so pure sitting under the layers and layers of complex melodies. His eyes flutter shut. Allows himself to be stripped away piece by piece. 

He begins to write.

--

Light streams into the room, illuminating the baby grand piano that sits in the center of the room. The surface is sleek, polished—dusted every morning before Lan Wangji settles to practice. It’s routine, a second nature to take care of the instrument that has led him this far. 

Music has always been prevalent in his family. Lan Qiren, a prominent violinist back in his youth, now teaches at the local university. Lan Xichen makes his name with a small quartet of his closest friends. Lan Wangji is now a renowned pianist who has decided to take a sabbatical from performance. Even his father had once been a musician, a cellist that had had a brief moment of stardom in a well-known orchestra. 

And his mother…

Lan Wangji squeezes his eyes shut and pushes the thoughts away. Today, there is no score sitting on the rack, no classical piece that’s been annotated with Lan Wangji’s elegant script. No piece comes to mind either. No Listz, no Rachmaninoff, no Mozart, no Chopin—no classical song pulls at his hands. 

Instead, his fingers itch, and he blinks at the leather notebook that lies on the music shelf. It catches the sun, tan lines snaking over the spine like spidery veins. There’s a pen keeping the cover shut. Lan Wangji stares at the pair, vision tunneling slightly as he hears the faint strum of Wei Ying’s guitar echoing through his memories. 

He’s attended two performances now. The first, by accident. The second, deliberate. Yet, he hasn’t met the man, hasn’t spoken to him, hasn’t once chanced upon him after hours. By the time he finishes wrapping up his last song, Lan Wangji is gone. 

Deep inside, he wants to stay. God, he wants to give Wei Ying’s performances the attention they deserve, yet something else always pushes him away. Perhaps, it’s the stark contrast between his playing and Wei Ying’s. There’s no doubting Lan Wangji’s technical skills—they’ve been praised to the high heavens, a compliment that exasperates Lan Wangji—but there’s always something missing. A hole, of sorts, that prevents a score from becoming one. From becoming Lan Wangji’s. 

Wei Ying’s music, on the other hand, bursts with color. Lan Wangji has little to no experience with guitarists or their instruments. But he can sense the wildness that cavorts in his playing. The highs push the limit of the skies, and the lows sink to the bottom of the Mariana Trench. All extremes that have somehow been contained in the six strings of Wei Ying’s songs. It sounds ridiculous, but to Lan Wangji, the emotions, the feelings, encountered in Wei Ying’s music span from one corner of the universe to the other. 

The contrast is more than stark. It’s glaring. It’s a chasm that sits between them, a maw that gapes and threatens to swallow if Lan Wangji ventures too close to the edge. 

He breathes out a sigh through his nose. In a sense, it’s useless to have such thoughts, especially when they play two completely different instruments. They’re limited in different ways—their fingers move in different ways. Even worse, Lan Wangji has yet to speak to the guitarist. Somehow, he cannot conjure the courage to do so. It’s not entirely a feeling of inferiority, though that plays a small part in his reasoning, outside of his general anxiety of talking to new people. 

Lifting his head, he turns to gaze outside the large windows. Floor to ceiling, they give him a splendid view of the garden outside, of the old magnolia tree with its gnarled roots and twisted branches. With the turn of the season, its leaves have lost their waxy sheen, giving way to ambers and bronzes, reds and golds that bleed from their tips. Soon, the tree will hold its own torch before baring itself to prepare for winter’s snowy coat. 

A melody, gentle and unassuming, plumes across his mind—it’s one that’s played since that first night watching Wei Ying perform. He settles his right hand on the keys and plinks it out, touching the keys with a hesitance he hasn’t felt since performing for his first recital. Too much confidence makes it too real. Hearing it makes it too real. 

With his left hand, he reaches for the notebook, setting aside the pen before pulling it onto his lap. Flipping it open, he stares at the notes that scatter the page. There’s almost two pages worth of music and symbols. Right now, all he has is the right hand melody. That’s all he’d been able to procure at the shop, but here, sitting in front of the piano, his left hand itches to harmonize. To trade with his right and twine everything into one, completed piece. 

It’s a piece full of openings, vulnerabilities. It’s a piece that rides edges and pushes boundaries. It’s a piece that gives too much away.

It’s a piece that scares Lan Wangji. 

The song, nameless at the moment, reveals too much; it’s soul-bearing. To Lan Wangji, it can be considered a risk. He’s never been one to put himself out there, preferring to stick to the comfort of his skill and years of dedication. Yes, he can play pieces considered to be some of the most difficult. Yes, he’s been invited to music conservatories around the world. Yes, he has no trouble sight-reading or playing pieces by memory.

No—contrary to belief—he’s never attempted to write his own composition. 

Yet, this one pours from his fingertips easily, the same way streams burble over beds of rocks and weeds. In it are Lan Wangji’s own highs and lows, his own barriers stretched thin to accommodate his fracturing brevity. 

It’s a song full of juxtapositions: wanting others to hear the thoughts that sing through his core and wanting to cradle them close to his chest. Wanting others to know him and wanting to keep himself hidden behind songs that have thrived for centuries. Wanting to be perceived and wanting to stay in the shadows. 

When he finishes playing, the final note lingers, and he holds his breath. Still, the world does not implode. Still, no one pounds at his door demanding explanations. Still, despite the way he feels cracked open, Lan Wangji does not crumble. 

His heart flutters at his throat, a hummingbird on the verge of escape, full of excitement and a smidge of dread. Because Lan Wangji has just written a song, and it’s his way of communicating to a world that’s too loud, too busy, too monstrous to listen. But those who do can peek into the cracked lines of his mask and see him. 

Blood roaring in his ears, the same way one hears the echo of an ocean’s roar in the hollow of a seashell, Lan Wangji flips to the next page of his notebook and finishes the draft.

--

Third time’s the charm. 

That’s the saying, but in Lan Wangji’s case, it’s the pebble that rolls down the mountain and collects and collects until he’s faced with the full force of an avalanche. Unexpected. Sudden. Unforeseen. It leaves him reeling, caught off-guard as the universe’s next line of entertainment.

The evening starts off like any other. Wen Qing greets him with a bob of her head and gestures toward the back—again, she’s still reading that tome full of plants and mushrooms, her notebook and pen sitting next to the yellowed pages. Wen Ning waves at him from behind the counter before asking, “Lavender Chamomile?” and Lan Wangji confirms with a low hum. As for A-Yuan…A-Yuan pulls Xiao Tuzi off the seat in a silent offer and holds it to his chest, gazing at Lan Wangji with wide, hopeful eyes. 

Lan Wangji, who has never worked with young children in his life, is compelled to take the seat. When he does, A-Yuan immediately pushes his chair close until their seats collide, and Lan Wangji has to hold the back of A-Yuan’s chair to make sure it doesn’t fall. The boy climbs onto his seat, and, instead of pulling open his book—this time, it’s a coloring book with crayons littered across the table—or turning his attention to Wei Ying, he stares between Lan Wangji and his bag expectedly. 

Amusement flashes through him when A-Yuan perks up at the sight of his notebook. Luckily, the boy doesn’t attempt to grab it; instead, he leans over the table, trapping Xiao Tuzi between his body and the table as he watches Lan Wangji flip it open. Like before, he props his head up, cupping each cheek in one hand as he watches Lan Wangji make amendments to his piece.

This time, A-Yuan shyly pushes his way through their border to point at a sign. He whispers, barely above silence, “What does that mean?” His finger traces the little squiggly line that sits between a note and its staff line.

“A rest,” Lan Wangji murmurs, conscious of Wei Ying’s music. He’s reached a crescendo, fingers moving deftly over the strings. Tonight, he’s chosen a mix of slow and fast songs, starting with one that paces at largo before moving to allegretto, a narrative known only to him. “It means you don’t play.” 

“Quiet?” A-Yuan asks, tracing the line again, brows knitted together as if searing that information into his brain. 

“Quiet,” Lan Wangji confirms. That interaction serves as the key that unlocks the doors of A-Yuan’s curiosities. He points to symbol after symbol. An eighth note here, a coda there—and oh! What is a repeat sign? It’s an endless stream of questions that Lan Wangji doesn’t mind answering. 

It’s pleasant. Refreshing. Lan Wangji hasn’t had a student in a while, and when he has, they’ve all been university students who only need to refine their skills and polish their styles. He’s never had a beginner student, especially one so diligent in learning. Lan Wangji knows what it looks like when people’s eyes glaze over in a polite attempt at paying attention, and A-Yuan has nothing of the sort. 

For the first time in a very long time, he loses track of time. A-Yuan continues to ask questions, drinking in Lan Wangji’s answers with shining eyes and a toothy grin. It’s not long after that Lan Wangji allows him to hold the leather notebook in his lap. Carefully, as if handling porcelain, A-Yuan flips through the first few pages, soaking in the black marks that denote a new world. 

His attention is drawn away by an approaching figure, and he glances up to find Wen Ning setting a pot of tea on the table. Confused, Lan Wangji straightens. “I didn’t order this.”

Wen Ning shrugs, leaning in close to whisper, “it’s on the house.” Then, he nods toward A-Yuan, who traces everything with his finger. The fingers on his left hand drum against the book, and fondly, Lan Wangji realizes that it’s what the boy imagines playing an instrument to be like. When he turns back to Wen Ning, the barista is barely able to repress the smile that ticks up the corners of his mouth. “He’s always wanted to play music.” 

Lan Wangji ducks his head and curls his hand. “Like this,” he instructs quietly. “Pretend you’re holding a ball.” 

A-Yuan complies, raising his arms, both hands clenched into fists. It’s such an innocent gesture that Lan Wangji can’t stifle his puff of laughter. Instead, he reaches over and unclenches one small fist. It’s amazing to see the difference in size—Lan Wangji’s hand could easily swallow one of A-Yuan’s. Gently, he pries his fingers open, then positions them so that they’re curved correctly. 

At A-Yuan’s concentrated face, lips puckering, eyes narrowed, Lan Wangji moves his hand next to his, showing him the way they match. “See? You’ve done well. This is the first step toward becoming a pianist.”

“Pianist?”

“Someone who plays the piano.”

A-Yuan mouths the word. Piano. Wonder lights up his expression, and he tugs on Lan Wangji’s sleeve. “Tell me more?” 

And so Lan Wangji does. He pulls out his phone and opens his browser, searching up pictures and explaining under his breath. His teaching is succinct, and normally erudite, he occasionally remembers that he’s not giving a lecture or a lesson to a grown adult. Rather, A-Yuan can’t be any older than three, and he pauses whenever he realizes he’s using more jargon than is normal for a child. 

He swipes his thumb, tracing the image. “These are pedals,” he murmurs. “Each of them has a different effect. The one on the far left is called a soft pedal, or una corda pedal—” 

He's cut off when something heavy slumps onto his arm, and Lan Wangji narrowly catches his phone at the impact. When he turns, he finds that A-Yuan has fallen asleep, his head lolling against his shoulder. 

The time on his phone indicates that it’s nearly half past nine. It’s no wonder his own eyelids feel heavier than normal. This time, however, he’s unable to leave, not with A-Yuan pressed against his side, breathing slow and even. When Lan Wangji shifts, the boy sighs before curling closer. 

One of his hands tangles in Lan Wangji’s shirt, and there’s a line of drool that rolls down his chin. Mindlessly, Lan Wangji lifts his free hand and wipes it away. A-Yuan snuffles quietly, leaning into his touch. 

“Oh? Looks like my little radish has fallen asleep.” 

Lan Wangji raises his head, prepared to explain the situation, when he realizes it isn’t Wen Ning’s voice that meets his ears. There’s no hint of shyness or respect, nor is there that tired kindness that comes from interacting with customers all day long. This voice is playful, nuanced with needling and affection—perfect for teasing. 

What he doesn’t expect is for his gaze to meet a pair of grey eyes that flash silver in the light, accompanied by a crooked smile set in a delicate face. Lan Wangji’s breath catches as he absorbs the fact that the guitarist has finally appeared. 

Wei Ying stands in front of their table, arms crossed as he arches his brow at the way A-Yuan snuggles to Lan Wangji’s side. His guitar is strapped to his back, packed up, and it takes an embarrassingly long time for Lan Wangji to realize that half the audience has disappeared. The coffee joint fills with quiet chatter and the susurration of turning pages. 

Behind the counter, Wen Ning is drying mugs, one rag thrown over his shoulder as he sets them on the display shelf. The stage lights have been turned off, leaving an empty stool sitting in the corner. Without Wei Ying perched on top, the scene feels bereft. Except, it isn’t…because Wei Ying is here. In front of him in all his musical glory. 

The guitarist leans forward, and at that moment, Lan Wangji learns that it hadn’t been the stage lights that had haloed Wei Ying’s silhouette—the man exudes his own personal brand of warmth. Lan Wangji drinks him in, growing intoxicated. He hasn’t had alcohol since taking a sip back in university, and while he had blacked out, he supposes this is what it must feel like to be drunk. 

“It’s way past his bedtime,” Wei Ying continues with a grin, unaware of the way Lan Wangji’s world has tilted on its axis. Dazed, Lan Wangji notes that he is distressingly pretty. 

Maneuvering around the table, Wei Ying bends down, careful not to jostle the guitar strapped to his back, and tugs on A-Yuan’s shoulder. “Come on, little radish. Let’s get you to bed.” 

Still, A-Yuan clings to Lan Wangji’s shirt like a lifeline. He mumbles something against the fabric of his sleeve, breathing in deeply, and Wei Ying chuckles. “What was that?”

“Don’t wanna leave pretty gege,” A-Yuan says sleepily. To strengthen his point, his fist tightens on Lan Wangji’s shirt. “A-Yuan likes pretty gege.”

Pretty gege?

Oh.

Oh.

The tips of Lan Wangji’s ears burn the moment he realizes that A-Yuan is talking about him. He’s ‘pretty gege.’ 

“Looks like he’s taken a liking to you,” Wei Ying says with a huff. Lan Wangji’s world shifts another ninety degrees when he’s pinned with the full force of Wei Ying’s attention. The guitarist perches on the other half of A-Yuan’s seat and slides an arm around the boy, smoothing back his hair before tweaking his nose. A-Yuan twitches, and Lan Wangji practically burns where Wei Ying had grazed against his shoulder. 

Wei Ying leans over and sets his chin lightly against A-Yuan’s head. There’s a gleam to his eye, silver coins that put all other metals in the world to shame. The boy sniffs again, and slowly, under the hollow of the guitarist’s body, he relaxes. “And who,” Wei Ying continues, “has bewitched my little radish?” 

“Baba,” A-Yuan murmurs, and Lan Wangji twitches. He hadn’t wanted to assume, and he can’t help the way his gaze flies to Wei Ying’s left hand, fingers bereft of any rings. For a brief moment, he’s on the brink of internally heaving a sigh of relief, when he remembers that Wei Ying is a musician. 

As a pianist, Lan Wangji performs without decor. No bracelets, no rings—nothing that can potentially impede his performance. Any musician would know to do the same, so why would Wei Ying be an exception? 

"Lan Zhan," he introduces himself, careful not to give out his courtesy name. It's not that he's ashamed of who he is; contrary to it, he's happy to live as a musician, albeit one who still has much to learn. Then again, there are no true professionals in the world, are there? No living person can harbor knowledge of the world. 

Nor does he withhold his name because he fears fame. Already, he deals with it on a weekly basis. People will randomly stop him and ask if he's the pianist. Lan Wangji will reply, "Yes," and he'll sign albums and posters and the occasional napkin, but he draws the line at pictures. 

With Wei Ying, he hesitates for two reasons: one, he doesn't want to lose whatever carefree attitude Wei Ying may abandon if he learns about Lan Wangji's status and reputation. There's little to no risk of this happening, but it has happened before, and that matters to Lan Wangji. 

And two, he wants Wei Ying to know him, his real name. He wants Wei Ying to know Lan Zhan, the person, when the world knows him as Lan Wangji, the pianist. He wants to know what his name sounds like when curved around the mold of Wei Ying's smile.

Wei Ying juts a thumb at himself. “I’m Wei Ying. It’s nice to meet you, Lan Zhan!” In his playful tone, Lan Wangji’s name sounds…good. Somehow, it brings a liveliness to the two characters, born from the simplicity of joy. 

“Likewise,” Lan Wangji says. There’s another line of drool pooling at the corner of A-Yuan’s mouth, and Lan Wangji doesn’t hesitate to wipe it away with his sleeve. 

This time, when Wei Ying coaxes A-Yuan to let go, the boy does so, falling to lean against his father’s shoulder. Still, A-Yuan makes a grabbing motion with his hands, flexing his fingers and curving them loosely. “Baba…pretty gege…” Whatever he means to say is lost as he nods off, and Wei Ying grunts as he scoops him into his lap. 

In the cradle of his father’s embrace, A-Yuan finally loses the battle against sleep, and his breathing evens out, a slight whistle that accompanies each exhale. Wei Ying sets his cheek atop A-Yuan’s head, not unlike the way he’d done so when tuning his guitar, and nuzzles slightly as he turns his attention back to Lan Wangji. 

“Did you enjoy the performance, pretty gege?” he teases. Flustered, Lan Wangji feels the tips of his ears burn, heat traveling down the back of his neck. He’s never had stage fright before, and he wonders if this might be what it feels like. “Or any of my others?” 

How—

His confusion must show because Wei Ying laughs, reaching up to tousle A-Yuan’s hair. “He hasn’t stopped talking about the pretty gege that sits next to him every Thursday. He says you’re very nice, and he emphasizes that you’re very pretty.” Wei Ying lifts his chin and narrows his gaze at Lan Wangji, as if scrutinizing him. “I’d have to say, he’s right.” 

“Shameless!” is Lan Wangji’s first reaction, and he’s afraid it’ll come off as too aggressive, when Wei Ying simply throws his head back and laughs. A-Yuan shifts as Wei Ying vibrates with mirth. 

“I’m going to bring this little one to bed. It was nice meeting you, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying repeats, then hauls A-Yuan up so that the child wraps around him like a koala. Then, as he stands, he leans in close, and with a wink, whispers, “I hope to see you next week, pretty gege.” 

--

The tune changes. 

Since meeting Wei Ying—officially meeting him, Lan Wangji realizes that the song is too quiet, too melancholy to contain a spirit as bright as Wei Ying’s. He returns to his notebook, flipping it open to his second draft. The intro remains the same, but the transition turns into something brighter. 

It speaks of admiration, of a passion that can cross time. It speaks of a loving father who dotes on a little boy that carries around a stuffed bunny. It holds a mischievous accompaniment in the harmony, an underlying message that echoes the iridescence of Wei Ying’s laughter and joy. 

Lan Wangji gazes down at the notebook, scanning the marks that line the page. Somehow, it doesn’t feel complete, like it’s still missing something vital. He can’t put his finger on it: maybe it’s an absent key. Maybe a fioritura. A melody exists, that much Lan Wangji knows, but its embellishments feel rough. Shaking his head, he scratches out a rest with a solid ‘x’.  

There are numerous corrections. An ever-changing development. He needs to thank his brother for the quality of the notebook. Its pages are thick, so none of his marks have bled through the material despite the scratches and notes that overlap one another. He changes out a triplet and changes it into a quartet of sixteenth notes. Changes, changes, and more changes.

In a way, it feels maddening to have the song run through his head at different intervals throughout the day. Sometimes, it plays in the morning, a song that rises fresh from the depths of the haze of sleep—a light that breaks through a rolling fog. Other times, it plays, unbidden, to the rhythm of the train as it rumbles down the tracks, handles swinging like a metronome. And sometimes, he falls asleep to the twinkling melody, winking like stars from above.

“Oh, pretty and a composer?” 

It’s a testament to Lan Wangji’s control that he doesn’t knock over the cup of tea that sits next to his notebook. He blinks up just as something latches onto his leg, and startled, he finds A-Yuan perched on the floor, both arms and legs wrapped around Lan Wangji’s calf. Wei Ying tosses out an exasperated sigh and crouches down to tug on A-Yuan’s waist. 

“Ah, little radish, when did you become a little monkey?” 

Lan Wangji stops him. “It’s fine,” he says quietly as he shuts the book. Wei Ying’s gaze drifts back to the notebook, and something akin to disappointment and burgeoning curiosity flashes across his expression. At that, Lan Wangji reaches down and gently pries A-Yuan from his leg. The boy goes easily when he realizes Lan Wangji has no intention of pushing him away, and he loosens up when Lan Wangji pulls him onto his lap. 

“Hello, pretty gege,” A-Yuan greets, then holds out his hand, curling his fingers into the same position Lan Wangji had taught him the week before. “Look! I’ve been practicing.” 

Lan Wangji lifts his arm for a better look and gives him a small smile. “You’re doing well.” 

A-Yuan preens at the compliment. 

When he glances up, there’s a strange expression on Wei Ying’s face that quickly disappears behind a blinding smile. The guitarist slips the guitar from his back and sets it in the corner between the wall and counter. Heaving a sigh, he settles in A-Yuan’s usual seat. 

“You’re here early, Lan Zhan! I don’t play for another half hour.” Wei Ying sits forward, slouching as he settles both elbows on the table, cupping his cheeks in his hands. It squishes his face, and Lan Wangji is interested in how plush his lips might feel under his thumb. 

A-Yuan wiggles in Lan Wangji’s lap before pointing at Lan Wangji’s notebook and looking at him for permission. At Lan Wangji’s affirmative hum, A-Yuan reaches for the notebook and treats it with as much care as he had the first time. He’s a little enthusiastic, but the pages are strong, the ink is dry, and Lan Wangji isn’t worried that A-Yuan will treat it roughly. Under his breath, A-Yuan recites the short lessons that Lan Wangji has been giving him.

“Rest is quiet. Lines and dots, repeat…”

“You know, you’ve got him obsessed,” Wei Ying says after the moment slips past them. There’s a burning curiosity in the flare of his irises as he trains them on the leather notebook. He slides closer, walking two fingers and prodding at Lan Wangji’s teacup, the act almost petulant. It rattles in its saucer, clattering in small circles. “I told him I’d teach him music later, but pretty gege got there first.” 

“Apologies,” Lan Wangji says dryly, obviously unrepentant. Despite having been called ‘pretty gege’ multiple times, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it, and it brings a flush burning at the tips of his ears. 

Wei Ying catches it and throws his head back with a laugh. “Ah, Lan Zhan, has anyone ever told you that you’re funny?” 

No. 

Never.

Rather than answer, Lan Wangji picks up his teacup and takes a sip to occupy himself. It also helps reorient himself after hearing Wei Ying laugh with such a carefree attitude. A-Yuan doesn’t notice, preoccupied with studying Lan Wangji’s markings and notes.

“So,” Wei Ying starts again, “how does a man like you end up here? Surely, you’re not here for my handsome looks or witty charms, though if you were, I wouldn’t complain.” There’s a sly smile curling on his lips, light pink and asking to be bitten as a reprimand. He’s all limbs as he slumps forward more, breaching the border of Lan Wangji’s personal space. “Ah, and it can’t be for my music either!” 

To anyone else, that last bit would’ve been woven seamlessly with his previous, teasing comment, but Lan Wangji hears that small change in pitch. That tiny indication of self-deprecation he’s heard from multiple musicians, from both university and professionals on the global scale. 

“Why wouldn’t it be for your music?” Lan Wangji asks sincerely. “You’re talented and passionate.” 

It catches Wei Ying off-guard. His eyes grow wide, and his cheeks take on a becoming flush. His body, which had been leaning toward Lan Wangji, pulls back. He fidgets in his seat, and A-Yuan, sensing something has shifted, lifts his head to glance between Lan Wangji and his father.

“Baba is good,” A-Yuan declares. He wiggles on Lan Wangji’s lap until he faces Lan Wangji, and with pride, adds, “Baba’s music is the best.” 

Lan Wangji’s face softens at the boy. “It is,” he agrees easily. “He’s one of the best I’ve ever heard.”

Wei Ying makes a choked noise, and the two turn in time to find him burying his face in his hands. His blush has spread, creeping down the length of his neck to disappear under his shirt. “A-Yuan, please,” he moans, then lifts his head, sending an accusing glare at Lan Wangji. There’s no bite to it, just a weary mortification under the guise of a scold. “And Lan Zhan! Don’t be a bad influence on him. It’s not nice to lie to children.”

“One must not tell lies,” Lan Wangji replies coolly. “I do not tell lies.” 

“No way, not even one?” Wei Ying splutters. His blush remains high on his cheeks, and he scratches the bridge of his nose with one finger, unable to meet either of their gazes. 

“No, never. And I wandered in here by accident.” Lan Wangji uses his free hand to close his notebook. A-Yuan has moved his attention elsewhere but remains content to stay in Lan Wangji’s lap. Wei Ying makes a questioning noise. 

“What?” 

“You asked how I ended up here. It was raining, and I ducked in here to escape the rain.” 

“But it’s not raining today…?”

Lan Wangji quirks the corner of his mouth into a faint smile. “I stayed for the music,” he answers honestly. Sincerely. Like he will accept no other truths, no protests or arguments from anyone else, not even from Wei Ying himself. And for the guitarist, he doesn’t add.

Wei Ying gapes at him, and his flush deepens. It’s a sight Lan Wangji wants burned into his brain as he observes the other man. However, his attention is pulled away by a small hand setting itself on the back of his left, where his fingers had been tapping to a song against his thigh. He continues to play, and A-Yuan touches his rolling knuckles and moving fingers. 

“Can pretty gege teach A-Yuan music?” 

“I am.” 

A-Yuan shakes his head. “No, A-Yuan wants to play pretty music! Like baba! I want to learn how to play pretty music. Hard music—oh! Fast music too!” 

“A-Yuan—” Wei Ying starts, the beginnings of a chastise, and A-Yuan falters at his father’s look. The light that had brightened his eyes begins to dim, and Lan Wangji breaks one of his uncle’s rules before he even realizes it.

“I can.” He cuts Wei Ying off gently, flipping his hand so that A-Yuan’s fingers span the length of his palm. “But, I don’t play the guitar like your baba. I play the piano, so I can’t teach you guitar if that’s what you want.”

The conflict that flicks across the boy’s face is comically stormy, like lightning striking a tree in half. It’s uncharacteristically serious for a child as he contemplates the choices. Hesitantly, he narrows his eyes and taps Lan Wangji’s palms like the pianist had been doing. Finally, he asks in a small voice, “Can I learn both?” 

With a huff, Lan Wangji acquiesces with a bob of his head, and A-Yuan breaks into a brilliant smile. While the thought of working with children has never crossed his mind, the image of teaching A-Yuan, of curling his fingers and positioning them in the right place, of teaching musical theory, of being rewarded with a proud smile whenever he plays the music correctly, warms his chest. 

Wei Ying sits back and clutches both hands to his chest, shooting A-Yuan a playfully wounded look. “Ah, betrayed by my own son! Thus, I’ll perish with a broken heart. What will you, Wen Ning, and Wen Qing do without me, hm?” 

A-Yuan giggles at his father’s antics. Even Lan Wangji can’t help a small laugh. “I’ll take care of them like baba takes care of me!” A-Yuan exclaims. “Xiao Tuzi is also very happy when I take care of him.” 

As if summoned, Wen Ning appears at the table and replaces the pot of tea Lan Wangji had been drinking. On his tray sits two more saucers, and he places one in front of A-Yuan and the other in front of Wei Ying. There’s a bit of surprise that flickers across his countenance when he sees A-Yuan sitting on Lan Wangji’s lap. 

For a moment, Lan Wangji considers that this may be breaking a boundary, that Wen Ning might be surprised because a stranger is holding the toddler. He’s on the verge of picking A-Yuan up and giving him to Wei Ying, but Wen Ning relaxes and reaches over to tap A-Yuan’s forehead. 

“Don’t bother him too much, ok?” he says to A-Yuan, and Lan Wangji shakes his head. 

“He’s no bother.” At Wen Ning’s dubious uncertainty, Lan Wangji adds, “Really,” for emphasis. There’s nothing Wen Ning can say to that, so he gives them a small bow, which Lan Wangji returns with a bob of his head, and turns to Wei Ying, tapping his wrist to remind him to pay attention to the time. 

The guitarist fishes out his phone, stares at it for a good five seconds, before leaping to his feet. “It’s almost time for me to go up,” he announces. He shifts around the table and reaches for A-Yuan, pulling him up so abruptly that the A-Yuan cries out in surprise and grabs onto his arms, then deposits him on his previous seat. A-Yuan pouts at having been separated from Lan Wangji, and while his legs had been going numb from the weight, he hadn’t minded. Now, he feels somewhat bereft. 

“Be a good radish and stay here, ok? Baba will be done after I finish playing. In the meantime, pretty gege will keep you company.” He turns to Lan Wangji. “After all, he’s staying for the music, right?” 

“Yes,” Lan Wangji confirms, causing a second round of blood to plume across Wei Ying’s face, though it doesn’t detract from the proud, satisfied grin he wears. This one feels pleased. “I will be here.”

The air is light as Wei Ying slings the guitar onto his back, then stretches his arms high over his head, revealing a pale stretch of skin at his hips. Lan Wangji, very resolutely, sips at his tea and doesn’t make a face when he nearly burns his tongue. 

“Ah, well!” Wei Ying drops his arms to cross his chest. “Now that I know I have such a beautiful man watching me play, the pressure’s on, huh!” 

Lan Wangji tries not to choke at the way Wei Ying calls him beautiful, but he doesn’t succeed, turning his head to cough into his fist. Eyes watering, when he turns back, Wei Ying is already halfway to the stage, a skip to his step. 

The atmosphere is feather-light, airy. It’s not as dense as it had been the past three weeks: the first had been heavy, a brick sinking in mud. Slowly, with each visit to this unassuming shop, with his new composition taking up the majority of his time and concentration, with meeting A-Yuan and Wei Ying, his mood has buoyed, brick chipped away little by little. 

Tonight, Wei Ying has chosen a myriad of happier pieces. Their melodies leap and bound across the audience, the same way sunlight dapples through tree leaves, scattering across moss-covered logs and wildflowers. It’s a breath of fresh air—being a musician himself, Lan Wangji can parse out the joy that laughs in Wei Ying’s music. He wonders whether Wei Ying chooses his songs beforehand or whether he selects them based on his mood. If the latter, then Lan Wangji is glad to know Wei Ying remains as brilliant as the sun. 

The moment Wei Ying begins to play, A-Yuan leaps from his seat, pulling Xiao Tuzi with him as he holds up one arm toward Lan Wangji, a pout forming on his lips. And Lan Wangji, having never really been around children, hasn’t quite built up the resistance against large, watery eyes. He leans down and scoops A-Yuan up, letting him rest on his lap. It’d never occurred to him that he might one day encounter such a situation, but he doesn’t mind it. 

Throughout the evening, A-Yuan leafs through Lan Wangji’s notebook, and he grows ecstatic when Lan Wangji pulls out one of his old scores of Chopin’s Nocturne Op. 27 No. 2. Unbothered by the complexity of the song, he touches each note, traces the flats and the sharps, and tilts his face up to ask, ‘What is this?’ when he doesn’t recognize the symbol. 

He’s a dedicated student. That much is clear, and Lan Wangji wants to foster that interest. He wants to nurture it, help it sprout, and watch it bloom. When A-Yuan requests to listen to Chopin’s score, Lan Wangji tells him that it would be rude to interrupt his father’s playing. Instead, he sets both hands on his lap and instructs him to place his hands on top. Then, he taps the song out against his thighs, and having known the piece for years, he watches A-Yuan instead of the score. 

The boy constantly switches between Lan Wangji’s hands and the score, half-marveling, half-thoughtful, trying to piece all parts of the puzzle together. Trying to connect the marks on the yellowing page to the movements of Lan Wangji’s hands. Particularly, he pays most attention to his wrists and knuckles, attempting to mimic the way Lan Wangji’s moves without the support of his arm. 

The impromptu lessons continue throughout the evening, periodically interrupted by Wen Ning stopping by to refill Lan Wangji’s tea or to give A-Yuan his cup of warm milk and honey. It isn’t until a shadow falls over them and the absence of music becomes deafening that Lan Wangji finds Wei Ying standing at the table

“So, how did you enjoy it?” Wei Ying asks, breathless. After setting the guitar back into the corner of the wall, he drops into A-Yuan’s abandoned seat. Then, he reaches over and tugs on a lock of A-Yuan’s hair lightly, enough to snag his attention. “You rascal,”  he teases, “I told you not to bother pretty gege too much, didn’t I?”

“I want to learn piano,” A-Yuan says firmly. There’s a new resolution that sits in his eyes, steel-like. A reflection of Wei Ying’s own. Once more, Lan Wangji’s gaze flits to Wei Ying’s left hand, but the latter doesn’t seem to notice, frowning at his son. 

“A-Yuan…”

“I’m willing to teach him,” Lan Wangji says, and A-Yuan tilts his head back, beaming toward him. “He is a good student.”

The frown Wei Ying wears mars his handsome face, and it doesn’t look right on him. So accustomed to seeing him carefree and imbued with joy, Lan Wangji doesn’t like it. Wei Ying shakes his head, “No, I couldn’t trouble you like that.” 

“Baba—”

“Ah, little radish, we don’t want to bother pretty gege too much now, do we? Come on, let’s get ready for bed. You’re already up past your bedtime.” The words have the opposite effect as the boy scoots closer to Lan Wangji, curling under his chin. Wei Ying puffs out an exasperated breath. “We don’t have a piano for you to practice on.”

A new voice cuts in. “There’s one in the back.” Wen Ning reappears, this time, with a third steaming cup, which he sets in front of Wei Ying. Betrayed, Wei Ying squawks, but Wen Ning ignores him and turns to Lan Wangji. “It’s old, probably really out of tune, but it still functions. The previous owners left it here when they moved to a different province. None of us know how old it actually is, or if all of the keys work, but you’re welcome to take a look at it.” 

In his periphery, Lan Wangji notices Wei Ying parting his lips to protest and smoothly answers, “Thank you. I’d be happy to.”

Wen Ning visibly perks up while A-Yuan cheers. “Then I’ll have it out by next week. It won’t take much effort to push out. It’s a little dusty, so I’ll try to get it cleaned as best as I can too.”

“Wen Ning—” Wei Ying almost sounds aggrieved.

Wen Ning ignores him, bowing his head. “Then this one leaves A-Yuan in your hands! He’s been eager to learn music since meeting you—not that he wasn’t before, but he’s been asking me questions about music as well. I don’t have as much experience as either of you, so I’m glad he’s able to have this opportunity.” 

With that, he moves to return to the counter but not before shooting Wei Ying a look. Battle won, A-Yuan happily turns Xiao Tuzi toward himself and exclaims, “Xiao Tuzi! We’re going to learn piano, and even better! Pretty gege is going to teach us.” Then, he promptly yanks it into a celebratory hug, squeezing the life out of the stuffed animal. 

Then, he jolts as if coming to a realization, and Lan Wangji can feel him pause in contemplation. A-Yuan shuffles around on Lan Wangji’s lap until both he and Xiao Tuzi are facing him. “Does this mean we’ll get to hear you play a song?” 

“Mn.”

“What will you play? Will it be that?” He points toward the leather notebook, and Lan Wangji’s ears warm. 

It’s not ready. Not even remotely. Plus, he can’t fathom having Wei Ying overhear the song, which he most likely will if he chooses to sit in on their lessons. Lan Wangji shakes his head. “Another time,” he says quietly. “I can play you Chopin, if you’d like. That’s what we looked at earlier.” 

A little disappointed, A-Yuan rejoices at the prospect of listening to the song he had ‘played’ with Lan Wangji, practically vibrating in his lap. When he looks up, he finds Wei Ying watching them with that same complicated expression he’d worn before. This time, it’s tinged with a bit of discomfort.

“Lan Zhan, are you sure? I’ll be totally honest, I won’t be able to pay you much, and you seem like a busy person. We wouldn’t want to be an imposition—” Ah, so Wei Ying rambles when he’s nervous. Noted. “—and he’s young! I’m sure you teach older students. I mean, you’re great with A-Yuan, so I don’t think it’d be a problem, but I also don’t want to assume—” 

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says gently, shaping his name with the utmost care. The effect is instantaneous. Wei Ying’s jaw clamps shut, and he stares, wide-eyed, at Lan Wangji. “It’s fine. I really don’t mind. I’d be more than happy to teach A-Yuan. And please, don’t worry about paying me.” 

Wei Ying sounds gutted when he says, “That’s what a rich person would say. Unless, you’re just being altruistic—and, really, I can see that.” The sigh that escapes him is wistful. “You’re too good, Lan Zhan.”   

Lan Wangji ducks his head. His intentions can’t be truly without ulterior motives. Yes, he means it wholeheartedly that he’d be more than happy to introduce A-Yuan to the world of classical music, but there’s some benefit for him as well. Being in this little hole in the wall, being close to Wei Ying and A-Yuan, has been a boon to the hole in his chest, a balm to the strange feeling that has afflicted his playing. 

He clears his throat. “Do you live near here? If so, I can come earlier next Thursday and take a look at the piano if you’re willing to meet.” 

Wei Ying waves off the question. “Don’t worry about it. A-Yuan and I, as well as Wen Ning and Wen Qing live in the apartment above the store. Location isn’t an issue for us.” 

This surprises him, but the pieces start to drag together. He chooses his next words carefully. “I see. Please also make sure Wen Qing is fine with the arrangement.” 

Confusion knits together Wei Ying’s brows, and he purses his lips, sitting back. “I mean, I can ask her. I don’t see why she wouldn’t be against it.”

“Shouldn’t his mother have a say?”

Wei Ying pauses, mouth falling open, and Lan Wangji is afraid that he’s stepped out of line, when Wei Ying splutters, “Oh god, no. Absolutely not. Wen Qing isn’t his mother—she’s his aunt, yes, but you thought…I was with Wen Qing.” He shudders. “What on earth gave you that idea?” 

The turn in conversation has Lan Wangji withering on the inside. “Wen Ning said A-Yuan was his family, and you’re his father. So, I assumed…I apologize. One shouldn’t make assumptions, and that’s exactly what I did.” 

Half-amused, half-befuddled, Wei Ying shakes his head, a slow grin growing on his face. “What, you assumed I had a happy little family with Wen Qing and A-Yuan, and that, what Wen Ning was my brother-in-law?” That’s exactly what Lan Wangji had assumed, but he’s not going to deepen the hole he’s dug himself into. “I love Wen Qing the same way I’d love a sister, and Wen Ning—like a brother. A-Yuan is their cousin, well, second cousin, but I adopted him. In fact, I birthed him myself! Kidding, kidding! Don't look at me like that.”

As if to make his point, he raises his left hand, flipping it back and forth for Lan Wangji to see. He leans forward, and while his tone is casual, the intent in his eyes is not. “I am very much single, thank you very much.” 

Lan Wangji feels his mouth go dry. Wei Ying doesn’t have a ring—not because he’s a musician like Lan Wangji—but because he’s single. He has no partner. The hope that swells in his chest is recklessly buoyant as it bobs in his throat, rendering him silent. He does the only thing he can do: hum in acknowledgement and sip his tea.

“And you? Don’t you have a family to get back to?” Wei Ying asks. Again, it’s casual, as if asking about the weather, but Lan Wangji knows when someone’s trying to glean information using a roundabout way. That’s the same play he had made earlier. 

Setting down the cup, he shakes his head. “I only have an older brother and an uncle. My brother will be leaving soon, and my uncle is out of town. If you’re asking about a child, I don’t have one, nor do I have a partner.” 

“An older brother? Does that make you Lan er-gege?” Wei Ying teases, the tension sliding off his face. He relaxes, and Lan Wangji isn’t sure whether keeping his left hand on the table is a deliberate move. The nickname causes his stomach to clench with a slow roll of heat. He’d rather swallow a stone than admit that he likes the way it sounds in Wei Ying’s voice. 

A-Yuan’s head suddenly lolls against Lan Wangji’s shoulder, and surprised, he glances down to find himself holding a drowsy boy. Xiao Tuzi is held loosely in A-Yuan’s hands, slipping with each flutter of his eyes. Lan Wangji barely manages to catch it, and he sets it on the table. Wei Ying sighs and pushes himself up, collecting the stuffed bunny in one arm and slinging the guitar over his back. 

“All right. Give him here. I’m going to take him home.” Without ceremony, he crouches before Lan Wangji and leans in close, slipping both arms under A-Yuan. He’s close enough to where Lan Wangji can feel his breath fan across his cheek, feel the heat of his body roll through the hollow between them. 

When Wei Ying pulls back, he stops, face barely a feet away from Lan Wangji’s, and up close, Wei Ying is strikingly handsome. Lan Wangji has to physically stop himself from leaning in and tasting that mischievous smile, from tugging that bottom lip between his teeth and suckling it to taste the remnants of his laughter. 

“I’ll see you next week then,” Wei Ying whispers, cradling A-Yuan’s head against his shoulder. His irises glimmer under the warm glow of the decorative bulbs. “Goodnight, Lan er-gege.” 

--

“Do you have any instruction recommendations for children?” Lan Wangji throws out the question in the middle of a lull in the conversation. It’s enough to still the other four sitting at the table, and Lan Wangji feels himself flush, thankful that his ears are hidden behind his hair. The reactions, he thinks, are a little exaggerated.

Nie Mingjue actually drops one of his chopsticks, where it clatters onto his plate. Jin Guangyao and Qin Su gape at him, their argument on something Vivaldi-related forgotten. Even his brother seems to have lost that little bit of elegance that he normally wears, eyes going wide as he blinks at Lan Wangji, dropping the dumpling that’d been clamped between his chopsticks. 

He’s the first to recover from his shock, clearing his throat. Nie Mingjue seems to have forgotten about his food, intrigued by the question. Jin Guangyao and Qin Su share a look before the latter leans forward with a kind smile, strained lines that’d been lingering from the bickering dissipating within seconds.

“You can always start with Hanon’s exercises,” she suggests without prying. “Or you can run through the scales while teaching music theory, like key signatures and natural, harmonic, and melodic minors.” 

“You can also just browse through the bookstore,” Jin Guangyao adds. “I’m sure any beginner book will be friendly enough for children.”

Neither of them pry, and Lan Wangji is grateful.

His brother, on the other hand, isn’t as graceful, and for that, Lan Wangji shoots him a warning look that his brother ignores. “Do you plan on taking young children as students?” he asks. There’s a curious glint in his eye, like he’s trying to connect whatever dots he’s created in mind. Namely, Lan Wangji’s strange behavior since his last concert, or the evening he had first heard Wei Ying play. Lan Wangji wants nothing more than to excuse himself and slip out the door. Of course, he’ll send his brother the cost of his meal, but with everyone’s attention pointed toward him, it doesn’t seem like escape will be possible. 

He bows his head forward a fraction, but it’s enough of an affirmation. “I’m…considering it but only with one child.”

“Oh?” Lan Xichen’s brow quirks in interest, adding to Lan Wangji’s agitation. 

Qin Su, who has known the brothers as long as the other quartet members and can read him better than he’d like, steps in to defuse the situation. “Of course! That makes sense.” Her voice raises,nodding fervently, as if doing so will tamp Lan Xichen’s curiosity. “Working with children is very different from working with adults. It makes sense that Wangji would rather start with one student rather than a classful, right?” 

He’s never been more thankful for her presence than now. Still, her effort is wasted on his curious, perceptive brother. Before he can ask more questions, Nie Mingjue clears his throat and cuts in gruffly, “It’s good to try new things. Huaisang has moved to arranging classical covers for pop songs.” 

Qin Su jumps at the opportunity and switches the topic, which brings her and Jin Guangyao to another debate on the merits of doing such a thing. Even with the diversion, it’s too soon to breathe a sigh of relief, not when his brother’s probing gaze pins Lan Wangji to his seat. 

--

“Just in time!” Wei Ying crows as Lan Wangji ducks his head into the cafe. There’s a light sheen of sweat coating his forehead, and past his shoulder, Wen Ning rests his chin against the top of an old upright piano. He’s a little out of breath as he greets Lan Wangji with a nod of his head. 

Wen Ning taps one of the left keys, and the note lows deep and resonating. “It may be slightly out of tune, but I think it should be fine. If anything, I don’t think it should take too much effort to fix.”

“No need. I can have someone come check the tuning after today.” Lan Wangji moves toward the piano but nearly trips when something latches to his leg, and he finds A-Yuan wrapped around it. Wei Ying makes a small noise between a chuckle and an exasperated sigh, then crouches down to pull at the boy.

“Come on, little radish. How do you expect to learn if pretty gege can’t get to the piano, hm?” He pats his head, smoothing back his hair in a soothing act, and A-Yuan, who decides that this is sound logic, decides to let go, albeit with some reluctance. With that, Wei Ying huffs a quick, “Up you go!” before swinging the boy up. Giggles burst through the air in staccato beats, and the sound constricts Lan Wangji’s chest. 

Hefted over his hip, A-Yuan is pliant but vibrating as Wei Ying sets him on the piano bench, its leather cracked with age and disuse. Lan Wangji feels the corner of his mouth quirk in amusement and moves forward, sifting through his bag to pull out a small stack of children’s piano books.

“Those look new,” Wei Ying observes over his shoulder. There’s an accusatory note hidden in his tone as he steps around and flips through one of them. The spine cracks, having never been open, and Wei Ying catches onto that immediately. “And expensive.” 

Lan Wangji doesn’t dignify that with an answer. He’d simply bought all of the books the shopkeeper had recommended, to the man’s surprise and delight. It’s a small detail, not one worth mentioning—besides, it doesn’t put a dent on his account, so it shouldn’t matter. Still, Wei Ying taps the book against his palm and cocks a brow. “Lan Zhan…tell me you didn’t buy all of these just for A-Yuan.” 

“I didn’t buy all of these books for A-Yuan,” Lan Wangji deadpans. Wei Ying gives him a dubious purse of his lips, and Lan Wangji continues, “I bought these books for A-Yuan’s musical education.” 

“That’s still for A-Yuan!” Wei Ying cries, though amusement makes its way into his tone. “Lan Zhan, you’re too good. Let me pay you back.”

“No need,” Lan Wangji says, gaze shifting to A-Yuan, who has one of the books on his lap, flipping through each page with one finger tracing each staff, the other stuck in his mouth as he chews his knuckle. His eyes are bright, keen to study, eager to learn. “I want to teach him.” 

He shuts down any more of Wei Ying’s protests, dragging a chair from its mismatched set to sit next to A-Yuan, who allows Lan Wangji to take the book from his lap. At first, Wei Ying hovers, drifting back and forth while pretending to work, but Lan Wangji feels his probing gaze pin against him and A-Yuan. 

Scrutiny isn’t a stranger to Lan Wangji’s career. His every piece, his every performance is observed under microscopic lenses. Most of the time, it’s to his praise and benefit. Others, more rarely, tear him apart with vicious criticisms and scathing reviews. However, this type of attention differs from the others.

Wei Ying isn’t watching him to pick at his lesson with a critical eye. There’s nervous energy that pulses from him in palpable waves, a concerned parent unable to tamp his worry. He flits from one end of the cafe to the other, never stilling, never stopping in one place, yet his gaze remains firmly on Lan Wangji and A-Yuan. It gets to the point where even Wen Ning notices, and the barista sends him to Wen Qing to help with the front of the store. 

Not ten minutes pass before Lan Wangji feels the the back of his neck prickle, and he turns in time to see the flick of Wei Ying’s short ponytail. He huffs quietly through his nose, then shakes his head when A-Yuan gives him a questioning look.

A-Yuan is every bit as attentive as Lan Wangji had expected. He’s not perfect, far from it as he fidgets in place, fingers constantly reaching up to touch the keys, but he’s dedicated, and that’s so much more than Lan Wangji can ask for. He had feared that learning the piano would’ve been the child’s passing fancy; he’s glad that he had thought wrong. 

If anything, A-Yuan seems a little impatient to begin playing, but he listens to Lan Wangji’s gentle but firm instruction. Straighten his back. Curve his hands. Move his wrists, not his arms. Lift his chin. Posture is just as important as the notes and dynamics, but as a child, it’s not a priority. Even when Lan Wangji is trying to explain theory in its simplest terms, A-Yuan is curling his fingers in his lap, knuckles cavorting as he plays an imaginary piece only he can hear. 

Luckily, Lan Wangji has been known to have the patience of a saint. An unmovable mountain with snowy caps that last all year round, through wind and rain. It doesn’t take long until A-Yuan finally throws a question at Lan Wangji that isn’t about theory or how to remember each pitch. 

“Gege,” he starts as he taps the middle C key Lan Wangji had been introducing. Lan Wangji pauses and waits. “Will you play something? I want to hear gege’s music.” 

Lan Wangji falters, and from his periphery, he notices the way the question captures Wen Ning’s attention. And either sound carries wonderfully in the shop or Wei Ying has been eavesdropping because the man pokes his head into the cafe and pads to the counter, where he leans against the surface, gaze trained on Lan Wangji’s back. 

“Anything?” he finally tries. A-Yuan recognizes it not to be a denial, and excitement blooms across his face. He twists his body, crossing his legs on the bench. 

“Yes! Anything!” Then, as if remembering himself, “Please.” 

He can’t help the fondness that creeps into his heart, and before he knows it, he’s acquiescing to the request. The reminder to sit properly dies on his tongue as A-Yuan cheers loudly and hops off the seat, rushing to grab Xiao Tuzi and hugging it to his chest, practically vibrating as they switch spots. As he slides onto the worn bench, A-Yuan clambers onto the chair, happiness as luminescent as the moon. 

Before he begins to play, Lan Wangji touches the keys. They feel sturdy, smooth and worn under his fingers. Immediately, he runs through the most basic scales, listening for any variations of pitch, searching for keys that will need tuning. For an old, abandoned piano, it’s in surprisingly good shape. Yes, there are a few keys that catch his attention as a concert pianist, but they’re minimal to where only a trained ear can make out the way they deviate from the norm. Mentally, he categorizes them and notes them down. He’ll need to ask Nie Huaisang to come in and fix it up when he has time. 

Fingers on the keys, Lan Wangji feels himself relax, tension loosening from his shoulders. Things feel a little more natural now, and he’s entered his comfort zone. When he finishes running through a few scales, he finds A-Yuan leaning forward, Xiao Tuzi slung over the bench. It had just been a set of scales, but A-Yuan claps at the end of the last one, enthusiastic and utterly delighted. 

“Wahh, gege is so good!” he cries, and Lan Wangji, taken aback, blinks down at him. They're…they're just scales. Nothing more than consecutive notes that rise and fall, no tune attached to them. A-Yuan’s wholehearted enthusiasm is filled with childish wonder, a unique sort of wonder difficult to find in the world of classical music.

It does something strange to him. When Lan Wangji plays in front of an audience of thousands, he runs through the motions, one key at a time, one chord at a time, the music so ingrained that his fingers and muscles remember the movements. There are no thoughts about pleasing the audience because it’s not something he has to worry about. He knows his playing will come out flawless, or close to flawless. 

But with A-Yuan, he feels an age-old emotion stir in the pit of his stomach. One he hasn’t felt since he was five years old, a woman’s voice crooning her approval as he plinked out the first notes to a song he can’t remember. Here, he wants to impress A-Yuan, he wants the boy to enjoy his playing, have fun with happy tunes and memorable pieces. 

So, after he flexes out his wrists, he plays the first tune that comes to mind: Fantasie-Impromptu Op. 66. It’s one he learned in his youth, and since then, he’s played it more times than he can count. As his fingers fly across the keys, he turns to find A-Yuan utterly mesmerized, watching his fingers closely. In his periphery, someone pulls out a chair, and Wei Ying drops into it, scooting to the side to avoid falling into Lan Wangji’s field of vision. 

Even with an audience of less than ten, Lan Wangji feels the first rush of nerves and excitement twine through his veins. He hasn’t felt this exhilarated since the first time he had touched the piano. And it shows—his playing is as dramatic as it is smooth and, at times, playful. Too soon, his fingers drag through the final broken chord, and the final note rings as he pulls his hands from the keys and lifts his foot from the pedal. 

The silence that follows is not one Lan Wangji can read, and while impassive, his heart rabbits against his chest, trepidation running wild across his nerves. A-Yuan is the first to respond with a cheer that rises into a squeal, and his small audience bursts into applause. He turns on the bench to find Wei Ying beaming at him, and he connects their gazes, bowing his head. 

After that, the lesson is soon forgotten as A-Yuan requests for more songs. Lan Wangji, unable to deny him, acquiesces, and he runs through a myriad of songs that aim to lift people’s spirits. He plays well into the evening, and it isn’t until the sun begins to sink into the horizon that Lan Wangji realizes he's amassed a bigger audience. No longer a room of less than ten people, he finds that more than half the room is occupied. Most of them are occupied with their books and work, but a small portion of them watch him and clap when they notice his gaze sweep past them.

“You never told me you were this good,” Wei Ying says, siddling onto the small section of the bench next to Lan Wangji. Pressed against his side, Lan Wangji has no choice but to relent and move closer to A-Yuan, who whines at the lack of space on the bench. Instead, he clambers onto Lan Wangji’s lap, squirming until his head is nestled under his chin. He taps at the keys, fascinated. 

“Did I need to?” Lan Wangji asks, staying still. “I assumed you knew when you let me teach A-Yuan.” 

If anything, Wei Ying leans in close, his body a hot line against Lan Wangji’s arm, and his fingers dig into the leather at the contact. He’s so close that any further and he’d be resting his chin on his shoulder. “Mm,” he hums. “How could I say no to a pretty gege who’s charmed A-Yuan? A pretty gege that writes his own music, too! An artist, pianist, and model—what a combination.”

Lan Wangji gives him a look, brows knotting in confusion. “I don’t model.”

“Ah well—” Wei Ying knocks his shoulder against Lan Wangji’s. “Just trying it out to see if you were hiding any secrets. I wouldn’t have been surprised if I’d seen your face on any billboards or posters with how pretty you are. Such a handsome gege.” His teasing ignites the fire that burns at the tips of Lan Wangji’s ears. 

Abruptly, he pulls back and reaches over to slide his hand under A-Yuan’s, letting his knuckles rest against ivory as he plays with his fingers. He doesn’t look in Lan Wangji’s direction, and the sudden change worries him. A-Yuan giggles, unaware of the shifting mood behind him. 

“Would you like to grab coffee with me tomorrow morning?” Wei Ying suddenly asks. Lan Wangji’s heart nearly stops beating, akin to missing a step as one flies down the stairs. Wei Ying is asking him— him— out for coffee. He waits for him to follow up with a clarification, maybe one where he adds as friends or something more general, like so we can talk about A-Yuan’s piano lessons. 

Except, it doesn’t come. 

As the seconds tick by, Wei Ying begins to deflate, and Lan Wangji parts his lips. “I don’t drink coffee.” 

Wei Ying’s shoulders fall, and the hand bouncing A-Yuan’s stops moving. His voice comes out a little stilted. “Ah, I see! It’s no problem—”

“I drink tea,” Lan Wangji interrupts, propriety and courtesy lost in his haste to repair his blunder. By now, his blush resembles an inferno. Any hotter and they’ll sear off. Wei Ying straightens, eyes going wide as he blinks rapidly at Lan Wangji as if he’s grown two heads. Then, without a warning, he bursts into laughter. In his amusement, he tugs A-Yuan onto his lap and hugs the boy as he squeals, cheek pressing against the top of his head. 

“You scared me!” Wei Ying wheezes. “I was afraid you’d say no. I’d even prepared myself for the worst, but now I’m glad I took the plunge.” 

Then, he holds out a hand, and Lan Wangji cocks his head in question. “Your phone, please!” Wei Ying requests, and Lan Wangji fishes it out to set on his palm. Around A-Yuan, Wei Ying adds his contact information, struggling a little as his son squirms in his lap. When concentrating, his tongue pokes from between his lips. 

“I’ve already texted myself, so I’ll have your contact,” he says, returning Lan Wangji’s phone. With that, he hefts A-Yuan higher onto his lap and slides off the bench, leaving a Wei Ying-shaped hole that lingers next to his shoulder. “I’ll text you the details?” 

Lan Wangji nods, words lodged in his throat as he stands and slings his bag over his shoulder. After a cursory glance at the introductory books to the piano, he decides to leave them with Wei Ying in case he wants to aid in A-Yuan’s musical education. He holds out long enough that when he glances up, Wei Ying’s back flits into the bookshop. From there, he stares after him, still baffled that Wei Ying had asked him out. 

Still, there’s a glimmer of doubt that sits in the back of his mind. Maybe Wei Ying had meant it as friends, or maybe he wants to talk about A-Yuan’s lessons. Maybe Lan Wangji is reading too much into things because he wants it to be more than what it might be. 

If it ends up being any of the above, then the disappointment will be crushing, but Lan Wangji will stay. He’s only met A-Yuan a few times—Wei Ying, even fewer, but somehow, both father and son have wormed their ways into his heart, and he can’t bear to let them go.

--

The text comes abhorrently late. 

Lan Wangji had woken up at his usual time, gone on his run and showered, made breakfast and brewed two servings of tea. He had tried practicing the piano, running his fingers up and down the scales, but that only causes memories of the previous night to resurface—of A-Yuan’s excited face demanding more. That leads to thoughts about Wei Ying and his lack of details he had promised.

Now, Lan Wangji’s pacing has practically worn trenches across his apartment. Perhaps reading a book will help, but the moment he chooses a biography on Sergei Rachmaninoff, his phone buzzes. The speed at which he grabs his phone is ungraceful and embarrassing, but as no one is there to see, it’s of no concern. 

Unfortunately, it’s only a text from his brother, asking whether he’s seen the email that their cousin had sent a few days ago. He has—he remembers her asking whether he can give basic lessons to her son, Jingyi. Prior to meeting A-Yuan, he might’ve said no. Now, he considers it, mulling over an answer before replying that he’ll think on it. 

Wei Ying’s text comes at ten in the morning, when Lan Wangji has begun to believe that coffee and tea had been a part of Wei Ying’s teasing. He texts like he speaks, bouncy and light with kaomojis and exclamation points, even dragging out Lan Wangji’s name, and he sends multiple messages at once. 

It comes as no shock to Lan Wangji when he discovers that he enjoys reading Wei Ying’s ramblings as much as he enjoys listening to him, and he’s able to parse out a time and location. It’s a cafe that he recognizes, two blocks down from where he lives, in the opposite direction of the bookshop. 

And so, he grabs his bag and heads out. It doesn’t take him long to reach the glass doors, display window decorated with trendy crepes and iced coffees. The interior decor is modern, walls decorated with fake plants and a black and white motif. With it being the weekend, it’s a little difficult to find a seat, but Lan Wangji manages to snag a corner table after ordering himself a cup of jasmine tea. 

Wei Ying waltzes in not long after, and it’s slightly strange to see him bereft of his guitar or A-Yuan clinging to his side. He slides into the seat opposite Lan Wangji, an iced coffee in hand and the top of his straw littered with bite marks. 

“So,” he begins, after throwing out an airy greeting, and leans forward, fingers steepling and pressing against his lips. Now, Lan Wangji is less sure about what he’s walked into. “What I know about you is that you’re a musician. A good one—and that you write music.” 

Lan Wangji nods. 

Wei Ying continues with his scholarly observations, “You’re also great with kids; A-Yuan adores you. And you’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”

“Wei Ying,” he protests, resisting the urge to duck his head. 

Amusement dawns on Wei Ying’s expression, eyes crinkling at the corners. “What? It’s the truth! So, Lan er-gege, what is it that you like? Let me guess. Tea—well, I don’t have to guess that, do I?” He nods at the steaming cup, then strokes his chin in thought. “Meditation—oh, you know what? You probably practice yoga. I can see that for you. Are you a teacher, by any chance? You were fantastic with A-Yuan.” 

The speed of Wei Ying’s words whirl around Lan Wangji, whose head spins from their centripetal force. “Yes, I do meditate. No, I don’t practice yoga, though I’ve tried Qi Gong. I prefer running in the mornings. No, I’m not a teacher. Wei Yuan would be my first.”

At his last statement, Wei Ying pauses, faltering. It’s brief, a slip of his smile, but it feels glaringly bright. His stare wavers, and Lan Wangji feels the first sirens of panic blare to life in his head. Before he can try to rectify the situation, Wei Ying clarifies, “Oh, he’s still Wen Yuan! He’s still technically under Wen Ning and Wen Qing’s care, but they’re so busy with work that I take care of him. We’ve been working hard on his adoption papers, and they fully support him taking my name. They say that he already sees me as a father figure, so why not make it official?” 

He already calls you ‘baba’, Lan Wangji thinks. The only thing that’s left is to make it legal. 

“That must be a long process.”

“Long and arduous. Two years!” Wei Ying exclaims, throwing up his hands. “We’ve been working on it for two years. Each time we submit paperwork, it’s like we have to submit ten more documents. I think I’ve undergone almost seven background checks already. Government bureaucracies can be such a pain.” He sits back heavily, bouncing once with the force. “Anyway, on paper, he’s still Wen Yuan, but we all just call him A-Yuan. He likes that a lot more, though he sometimes introduces himself as Wei Yuan.” 

Lan Wangji hums, then takes a sip of his tea. His senses fill with the scent of jasmine, a floral glide that reminds him a little of home. Staring at Wei Ying, who flicks at his straw with underlying frustration and misery, he can’t begin to feel what Wei Ying has experienced. To have Wen Yuan in all ways—the boy calling Wei Ying ‘baba’ and emotionally attaching himself to the man—save for one barrier that prevents him from taking Wei Ying’s name. 

It must feel like an endless process to manage, most likely filled with long nights and endless applications. He thinks of the smile Wei Ying wears on default. How it must fall in the security of his home, behind closed doors as he fights tooth and nail to take A-Yuan as his son.

Before the conversation turns bleak, Wei Ying jolts up and jabs a finger in Lan Wangji’s direction. There’s an accusatory set to his brow. “Ah! I knew it! You’re the type of person who leaves knowing more about someone than they know about you! That’s sneaky, Lan Zhan. Play fair! I’ve already revealed my biggest struggle. Now, the least you can do is tell me about yourself. What do you do?” 

Lan Wangji stares. It’s fascinating how Wei Ying is able to bounce back and forth between topics like a switch turned on and off. He doesn’t think much about it when he answers, “I’m a concert pianist.” 

Cocking his head, Wei Ying sits back again. This time, satisfied. He hums thoughtfully, a low, contemplative note. “Honestly, with the way you played last night, I shouldn’t be surprised! You practically gave us a concert. Yet somehow, I’m still shocked. Wait! Let me see if I can find you online—” He whips out his phone, thumb flying across the screen, a new determination growing across his face as he continues to ramble. “—you’re good enough that you have to have been filmed. I just know it! Gut feeling.” 

He must find something— and of course, he does. “Lan Wangji,” Wei Ying murmurs. “Interesting, you’ve got a courtesy name. Fun fact: I do too, but I never use it. It’s Wei Wuxian, but I prefer Wei Ying.”

In the classical world, Lan Wangji is everywhere, renowned and respected as one of the most dedicated pianists in the world; it’s not a title he sports lightly. The cafe, already bursting at the seams with the sounds of chatter, the hiss of its massive espresso machine, and the low pop music that thrums from its speakers, barely contains the sounds of Hungarian Rhapsody No. 6 from Lan Wangji’s latest performance. 

The piano is tinny, but the force is there. Even now, it’s strange for him to hear his own playing, akin to someone despairing over the sound of their voice in a video. Wei Ying watches with a single-focused intensity. “‘Lan Wangji’,” he reads, “‘also known as Lan Zhan, ends the night with an invigorating performance of one of Liszt’s most jubilant pieces.’” 

His voice trails off, and Lan Wangji keeps his fists clenched in his lap. Wei Ying pauses the video and looks up with a new light breaking through his expression. “You!” he splutters. “You never mentioned that you were that famous! The comments are talking about how this is better than your performance in Prague, Russia, the U.S, or even Austria! Vienna,the city of music.” 

“I didn’t think it was relevant,” Lan Wangji admits. And it’s true—while it’s inevitable, he doesn’t want his fame to overshadow the depths of his music and studies.

“Lan Zhan!” There’s clear admonishment in Wei Ying’s tone, almost scandalized. “Of course it is! Are you sure you’re fine with teaching A-Yuan? We wouldn’t want to waste your time, especially if you’re always on international tours.” Then, he sits back as the full force of his words hit him like bricks, and cards a hand through his hair, skewing his ponytail to the side. “God, international tours. You go to other countries. How is that not a big deal?” 

Lan Wangji shifts, then runs a finger across the rim of his cup. “Wei Ying, I don’t mind. I already agreed to it, and it’s my pleasure to teach A-Yuan. I enjoy his drive and passion to learn.”

“Well, he is a great child, but we wouldn’t want to—”

He already knows what’s going to come, so he shakes his head. “It’s no imposition. I like A-Yuan.” I like you, on the other hand, goes unsaid, though it sits on the tip of Lan Wangji’s tongue, heavy with admission. 

Still dubious, Wei Ying gives him a scrutinizing look between narrowed eyes before returning to his phone, thumb flicking across the screen. “I guess—hang on, it doesn’t say you’re a composer. Are you starting now? Is that why you’re taking a hiatus?” 

No, but life is strange like that. Funny in its coincidences. 

He doesn’t squirm at the truth, but it’s a close thing. Instead, Lan Wangji glances out the window, trailing an old man who escorts his grandchildren toward the market. “No, I…I found myself questioning why I played music. The reason that drove me to play in the first place. Somewhere along the way, playing concerts began to feel methodological. Almost mechanical, in nature.”

It’s the first time he’s ever admitted it aloud, putting words to the hole that gapes in his chest. He hasn’t told anyone, not even his brother. With Wei Ying, it feels cathartic. The latter nods, then bites at his straw, gnawing it for a second, searching for words.

“You’ve hit a roadblock,” he finally says. Lan Wangji’s gaze drifts back to him, to the way Wei Ying lets the straw poke at his bottom lip. He doesn’t have to ask for clarification as Wei Ying continues, “Well, think of it this way: you’re traveling down one road, and you come across a fallen tree. What do you do? You can go around it, you climb over it—whichever you choose, you’ll come out with a few bumps and bruises. Ultimately, the experience has changed you, even if just fractionally. So, now, you’ve gotta find your way back onto that path. And who knows? You might make it, you might not, but regardless, you’ve changed.” 

It’s the most he’s heard Wei Ying ramble at once, spoken in two breaths. By the end, he’s gazing pointedly, expectantly at Lan Wangji. 

“That,” Lan Wangji starts, “sounds suspiciously like The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost.” 

Wei Ying colors, a fetching shade of red that pools at the base of his neck, then splutters, “It’s not directly from that! But I am guilty of reading a few of his works to A-Yuan last night. Still, the premise holds!” 

Tilting his head, Lan Wangji considers the analogy. If losing his way in music is losing his way in the forest, then he’s already done quite a lot to climb over the tree. Meeting Wei Ying and A-Yuan have been the highlight of the past few weeks, and already, he feels less stifled than before, less congested and less strange at the piano.

“I suppose,” he says, feeling his ears heat with embarrassment, “but thank you. I appreciate the insight.”

Wei Ying brightens. “You better! It’s what friends do.” 

Friends. Ah. In one fell swoop, Lan Wangji feels his heart begin its descent into his stomach, chambers burned alive by acid. It tastes strange. Friends. Bitter and sour—wrong. He slides that impenetrable stoic mask into place, and it must be obvious enough that Wei Ying starles at the difference. Lan Wangji glances away. “Is this what it is?” He tries not to drown in disappointment. “Are we on a friendly outing?” 

Wei Ying flounders, flailing as he flies forward. “Yes! No! I mean, yes!” Words are gushing between his lips, rapids tearing to life. Realizing what’s happening, Wei Ying snaps his mouth shut, then breathes out a sigh, head lowered as he rubs the nape of his neck. “Ah, Lan Zhan. I want to call this a date, but if that’s not what you’re looking for, we can call it a friendly outing?” The question ends tentatively.

Oh.

Oh.

His heart rises once more, whole and intact, and he tries not to bask too much in the heat of Wei Ying’s embarrassment. The corners of his mouth tick into a small smile, and when Wei Ying glances toward him, his gaze remains fixated, as if fascinated by the sight. 

“I was hoping this was a date,” Lan Wangji says, and Wei Ying breathes out an audible sigh, relieved at his answer. Still, the flush continues to climb the column of his neck, and as he scoots closer, Lan Wangji feels his knees knock into his own, ankle hooking behind his. 

“Good,” Wei Ying says, firm despite the fiery shade of red that percolates under his sun-kissed skin. “I was too! Haha, two guys getting to know each other, five inches apart because they’re queer.” He huffs at his own joke, and though it’s ridiculous, Lan Wangji can’t help but melt. “But what do you say? Wanna get out of here and take a walk? I shouldn’t have had all that coffee, but I mean, I don’t regret it.” 

This time, when Lan Wangji slides out of his seat, he holds out a hand. Wei Ying stares at it for a heartbeat before a smile blooms into place, petals unfurling in the light of the sun. He slides his hand into Lan Wangji’s, calluses studding the tips of his fingers and the hills of his palms, and Lan Wangji takes the opportunity to interlock their fingers. 

“So, where to?” Wei Ying asks as he trails behind Lan Wangji. Outside, the air smells light, and leaves litter the sidewalk, crunching under their feet in a symphony of autumn.

With Wei Ying, Lan Wangji is willing to go anywhere, but that may be coming on too strong. Instead, he tightens his grip and answers something close to the truth. “Anywhere.”

--

Wei Ying remains a menace, but now, he’s Lan Wangji’s menace. During A-Yuan’s lessons, Lan Wangji instructs the child softly albeit firmly. A-Yuan is a good student, patient despite his childish eagerness. Playing wrong notes doesn’t bother him, not when Lan Wangji demonstrates where to place his fingers. When he thinks Lan Wangji isn’t looking, he stretches his thumb and pinky, staring at them hard as if doing so will help them grow as big as Lan Wangji’s hands. 

He begins to open up as well. Lan Wangji had thought him to be shy, but it’s evident that as he begins to trust Lan Wangji, he blossoms, thoughts and opinions and questions slipping between practice. It’s easy to see whom he emulates his curiosity. Though they aren’t related by blood, A-Yuan shares that same inquisitive twinkle that glimmers in Wei Ying’s eyes. 

It’s during lessons that Wei Ying flits in and out of the picture. At times, he’ll flutter in Lan Wangji’s periphery, and how can Lan Wangji resist the urge to find him—a moth drawn to flame. Other times, he’ll plaster himself to Lan Wangji, chest pressed against his back, chin hooked over his shoulder as he watches A-Yuan tap at the keys. 

The first time A-Yuan plinks out his first tune, Wei Ying cheers. He claps enthusiastically before scooping A-Yuan into a hug, patting his cheeks, then head. The next time A-Yuan accomplishes another milestone, Wei Ying does the same, and Lan Wangji notices after, that A-Yuan does the same to Xiao Tuzi. He pats at both cheeks before patting its ears. It’s endearing. 

On Thursdays, when Wei Ying gears up to perform, he’ll roam back and forth between Lan Wangji’s lessons with A-Yuan and setting up the stage. In the end, Wen Ning does most of the work, and Wen Qing yells at Wei Ying for it without any venom. Once, she even scowls toward Lan Wangji and scolds him for distracting Wei Ying.

After, Wei Ying nudges his Lan Wangji and winks. “That’s how you know she’s accepted you as part of the family. You know you’ve passed initiation when she yells at you.” That earns them a second glare, this time, fraught with exasperation. 

Something shifts in Wei Ying’s playing as well. It’s indecipherable to anyone else, but to Lan Wangji, a professional musician, there’s something different. When he performs, Lan Wangji sits on the piano bench with A-Yuan; sometimes, the boy sits on his lap, watching his father play. Other times, he sits next to Lan Wangji and flips through his music books, eyes bright when Lan Wangji points to notes that correspond to the chords Wei Ying strums. 

There are times when A-Yuan will pull him from the seat and pull them toward the back, to the table hidden by the counter. To where they first met. Together, they listen to Wei Ying play and pore over other books. Once, A-Yuan has Lan Wangji read from one of his picture books, and he holds the boy close, murmuring the story in his ear as he points to each character and their friends and family. 

And when he glances up, it’s to find Wei Ying watching them, fingers plucking at the strings, guitar crooning a song. Fondness feathers from his disposition, softened even under the harsh glare of the stage lights. When their gazes meet in the center, it feels as if Lan Wangji has been tugged into his gravity. Pulled in and tied with centripetal force. 

That’s not the only change he notices. 

Lan Wangji’s own playing has changed as well. Prior to Wei Ying, it’d felt mechanical, notes played in the right order, the right chords, the right rhythm. A rote system that spins over and over again. Now, there’s something nuancing his playing, something lighter that bounces in the melody, accompanied by something warmer that harmonizes with it.

One evening, when he practices Chopin’s Nocturne Opus 27, No. 2, he understands. It’s not just made of lyrical melodies, broken chords, and a lively fioritura. For the first time, in a long time, he hears the oneiric quality that weaves through the song. The unique dreaminess that floats along the melody and the yearning that plods the accompanying broken chords. 

Slowly, everything feels as if it’s falling into place. Jigsaw puzzles that fit in seamlessly with each other. Sunflowers that have finally found the sun, turning to face its columns of light. Tea brewed perfectly at the right temperature, steam rising and coiling in imperfect spirals. 

Everything feels…right.

--

Lan Wangji’s heart rabbits against his chest, and he only half-listens to his brother as he details the list of suggestions he has in mind for his next tour with the quartet. To his knowledge, each person is meant to choose a theme or a composer they’d like to honor, and it seems like Lan Xichen has narrowed down his decision between Maurice Ravel and Edward Elgar. 

“—I think it’d be best to go with Ravel, though with Elgar, we can do a string quartet rendition of Salut d’Amour as an opening for those who may not have much experience with Elgar’s pieces. What do you think, Wangji?”

With a pinming cup half-full with jasmine tea, Lan Wangji doesn’t say anything, merely staring at the teapot that sits at the center of the table. Lan Xichen, perceptive as ever, pours him tea until steam coils from the surface once more. He looks at Lan Wangji with an expectant smile and curious eyes. 

“Ravel,” he answers with a tilt of his chin. “I believe the general public will enjoy the second movement.”

Lan Xichen pours himself a third cup of tea and nods, folding his hands in his lap. “Agreed. It’s strange to think that Gabriel Fauré did not appreciate its beauty when it was dedicated to him but that Claude Debussy did when their styles were fundamental opposites.” 

Lan Wangji hums as Lan Xichen continues, “You’re right. I do believe the general public will enjoy the scherzo for its pizzicato passage.” His smile grows amused. “Though I’m not entirely sure what Mingjue will think about having such a central part.”

“He will enjoy it,” Lan Wangji says, bowing his head. He feels slightly detached from the conversation, words that leave his mouth contrasting with the thoughts that float overhead. “The cello doesn’t usually gain an opportunity to shine as much as its counterparts.”

He takes a sip of his tea, barely tasting the jasmine through the anxiety that rolls through his gut. Lan Xichen seems to sense something is wrong, but he doesn’t pry. Instead, he separates the scores sitting to the side, one side Ravel, the other Elgar. Ravel’s goes on top, String Quartet in F major printed along the top in bold script. 

“We’re having rehearsal tonight. Would you like to join us for dinner afterward?” Lan Xichen extends the offer as he does every week, even after Lan Wangji has declined week after week. This time, when no immediate rejection comes, Lan Xichen’s brows raise minutely. 

“Brother.” Lan Wangji hesitates. If anything, Lan Xichen’s brows rise further, even when he visibly struggles to contain his incredulity. “Would it be all right to attend rehearsal?”

At first, there’s no answer, Lan Xichen struck with astonishment. Lan Wangji barely avoids squirming under his brother’s gaze, and he wonders whether he’s turned down too many invitations, then concludes that he has. He picks up his cup again and takes a sip—the act accomplishes its intended purpose, snapping his brother out of his stupor. 

“Of course!” It comes out slightly too loud. If their uncle were present, he would shoot Lan Xichen a disapproving glare. His brother clears his throat, then takes a sip of his tea to tamp down his surprise. “You’re always welcome to our rehearsals. They’ll always be open for you, as are our dinners.”

Lan Wangji fidgets with his cup, simply turning it between his fingers, but it’s enough of a tell for his brother, who cocks his head and waits. “Would,” Lan Wangji starts, uncertainty painting his tone, “it be fine for me to invite a friend or two?” 

This time, the astonishment mixes with delight, and his brother’s eyes shine with barely restrained excitement. To anyone else, they would appear to be having a normal conversation, but to Lan Wangji, this is akin to his brother vibrating in place and nodding fervently. 

Instead, Lan Xichen clears his throat again and inclines his head with a warm smile. “Of course, Wangji. We’d be pleased to have you and your friends attend our rehearsal. They’re welcome to dinner as well. We’re an amiable bunch.” 

Lan Wangji bobs his head, then restrains himself from downing the rest of his tea and billowing out a sigh of relief. As if sensing Lan Wangji’s discomfort, Lan Xichen returns to the topic of Ravel, though there’s a newfound enthusiasm that invigorates their conversation. 

The tension bleeds from Lan Wangji’s shoulders, and he answers a little more freely. And when Lan Xichen beams, Lan Wangji can’t deny that he looks forward to seeing Wei Ying and A-Yuan’s reaction to Ravel’s String Quartet in F major.  

--

“Are you sure I look presentable?” Wei Ying asks, smoothing down his hair. It doesn’t matter what he wears—Lan Wangji will always find him handsome—but tonight, he’s wearing a red button down shirt tucked into dark jeans. In the ensemble, he’s striking. Still chaotic, still wearing his passion on his sleeve. He fidgets with the buttons on his shirt, tugging on them. 

Wei Ying has always been a blur of movement, but tonight, he appears even more riled up, as if his nerves are fraying. He bends down and checks A-Yuan’s shirt, navy and tucked into his pants. The boy squirms, uncomfortable with more formality than usual. He clutches Xiao Tuzi closely, hugging him to his chest as if to ward off any discomfort. 

Lan Wangji’s quirks a corner of his mouth. “You look handsome,” he answers sincerely. Wei Ying reaches up to card a hand through his hair before realizing that he’s pulled it into a presentable ponytail and retracts it. He gives Lan Wangji a half-fond, half-withering look. “You didn’t need to dress up.”

“You did!” Wei Ying protests, and Lan Wangji glances down at himself. Navy blue button down tucked into slacks with a cardigan slung over his shoulder. It’s nothing outside his realm of normal attire. In fact, he and A-Yuan are matching, and Wei Ying had snapped a picture before Lan Wangji could protest. Now, Wei Ying checks the way his shirt is tucked into his jeans for the third time. 

Lan Wangji reaches over and curls his fingers around Wei Ying’s wrist, stopping him. If he takes the opportunity to pull him closer, then that’s only for him to know. Bowing his head until his lips brush against the shell of Wei Ying’s ear, he repeats lowly, “You look handsome.” 

It’s the boldest thing he’s done, and his ears flame at the move, causing him to go slightly light-headed. When he pulls back, he’s smug to find that he isn’t the only one affected. Wei Ying squirms, chin tilted away with the nape of his neck glowing red. “Not fair,” he mutters petulantly. 

Then, as if to pull himself from the throes of embarrassment, he crouches down and checks A-Yuan’s clothes for the fifth time, tugging on the collar. 

They’re interrupted by the slow drag of a high A from the auditorium, likely from Qin Su as the quartet prepare to tune their instruments. A-Yuan perks up, discomfort forgotten as he’s drawn in by the note. He grabs onto Wei Ying’s arm, eyes wide and bright with excitement. “Are they starting?” 

“Mn.” 

With that, A-Yuan breaks free of Wei Ying’s hold and shoots forward, Wei Ying hot on his tail to keep him from barging into the auditorium. Xiao Tuzi’s leg flaps as the toddler dashes toward the double doors. When Wei Ying catches up, he slides his hands under A-Yuan’s arms and hefts him up, swinging him into his arms. A-Yuan pats Wei Ying’s cheek, then toward the door. “They’re starting!” 

His father pats the hand on his cheek. “Ah, little radish. They’re starting, but that doesn’t mean you can just barge in whenever you’d like!” 

Lan Wangji makes his way to them, stopping in front of A-Yuan. He stares down as Wei Ying brushes the baby hairs from his face. “No running in the concert hall,” he says kindly. “Don’t make too much noise when they are playing, and you can meet them after rehearsal.” 

“Meet pretty gege’s gege?” A-Yuan questions, and Lan Wangji feels his ears take on the heat of the sun. If his brother were to hear, his teasing would be merciless—the cherry on top after he officially meets Wei Ying. A-Yuan nods, pressing his lips together in a show of silence, and he pinches Xiao Tuzi’s mouth as emphasis. 

Wei Ying holds him for a moment more before setting him back down. A-Yuan moves to Lan Wangji’s side and reaches for his hand. The gesture surprises him, and he glances up at Wei Ying, who nods and motions at them enthusiastically. It’s not as if he hasn’t held A-Yuan’s hand before; he’s done it numerous times to show him how to position his fingers when setting them on the keys.

This feels…personal. 

The way A-Yuan’s small fingers wrap around two of Lan Wangji’s own fills his heart with warm honey. It’s an act of trust to let Lan Wangji lead him somewhere unfamiliar and experience something new. A-Yuan’s palms are clammy, and Lan Wangji can’t tell whether it’s because he’s nervous or excited. Probably both. 

Lan Wangji feels similarly, but for a different reason. Tonight, his brother and his quartet will meet Wei Ying and A-Yuan. And they’re smart people, so they’ll be able to put two and two together and understand the change that has affected his decision to attend rehearsal and in his demeanor.

To Lan Wangji, it feels like an internal change—like spring’s first sprout breaking through soil after a long winter, aiming toward the sky. The shift isn’t monumental: it isn’t an earthquake that cracks the ground beneath his feet, nor a tsunami that looms overhead with the promise of death and destruction. Nor is it a tornado that tears through the city, winds spinning at hundreds of miles an hour. 

This is a gradual change, autumn leaves snapping off branches to collect in a pile at the foot of an ancient maple tree. Lanterns released into the sky at once, hundreds of stars floating higher and higher into a nebulous galaxy. This is street lamps flickering on when the sun and moon sit opposite each other in lavender clouds. 

“Let’s go,” he says, then tugs A-Yuan toward the door. He has to stoop in order for A-Yuan to toddle next to him, the boy’s arm stretched high above his head. Lan Wangji certainly doesn’t mind. Neither does A-Yuan, if his lack of protests are anything to go by. 

Wei Ying rushes forward to pull open the door, and the old, bronze hinges indicate their arrival. Even then, the quartet maintains their professionalism, continuing to tune their strings. Qin Su is first violinist for Ravel’s piece, and Jin Guangyao sits to the right of her as second chair, eyes trained on the fine tuners as he listens to Qin Su’s A. To his right is Lan Xichen, whose gaze brightens at their arrival, bow faltering as a beam crosses his face. Nie Mingjue is last, his cello swallowed by his hulking form, eyes closed as he adjusts the pegs. 

A-Yuan vibrates with excitement, wonder clear on his expression. Lan Wangji leads him toward the middle row, where they aren’t under the searing stage lights, nor are they too far to hear. To his continued surprise, A-Yuan clambers onto his lap, where he plops himself down and stares at the quartet, utterly transfixed. 

Wei Ying settles to his side, mirth and fondness rolling off of him in waves. He muffles his laughter at Lan Wangji’s lost expression, then motions toward A-Yuan, as if asking, ‘do you want me to take him?’ 

Lan Wangji shakes his head, sitting further back than he normally would to allow A-Yuan more comfort. The boy twists on his lap and motions for Lan Wangji to come closer. When he does, A-Yuan whispers, “Is that pretty gege’s gege?” as he points toward Lan Xichen. Again, that mortification flares into existence. 

Wei Ying must sense it because he leans down and points toward the stage. “That’s Lan-laoshi’s gege. When you meet him, don’t forget to call Lan-laoshi. Ok, radish?” 

A-Yuan nods absentmindedly, still watching the quartet with rapt attention. Tuning doesn’t take much time, and soon, all four have their bows positioned. Wei Ying pulls back as A-Yuan scoots forward, practically balancing on Lan Wangji’s knees. To keep him from falling, he holds him firm, hoping he doesn’t fidget, but the toddler has never had an issue with sitting still, especially when his attention is elsewhere. 

Qin Su switches her gaze between each musician, and with an exaggerated flourish, they begin to play. 

The first note reverberates around the auditorium, strange and discordant yet bordering on dulcet. Qin Su acts as the moving part, her bow gliding across the strings as her fingers press against strings. The other three act as her complements while standing out in their own way. There are moments when Jin Guangyao drags his bow alongside Nie Mingjue, the two of them making eye contact as Qin Su’s violin sings the melody. Other times, Lan Xichen’s notes hum with the cello or cries with the second violin.

It’s a blend of harmonies that extend to all four corners of the auditorium. A-Yuan, as predicted, is enraptured by the display. To Lan Wangji’s side, Wei Ying is as well, sitting forward with his legs crossed, elbows resting on his thighs as he watches the quartet play. The faraway stage lights highlight the silver in his eyes, the ink-like gloss of his hair, and the red tie that binds it all back. 

Lan Wangji finds that he can’t tear his gaze away and that when he tries, it’s drawn back to Wei Ying. He’s magnetic, a force that Lan Wangji is unable to resist. He takes in his reactions, at the way his nose wrinkles at a discordant chord, or the way his brows rise at a complicated set of notes, or the way his cheek lifts at a particularly clever musical passage. 

He barely notices the first movement end until A-Yuan begins clapping with delight. Wei Ying, in a panicked flurry, reaches out to hold onto the toddler’s hands, quieting them, throwing an apologetic look toward Lan Wangji. Lan Wangji merely shakes his head with a faint smile. 

“It’s rehearsal. It’s fine,” he reassures him. When Wei Ying lets go reluctantly, A-Yuan gives Lan Wangji a hesitant glance and waits until he nods before turning back to clap, albeit quieter. Qin Su lowers her bow and stands, bowing toward A-Yuan with a kind smile. Jin Guangyao inclines his head politely, dimples visible even with his chin tilted down, and Nie Mingjue’s stern expression softens. Lan Xichen, to Lan Wangji’s despair, appears as though Christmas has come early.

When Qin Su sits back down, the quartet begins to discuss the piece, trying to fix minor details, such as Nie Mingjue’s forte being too loud or Jin Guangyao’s piano being too quiet. They hash out measures where they need to play more cohesively. Even when murmuring, their voices carry across the auditorium, and their chemistry and professionalism are palpable. 

A-Yuan lists forward to try to hear better, and Wei Ying reaches over, pulling the boy onto his lap, and Xiao Tuzi drops onto Lan Wangji’s lap.

“How is this little radish enjoying his first concert?” he asks, then playfully nips at A-Yuan’s cheek. A-Yuan giggles, and the quartet falters, glancing over with varying levels of amusement. When they prepare to play, A-Yuan calms down, bouncing up and down on Wei Ying’s jiggling leg. 

The next three movements go exactly the way Lan Wangji expects: near-flawless with the exception of the the third movement, when Lan Xichen has more of a presence with his viola, fingers dancing across the neck with one slow drag of his bow. 

There, A-Yuan zeroes in on him, then turns and pokes at Lan Wangji’s cheek. “Gege’s gege is very good!” he declares in a hushed whisper. Except, it carries, and there’s an audible snort from Nie Mingjue. This sets off a chain reaction, with Lan Xichen’s mouth twitching, Jin Guangyao smiling pleasantly, and Qin Su’s shoulders quaking with silent laughter. 

And when the rehearsal ends, all four musicians stand—even Nie Mingjue—and bow toward their audience of three. A-Yuan applauds with bursts of summer sun, and Wei Ying does the same. Lan Wangji watches them fondly and gives his own smattering of light applause. 

When the four begin to pack up their instruments, A-Yuan stares at Lan Wangji, and there’s an eager set to his shoulders. Not for the first time, Lan Wangji can see where he’s inherited his passion for music, and with a quirk of his lip and the slightest tilt of his head, A-Yuan races toward the stage. 

“Are you sure it’s all right for him to go?” Wei Ying asks, alarmed at the way his son clambers onto the stage. “Shouldn’t we meet them in the hall?” His words falter as Qin Su practically drops everything to sit on the waxy stage, letting A-Yuan plop next to her as she shows him her violin. Lan Wangji neglects to admit to Wei Ying that it costs over twenty grand, lest Wei Ying suffers from a heart attack. 

“I think,” Lan Wangji starts, “they’ve been eager to meet you and A-Yuan.” 

Childish giggles fall like gentle rain, and they observe the way Qin Su pulls the toddler onto her lap, positioning the too-big violin under his chin. Wei Ying huffs a laugh. “Better watch out, Lan Zhan, or else you’ll lose your student.” 

Lan Wangji watches A-Yuan pluck the middle string, then look at Qin Su for approval, and feels his chest warm. 

“That’s fine,” he says. “As long as he’s happy.” 

--

Dinner is a curious affair. A-Yuan, within a few personal interactions with the quartet, has managed to charm them all. Even Jin Guangyao’s capricious nature isn’t spared from toothy grins and introductions to a beloved Xiao Tuzi. Nie Mingjue’s brows haven’t furrowed all evening, forehead smooth as he watches A-Yuan show off his newly taught musical skills, curving his fingers like he’s holding a ball and tapping his fingers against the table in a silent tune.

“What is it that you do?” Lan Xichen asks, leaning forward as he watches Wei Ying with interest. Lan Wangji narrowly avoids letting his head fall into his hands at his brother’s blatant delight. “I don’t think Wangji has mentioned it.”

Wei Ying laughs, scratching the back of his head. “Ah, well. During the day, I help out at the bookstore. Sometimes, I’m behind the counter as the barista—whatever Wen Qing and Wen Ning need, I’m there to help them.”

“Wei Ying is a guitarist,” Lan Wangji adds, and Wei Ying shoves his elbow into Lan Wangji’s ribs with an embarrassed laugh.

“Baba plays music!” A-Yuan chimes in, preening with pride for his father. “He’s very good! He wants to be a teacher.”

This is news to Lan Wangji, so he turns to Wei Ying, who palms the back of his reddening neck. “Yeah, I’ve been, well, taking night classes to get a teaching certificate—trying to finish my degree while helping out the Wens. And taking care of my little radish, of course.” He ends this by brushing his knuckles down A-Yuan’s nose. 

“You wish to teach music?” Lan Xichen fills Wei Ying’s cup of tea before refilling his own. 

“Baba is a good teacher! Lan-laoshi is a good teacher too. He taught A-Yuan how to read music and play piano,” A-Yuan declares in the middle of introducing Xiao Tuzi to Nie Mingjue. It makes for a comical sight: the large cellist holding onto a sagging, well-loved stuffed rabbit. His expression, while lost at what to do, has lost the perpetual lines of stress that’d lined his eyes and mouth. 

“Oh! So you play piano too?” Qin Su gasps with faux surprise. It’s not difficult to connect the one evening Lan Wangji had asked for music books for children to A-Yuan’s presence. “Would you like to tell me what you’ve learned?”

A-Yuan nods firmly before diving into everything Lan Wangji has taught him. From rests to eighth notes, to what pianissimo means, he tells them everything. The quartet turns their attention to the toddler, and Wei Ying slumps against his chair, relieved at having the attention pulled off of him. His gaze drifts from A-Yuan to Lan Wangji, and when their eyes meet in the center, Wei Ying gives him a small smile.

One meant only for him.

--

“You never mentioned you wanted to be a music teacher,” Lan Wangji says, arms full of a sleeping boy. A-Yuan is a warm weight against his chest, cheek squished against his shoulder. There’s a growing patch of drool on his jacket, but he doesn’t mind. Wei Ying shrugs, hands shoved in his jacket pocket as he lopes to Lan Wangji’s side.

“I didn’t? I thought it would’ve come up at some point.” Wei Ying’s gait is uneven, some steps short, some long. He keeps up with Lan Wangji without trouble. At one point, he stumbles, knocking his shoulder against Lan Wangji’s arm before righting himself. Still, his hands remain lodged in his jacket. “I talk so much—I’m a little surprised it never came up, if I’m being honest.”

A-Yuan shifts, and Lan Wangji accommodates him, placing a hand on his back, fingers tapping an unnamed tune. “Teaching is an admirable job,” he says. And it is. Without teachers and their guidance, Lan Wangji wouldn’t be where he is today as a concert pianist. Now, he’s done the same, taking A-Yuan and possibly, Lan Jingyi as his students. 

“I know, but I’ve also considered music therapy,” Wei Ying admits. Whatever guard he’d been holding during dinner falls, leaving him vulnerable the same way a flower peeks at night. “A-Yuan used to get nightmares,” he says, reaching over to brush a lock of hair from his son’s face. 

A-Yuan’s nose wrinkles, and he puffs out a breath. More drool pools on Lan Wangji’s shoulder. Wei Ying continues, “Night terrors, as most children are wont.” Hands falling back into his pockets, they continue to shuffle along the sidewalk. 

The moon hangs high overhead, beaming over the streets with a crooked grin, stars peppering the skies like freckles, even under the weight of the city lights. Shops continue to bustle with families and couples. Groups of friends who throw their heads back and laugh, unrestrained. 

Wei Ying turns, watching A-Yuan as he walks backwards. If he weren’t holding the boy, Lan Wangji would reach over and pull at him to walk normally, lest he falls. Whatever chastise sits on the tip of his tongue withers as Wei Ying speaks. “He’d wake up crying in the middle of the night.” He shakes his head, face clouding with memories. “He’s a quiet crier, and he would just curl against me, breathing hard. Shaking.” 

Lan Wangji remains silent, but his hold on A-Yuan tightens, as do the strings around his heart. He’s never seen A-Yuan cry, and the thought of it nearly bowls him over. 

Wei Ying remains pensive, as if he’s been thrown back into one of those nights. He wonders if A-Yuan had climbed into bed with Wei Ying, or if Wei Ying had simply woken up to A-Yuan’s trembling, silence in the room shattered by ragged breaths and muffled cries. A fist curling into his shirt.

“It got better when I played for him before bed. Most of the songs that you’ve heard, I wrote them for him,” Wei Ying admits. Every song, every gentle strum, every chord—all of it for A-Yuan’s comfort. Melodies brimming with meaning, comfort running down the edges. “So, I’ve considered that if music can help him, then it can help others. Thus, music therapy. Or, who knows, composing lullabies might be my calling.”

Something about the way Wei Ying confesses this makes Lan Wangji feel as if he’s the first person Wei Ying has told. A dream woven by an aching, bleeding heart, all of it born from a place of love. 

In that moment, people streaming around them, laughter saturating the air, moonlight and street lamps illuminating them, Lan Wangji allows himself to fall harder than he has ever before.

“Whatever you choose to do,” Lan Wangji starts after a prolonged moment of silence. Wei Ying’s gaze swings to him, silver meeting amber. “You will be incredible.”

--

Lan Wangji’s heart feels as if it’s playing in accelerando, chambers unsteady as he runs his hand down his shirt for the nth time, palms unusually clammy. He’s never been nervous about performances, nor anxious over judges when he used to compete in international competitions. At most, he might have had to wipe a bit of sweat from the back of his neck, where the tags of his suit used to irritate his skin.

Now, he’s nervous enough to where his chest nearly gives out at the two sharp raps against his door. Behind it, Wei Ying shines as it opens, fidgeting. Never still. Always in motion.

“I’m not going to lie, I was looking forward to seeing your place for the first time,” he says as he ducks through the door. The smell of falling leaves and grass follows him, graced with hints of magnolia. 

Lan Wangji hums, shutting the door behind him. “Mn.”

Wei Ying shoots him a brilliant smile, twisting on his heel to survey the apartment, and shrugs the guitar case from his back. His gaze sweeps over the dark wooden bookcases, at the Chopin bust that sits next to a stack of Debussy compositions and the Beethoven bust that rests near the Liszt compositions, at the eras of musical history that line Lan Wangji’s shelves. Wei Ying flounces over, fingers trailing over the spines—inwardly, Lan Wangji breathes a sigh of relief at having dusted them over the past weekend. 

“Oh! You have Brahms—well, that’s to be expected from a concert pianist, I don’t know why I’m surprised—and oh? Is this shelf all for piano accompaniment? Or wait, no. Those are for piano concertos—oh, but some of these are for other concertos. I assume they’re your brother’s, or some of them belong to the quartet? I don’t think Boccherini had a piano concerto, though I could be completely wrong.”

His words take Lan Wangji by storm, a whirlwind of chatter and questions that fill the air like fireflies. He continues to ramble, skimming through titles, sentences nuanced between happy exclamations and mumbled murmurs. 

When he's gone through most of it, Wei Ying pulls himself out of his crouch and stands, stretching his arms up. Then, his gaze continues its exploration, curious and absorbing. "I don't know what I expected," he says, "but it's very…you: minimalistic, elegant…" 

He pauses, eyes flicking to Lan Wangji before tearing away with an uptick of his mouth. "...beautiful."

Lan Wangji’s ears burst into flame, and for the first time that night, he regrets pulling his hair into a low ponytail. Wei Ying notes the change in color with delight. It’s in the way his smile crescents his face, eyes forming half-moons as he turns back to the shelf. “Wei Ying.” 

“At your service!” Wei Ying laughs. He turns back and reaches up, finger skimming the soft curve of Lan Wangji’s ear. Somehow, his skin doesn’t melt off like Lan Wangji half-expects, given how hot it feels under that gentle touch. 

“You know much about music,” Lan Wangji states, but pointedly, doesn’t bat Wei Ying’s hand away. Instead, he ducks and drags his gaze to his books. The middle shelf has begun to bow with the weight of his books, and on the second shelf, there’s an empty gap where his leather notebook used to sit. 

“Ah, well! Guitar is my hobby, but I like to dabble here and there when it comes to music. If I want to be a music teacher or a music therapist, then I should probably dip into history, right?” 

He wonders how much Wei Ying knows—how much he’s dabbled into each composer to learn about their stories and how each one weeps into their music. Of course, there’s Beethoven and his loss of hearing—that’s the most common. But there are so many more: Ravel with his mysterious dementia, Schumann with his tragic love story, Dvořák with his unrequited love and the subsequent deaths of his first three children. 

Emotions bleeding into the ink that’ll later form the greatest compositions in musical history. 

“There’s much to learn,” Lan Wangji agrees. He curves around Wei Ying and plucks a book from the shelf, handing it to him. Never mind that they’re standing barely a breath away from each other. “Start with this,” he says quietly. It’s one of his oldest books, a gift from his uncle on his seventh birthday. “It’ll give you brief, comprehensive summaries of some of the more well-known composers.”

“It looks old,” Wei Ying observes, touching the small tear on the cover. It’s jagged, a bolt of lightning torn down and embedded onto paper. “But thank you. I’ll return it to you as soon as I’m done, which shouldn’t take long. I might read it to A-Yuan as a bedtime story—barring any mature details.” 

Speaking of—

“Where is A-Yuan?” Lan Wangji asks, cocking his head. 

“With Wen Ning,” Wei Ying answers easily, flicking his wrist. He lays the book on his coffee table, on the corner closest to his guitar. “They were making up stories for Xiao Tuzi when I left and didn’t want to be disturbed. Apparently, Xiao Tuzi loves to eat potatoes, and even more than that, he’d like to be planted as one to grow new brothers and sisters.” 

A laugh escapes him as a sharp exhale, and he can’t help the slight uptick to his mouth. “I wonder where he learned that from.” It comes out slightly deadpan, humor blunted at the edges. 

Still, Wei Ying’s offended squawk bursts from him, tinged with mirth. He gesticulates at Lan Wangji with a flourish. “Don’t look at me like that!” At Lan Wangji’s innocent tilt of his head, Wei Ying’s shoulders fall. “Ok, yes. I may have mentioned it once or twice that if we planted him, he’d get some new siblings. But let’s be honest, it sounds a lot more plausible than storks dropping off children, you know? Or finding a child in a boulder by the river.”

To Lan Wangji, all three fall into the same category, but because this is Wei Ying, he’s inclined to agree with a nod. His gaze slides back to the gap on the second shelf, mind shifting to the leather book that sits on his piano, and he steps back, rubbing his fingers. To anyone else, they would assume it to be a pianist’s habit. 

But Wei Ying has spent enough time watching him teach A-Yuan that he knows this isn’t usual. 

“Oh?” Wei Ying notes the nervous gesture with glee. “You seem nervous. Do you plan on ravishing me tonight, Lan er-gege?” His teasing is the wind that fans the flames, and the heat returns to Lan Wangji’s ears, twice as hot, twice as intense. His gaze sharpens on Wei Ying, noting the barely visible flush that sits at the back of his neck. 

One day, he thinks, then nearly burns to ash at the thought. At the moment, it’s too much for him to contemplate, not when he has something important to show him. 

“No—” Wei Ying rocks back, and Lan Wangji mentally apologizes at the slight disappointment in the dimming of his smile. “I asked you to come because I wanted you to listen to something.”

At that, the smile brightens tenfold, megawatts of sunlight that light up the sleek interior of his apartment. “Oh!” His delight is palpable, a heartbeat that pulses joy out of every one of its chambers. “Is it your new composition? Have you finally completed it?”

This time, the blush on Lan Wangji’s ears fades, replaced by slow embers. “Mn. I’ve finished it. I wanted you to be the first to listen to it.”

He reaches over, taking a hold of Wei Ying’s hand, thumb tracing against the delicate ridge of his wrist. A sharp inhale bursts between them, and Wei Ying’s arm goes limp as Lan Wangji pulls him toward the baby grand piano. Outside, the magnolia tree has begun to lose its leaves, raining fire and bronze into the garden. 

Wei Ying is warm in the way one feels when bundled in wool and settled in front of the fire. A column of sunlight that unfurls after a storm, streaking colors across the sky. 

With the piano behind him, he gestures toward the empty seat next to it, one where his brother would take when visiting or listening to Lan Wangji practice, either with a proud smile or a book in his lap. Sometimes both. 

Wei Ying settles at the edge, leaning forward in anticipation, elbows perched on his knees, hands cradling his cheeks. There’s a childish wonder to his smile, one that’s mirrored in A-Yuan. 

Lan Wangji loves him with every fiber of his being.

He inclines his head in a small bow, then turns to slide onto the bench. He glances at the leather notebook, small and innocuous, yet it holds the same bleeding heart that others have experienced before him. Perhaps, he now understands how heavy each note feels, seams bursting with feeling. 

Wei Ying shifts, eager to listen. His presence fills the room, vibrating like raindrops that scatter against asphalt and reflect bright city lights. 

Lan Wangji rests his hands on the keyboard. There’s no need for the notebook, not when the song had been born from the tips of his fingers. They rest against black and white, pale against ivory. One breath in. One breath out. 

And then, he begins to play.

The melody spins through the air, woven from the sun breaking through a charcoal overcast. Notes tangling with each other, latticing and pirouetting, delicate as they dance from his fingertips. He handles the tune with care, cradling it to the center of his chest as he would a sparrow about to take flight. 

He thinks of the night he’d first seen Wei Ying, had first been struck by the beauty of a man who knew music, who loved it as earnestly and wholeheartedly as he loved his son. He thinks of the first shy giggle of a boy who’d charmed him with a bunny and an innocent question. He thinks of the brilliant fireworks that have been set off in his time with Wei Ying and his son, of color seeping back into his vision. 

He thinks of the way the song had fallen from his fingertips, sweet and soft like spun sugar. He thinks of the merciless teasing and crackle of Wei Ying’s laughter. He thinks of the way his love for music had returned in the form of Wei Ying. 

All Wei Ying.

What he plays now is as much of a thank you as it is a love letter. A plethora of emotions he’s unable to articulate. Words have often failed him; music has not. There is no room for what-ifs or hypotheticals, none for questions that roll toward a foggy future. There is only here and now.

The melody is quiet, slightly simple for someone of his caliber as a concert pianist, one who has spent a majority of his life practicing the finest pieces. To his classical musician peers, outside of his brother’s quartet, they would deem it too easy. Unsophisticated. 

But to him, it doesn’t matter because this is Lan Wangji’s piece. A fragment of himself that he’s chosen to lay bare. A vulnerability that, if exposed to the world, will endure its lashing punishments. One that he hopes Wei Ying will love and cherish.

And when it comes to an end, too soon, too quick, time sluggish as it burns the midnight oil, Lan Wangji lets the final note ring through his apartment. His fingers come to a stop. They’re shaking, just the faintest hint of a tremor, and it feels as if he’s been gutted open. 

Deep inside, he’s afraid of Wei Ying’s reaction. He knows there’s no way he’ll revert to teasing, nor will he tear the piece apart bit by bit. Still, the irrational part of him continues to fear, compounding as the silence lingers.

A quiet inhale.

“Oh…oh, Lan Zhan.” Marvel sits at the center of Wei Ying’s tone, thick with wonder and something much deeper than anything Lan Wangji can read. With that, Lan Wangji garners enough courage to lift his head, only to find the smallest quirk to his lips. It’s different from his usual beam, softened at the edges with affection and appreciation. “That’s beautiful. That’s…calling it beautiful would be an understatement.” 

At his words, Lan Wangji feels a current rip through him, rushing with embarrassment and happiness and relief. Wei Ying doesn’t hate it. Wei Ying doesn’t hate it. Wei Ying doesn’t hate it. 

“Does it have a name?” 

This time, embarrassment becomes the juggernaut that threatens to bowl him over. “Yes,” he answers but makes no move to elaborate. When it’s clear that Lan Wangji isn’t going to reveal its name, Wei Ying huffs and crosses his arms.

“Ah, don’t leave me hanging, Lan er-gege! What is it?”

Lan Wangji hums and pats himself on the back when it comes out noncommittal. “I’ll tell you another time.” Though, the answer doesn’t stop his ears from lighting up. 

Wei Ying, sensing his reluctance, purses his lips in protest but doesn’t push the subject like he wont. He harrumphs playfully. “Ah, well, I’ll accept that for now. Don’t think you’re going to get away with that in the near future though!” 

Lan Wangji believes him, but he knows that by then, he’ll be comfortable with telling Wei Ying everything he wants to know. For now, there’s something he wants to ask. Hesitantly, he lifts his chin, letting his hands drop to his lap, fingers tapping against his thighs. “Wei Ying,” he starts, “Did you like it?” 

His response is swift. “I loved it. More than anything I’ve heard,” he declares, then falters a little, palming the back of his neck. “Actually.” He clears his throat. “I don’t want to trod on your toes, but would you be open to a duet? I think…I think I can add a layer to that, if it doesn’t bother you. We don’t have to, of course! I know it’s your composition, and I know that can be pushing boundaries, but I—”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji interrupts tenderly, holding up a hand, relief sitting like a smoldering ember in his chest. “Wei Ying, it’s fine.” He’s curious about the offer, wondering what Wei Ying aims to add to the song. “We can try it.” 

As Wei Ying retrieves his guitar, Lan Wangji pulls the leather book from its place, flipping through the pages. As expected, he’d played everything correctly, only adding embellishments at whim. If Wei Ying adds to the song, then there’s really no need for it to be written down. It’d be a melody consisting of the both of them.

Wei Ying returns promptly, slinging his guitar over his lap. After tuning it and running through a few chords, he nods at Lan Wangji, one hand poised over the strings, the other forming an opening chord on the frets. “Start from the beginning. I’ll follow along.” 

This time, curiosity drives him to play, and after the first few notes, he’s surprised by the new notes that weave into the tune. They fill in the gaps—a strum here, a pluck there. It doesn’t call forth anything that might be missing in the song. Rather, it completes it, complements it without taking too much away, yet somehow, it shines on its own.

He’s never considered a duet between piano and guitar, accustomed to other stringed instruments or an orchestral accompaniment. Now, he wonders why he’d never thought of it before. At the same time, he feels that regardless of anything Wei Ying plays, any instrument that he puts his mind to, he’d be a wonderful duet partner: considerate yet independent. 

Together, they play and breathe more life into Lan Wangji’s composition. And when they finish, the spell remains cast, unbroken even by the profound silence that lingers afterward. 

Wei Ying lifts his head, grinning. “Once more?” he breathes.

Lan Wangji smiles. “Mn. Once more.” 

--

"Goodnight, pretty gege." A-Yuan wiggles five little fingers as he yawns widely, the other hand fisted in Wen Ning's shirt as the latter prepares to take him to bed. Wen Ning hoists him a little higher, holding the back of his head as he heads toward the stairs. 

Lan Wangji raises a hand in goodbye, waving it twice as he watches the toddler move further and further until the two figures disappear through the door. With them gone, he returns to his notebook. The title of the composition remains blank, and the margins are covered in notes of elegant script, Wei Ying’s duet ringing in his ears. 

Around him, there are a few lingering patrons, Wei Ying's friends and the rest of the Wen family, all of them regulars to his Thursday shows. Even after his performances, they linger, catching up and congratulating him on such a wonderful performance, playful and sincere in their compliments. Lan Wangji heartily agrees: every week has been delightful, each subsequently better than the last. Not that the first had been bad! 

Slowly, as the crowd trickles home, Lan Wangji begins to help clean up. With Wen Ning putting A-Yuan to bed, there's no one to protest his help, save Wei Ying, who yelps and scrambles to grab the chair he's lifting to slide onto the table. They both tussle with the legs, but Lan Wangji is nothing if not obstinate.

"Lan Zhan!" Wei Ying bemoans, tugging at the chair once more. It's held steadfast in Lan Wangji's grip, and Wei Ying glares and pouts across from him. It's endearing. "You don't have it! You're a guest, a paying customer. I can't ask you to clean up. You're free to go home if you'd like, I know you get tired at around nine." 

The thing is, since attending these events weekly, he's begun to adjust to the chink in his schedule. And while he’s begun to feel sleep seep into the marrow of his bones, it’s something he can soldier through. So he shakes his head, and tugs more insistently. “Wei Ying, it’s fine. I want to.” 

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying complains.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji deadpans.

It’s a game they’ve played before, and both know Lan Wangji will win. Sure enough, in the end, Wei Ying releases the chair with a defeated sigh. “Fine, but only because it’s faster with two people.”

Smug, Lan Wangji begins to work near the back of the cafe while Wei Ying focuses on the front, near the stage. Together, they make quick work of cleaning up. From the back, nearest to the bookshop, he can hear the rustle of Wen Qing’s dress as she dusts off the shelves, flicking dust off the tops to keep them in pristine condition. Her voice is low, not quite humming, not quite mumbling—something that sits in between.  

Wei Ying, on the other hand, sings under his breath. It’s a distinct difference from Wen Qing’s lack of melody. The song he sings is interspersed with words, hums that ride on waves of pitch, skewing slightly when he reaches a high note. He doesn’t realize that he’s putting up the chairs to a rhythm.

Lan Wangji remains steadfastly silent, concentrating on the task on hand. Ironic, given that his gaze occasionally snaps to Wei Ying, lips curving into a small smile that holds more weight than it can muster. 

And when he’s finished with his end, he returns to his seat in the back, where Wei Ying joins him a few minutes later. The back table is saved for last, occupied until the late hours of the night when Lan Wangji’s yawns begin to stretch behind a held up hand as Wei Ying guffaws at him. They sit until Wen Qing bids them goodnight—a quiet nod for Lan Wangji and an eye-roll for Wei Ying. 

Tonight, he feels a sense of peace as he and Wei Ying sit side by side, arms and thighs pressed together, elbows and knees knocking together. Wei Ying dips his head, peering at the composition as he scribbles notes on the margin, biting the end of pencil as he stares at the notebook thoughtfully. Lan Wangji pretends he isn’t drawn to the way it presses into the plushness of his bottom lip. 

“Hey, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying starts, and Lan Wangji lifts his head just as he finishes writing dulce under the piano’s introduction. Unlike him, Wei Ying sits loosely, legs stretched out, elbows set on the table as he uses one hand to prop up his head. “Is that a pianist’s habit?” 

At first, he doesn’t know what he’s referring to, and his brows knit as he scans the pages for anything that might seem strange. Wei Ying huffs, and he reaches over the notebook to poke at the back of Lan Wangji’s hand. “You know, that.” 

“What?”

Wei Ying sits up, cocking his head as he places his hand on the table, fingers curved the same way as Lan Wangji’s. They’re not as long, nor as thin, but they’re lovely, nevertheless. “That thing that you do, where you tap your fingers against the table.” He demonstrates, drumming his fingers against the table in random patterns. “You do it everywhere: on your leg, on the bench, and on A-Yuan too. Do all pianists do that?”

Ah. Lan Wangji falters and sets down his pen, moving both hands in front of him. Under the bulbs overhead, the backs of his hands aren’t as pale as they are under the stage lights. Here, there’s a warmer, sunset glow, knuckles casting shadows in the valleys between his fingers. He’s never thought too deeply about the habit, though he knows of its existence. 

“No, it’s not.” He can feel Wei Ying’s probing gaze on him. Doesn’t meet it. “It’s something I learned from my mother.” 

It’s strange to breach the topic. His mother. He’d loved her. Still, he loves her. Yet, he’s placed her memory behind a wall, bricking it up year by year until it stands tall. An intimidating, impenetrable fortress. To speak of the subject is like taking a mallet to the wall and watching it all crumble to ash. 

“Ah!” There’s uncertainty in that one syllable. Almost nervous and uncharacteristic of Wei Ying. “Is your mother a pianist?”

“She was.” He hadn’t meant to place emphasis on the past tense. It turns out, breaking that barrier is like letting loose a flood of memories. Pressure from torrents upon torrents that burst through the dam, enough to wreak havoc, and Lan Wangji is the victim that watches the wave crash from above. “She passed away when I was six.”

He feels more than sees Wei Ying tense, then sag. His expression is somber yet gentle. Sympathetic. Understanding. “Oh, oh Lan Zhan. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” 

“It’s all right.” It is, in a way. It also isn’t, in other ways. Grief is strange in that it’ll lie dormant for years—decades, even—only to rise and strike at the most unexpected moments. What seems like a landmine buried six feet deep is, in reality, one with a hairpin trigger. His fingers twine together, slotting until their tips sit in the shadows of his knuckles. 

“She was a beautiful pianist.” Even now, he feels slightly disoriented. Half of him—in the moment. The other half of him—adrift. “But she was always sick. In and out of hospitals. On days she remained home, we’d listen to her play music.” 

He remembers. Sunlight cascading in columns, catching gauzy blue curtains that twist in summer zephyrs. Chopin, Beethoven, Mozart—his mother weaving music from thin air, conjured from her fingertips like magic. Her eyes, crescents. Her breath, warm puffs against the top of his head. Her voice humming to the melody, soft. Her chest pressed against his back, warm. Her heart against his, strong. 

Memories that paint her so vividly in bold, bright swatches of light that it’s almost easy to forget that she’d been severely sick. Deteriorating even as she’d held him in her lap and played her favorite songs. Withering away like a flower devoid of light. 

His fingers tighten. 

The more beautiful a memory, the deeper the wound. The more fragile the scar. 

“On days she was too weak to lift herself from bed, she’d tap the music onto our arms. On the rare occasion she was given to hold us, she played on our hands, our cheeks, our thighs.” 

And she’d sing against the shell of his ear, drumming her fingers onto him as if he’d been made from ivory and strings. Love him and his brother in the same way she devoted herself to the classics. Even on his last visit to her, she’d pinched his cheek before smoothing it away with one of her favorite songs. 

“You learned it from her,” Wei Ying says quietly. Not for the first time, Lan Wangji hears one of the bulbs above buzz, groups of people fading in and out like leaves that snap from their branches, the faint roar of city traffic from a bridge across the river. But for the first time, he notices it all in the absence of Wei Ying’s usual chatter. 

“I did.” 

He doesn’t mention that he used to get annoyed by it, bothered by the way she’d poked his ribcage and the tickling and teasing that almost always followed. It wasn’t until he’d been whisked away to live with his uncle that he realized how he’d never feel her touch again, those featherlight presses against his body. 

In a bid of quiet desperation to remember her, he’d adopted the habit after starting his lessons. Pantomiming a piece under the table during classes, against his thigh when walking outdoors, on the table when studying. 

“Wei Ying, why do you play music?” Lan Wangji asks, apropos of nothing. Wei Ying startles, then sits back, crossing his arms and tapping his elbows in thought. 

“I don’t know. Do you need a reason to play it?” Wei Ying returns thoughtfully. There’s no scathing judgment in his tone, never has been, and when he meets Lan Wangji’s look, he relaxes into a small smile. “What other reason would I need to play other than loving it?” 

Lan Wangji remains silent, mulling over his words, and Wei Ying shrugs. “Sometimes, that’s all there is to it. Why do you play, Lan Zhan? Do you play because you love music? The piano? Do you play because you want to remember your mother?”

And there it is: the gavel striking wood. 

In the time Lan Wangji has known Wei Ying, he’s always been sharp, an arrow driving to bullseye. Perceptive, observant, keen on the details. For once, he doesn’t know what to say, response dying at the tip of his tongue at the mention of his mother. 

Instead, he eyes the way his hands contrast with the old pages of his notebook. There’s ink smudged on his thumb, cracks of pale skin showing between the painted shadows. In that moment of pensive silence, Lan Wangji reaches down and finally looks at the most fundamental part of himself, the part that harbors gentle truths that he’s buried into winter soil, the roots of which have caved to become that gaping hole in his chest.

His lips part, and in his imagination, he can hear the rusty hinges of his jaw prepare to admit what he’s never spoken aloud. On that Thursday evening, in a quaint bookshop, and a lover pressed to his side in a warm, reassuring line, Lan Wangji speaks. 

“I started playing as something to remember her by. My brother is older and has more memories he can recount, but I was young when she passed away. I chose the piano to feel closer to her, both to experience her joy and to understand her love for music. Soon, it became something of my own, a part of myself and who I am, and now, in doing so, it feels as if I’ve lost the part of her I’d sought to keep.” 

He drags a breath. All of his life, he’s heard that the truth will set people free, yet he remains the same. That gaping hole continues to crack along the edges and leaves rocks tumbling into an abyss. The disorientation worsens. Lan Wangji spirals, spirals, spirals. 

Jolts to a stop as a hand folds over his, tethering him, grounding him. Wei Ying is warm, the line of calluses on his palm familiar against Lan Wangji’s knuckles. He lifts his chin to find Wei Ying staring at their hands, then glancing at him through the web of his lashes. 

“You took a part of her and made it your own. You’ve taken her spirit and immortalized it. I would say that’s the opposite of losing her, or forgetting her. And if you love it, which you clearly do, then you still love her, and I don’t see you ever stopping. You haven’t lost her, nor have you lost yourself, even if it feels that way.” 

Wei Ying’s grip tightens on his hand, and Lan Wangji swallows heavily, throat clicking with emotion. Then, Wei Ying leans in and presses his forehead against his shoulder, nuzzling lightly. He smells like coffee, old books, and spice. “I can’t tell you when that feeling will subside, or if it’ll ever go away, but we’ll do everything we can to help.” 

He shifts so that his cheek is pressed against his shoulder. Lan Wangji turns to press a kiss against the crown of his head. It’s a spur of the moment, driven by affection, and he freezes. But Wei Ying only sighs and relaxes further against him. 

Quietly, words sinking between them like coins thrown in a fountain, Lan Wangji whispers, “Thank you.” 

--

“Are you sure we’re allowed to be here?” Wei Ying asks, peeking past the veil of heavy curtains. His fingers curl around the velvet, digging into the fabric. The stage lights remain dark, but the audience hall is lit up to reveal hundreds of red seats and empty boxes. “It feels strange being here when there’s no official performance.”

Lan Wangji curls his hand around Wei Ying’s wrist and lightly pulls at him. When he meets with some resistance, he sighs and tilts his head down toward Wei Ying, watching the way his mouth purses into a small pout. “You were here last time when my brother’s quartet practiced.”

Wei Ying sighs, then relents, releasing the curtain. It drops back into place, pooling along the dark, wooden stage. There’s still a hint of anxiety that feathers from him, tight around the edges. Still, he allows Lan Wangji to pull him toward the grand piano that reflects the auditorium lights. 

“Yeah, but they were performing something!”

“You asked about what it’s like backstage.”

“I was joking about backstage access! I didn’t think you actually had a key to get in. What if someone else needed it for practicing?” Wei Ying puffs, and the way his heels lightly drag against the waxy stage is comical. 

Lan Wangji throws him a small smile over his shoulder. “I asked the director and manager. She said no one was using it for today and that I was more than welcome to practice whenever I pleased.”

“But you’re not practicing,” Wei Ying points out. “You’re breaking rules by bringing a non-professional back here.”

At that, he pauses so abruptly that Wei Ying nearly collides with his back. Whirling on his feet, he levels a stare at him. “There are people who perform here who are not professionals. Your level of musical education doesn’t dictate how well you play, and you play beautifully.” 

If anything, Lan Wangji’s only despair is that Wei Ying had left his guitar in his apartment. He would have loved to listen to him coax a song on the same stage that Lan Wangji regularly performed on, to hear the way Wei Ying’s notes would’ve reverberated in a hall this big. 

Wei Ying makes a sound like a dying animal, and he smacks Lan Wangji’s shoulder. “Lan Zhan! You can’t say something like that out of the blue.”

Lan Wangji catches his hand and moves it over his chest, where Wei Ying will undoubtedly feel the way his heart sparrows against his ribcage. With utmost seriousness, he flattens Wei Ying’s palm against his shirt, gazing at him with utmost sincerity. “I’d like to hear you play here one day, even if it’s just for me and A-Yuan, or anyone you wish to attend.” 

Wei Ying colors a deeper shade of rouge, and he rocks forward to thump his head against Lan Wangji’s chest, hair dragging against Lan Wangji’s chin. It could be the effect of the lights or Lan Wangji’s words—whichever reason, Wei Ying runs hotter than usual. His whine comes out muffled against the fabric of Lan Wangji’s scarf. 

“You—” He punctuates this with a jab against his chest. “—will be the death of me.” It doesn’t surprise him when Wei Ying moves his face to tilt his head back, chin settling against his shoulder, leaning his weight against Lan Wangji’s body. 

He smells like a cup of freshly grounded coffee beans, proximity so close that Lan Wangji goes lightheaded and nearly forgets the reason they’d come in the first place. He squeezes Wei Ying’s waist before reluctantly pulling back, reaching up to tuck an errant lock of hair behind his ear, thumbing his pout along the way. 

“Come,” he says quietly. Still, the word echoes in the dome. Turning, he leads Wei Ying to the grand piano that sits at the center of the stage and pulls him onto the bench beside him. Wei Ying stumbles, not expecting to be invited onto the seat, but he adjusts quickly, plastering himself against Lan Wangji’s side in a way that frees his arm enough to play. 

He runs through his scales first, warming up his fingers and flexing his wrists down the keys. As he does so, Wei Ying whistles in appreciation, pulling away for a second to glance around the auditorium. “The acoustics in this place are amazing.” 

“They are,” he agrees, then pulls his hands off the keys to settle them on his lap. Turning, he cocks his head. “What would you like to listen to?” 

Wei Ying huffs. “Honestly, anything you play will be amazing. Though, I have a special request.” A teasing glint sits in the whites of his eyes, and Lan Wangji inclines his head in agreement. He’ll play whatever Wei Ying wants to hear, whether it be the easiest or most difficult piece in existence. “Can you play the song you’d composed?” 

Lan Wangji is more than happy to fulfill his request. With a small crook of his lips that momentarily stuns Wei Ying into silence, he turns to the piano and begins to play. 

At his apartment, it’d been personal. A quiet space that contained them and solely them, a place where he could share the song like a whispered secret that wisped between them in murmured currents. 

Here, the song dips into reverie, all-encompassing, twining with dreams and hope alike. It fills the stage, the auditorium, backstage—fills it until it brims at the edge, notes winding around each other like birds taking flight, feathers adrift like snow. And with each cascading melody, it grows: every crescendo, every legato, every dulcet chord—all of it swelling in an attempt to contain the ardor and passion Lan Wangji has imbued in each note, each musical phrase.

Like before, the pocket of silence that follows doesn’t fracture the moment. Instead, Lan Wangji allows the final note to ring until it falls silent before taking his foot off the pedal. Wei Ying reaches up and touches a finger to the keys, ghosting over them with tentative wonder. 

“How long would it take for me to learn that on piano?” he asks cheekily. 

Lan Wangji mulls over the question. “A year with my help,” he answers truthfully. “A year and a half on your own.” 

Wei Ying’s shoulders tremble with amusement, and he shakes against Lan Wangji, curling forward to laugh into the cavity between them. “Ah, well, Lan er-gege, when would be the best time to begin my lessons?”

If Wei Ying wants to tease, then Lan Wangji can do the same. He’s got his own set of matchsticks to add to the flame. So he nods and slides off the bench, pulling Wei Ying so that he’s situated in the center. The latter jerks in surprise, fingers flexing in a grabbing motion as they lose their grip on Lan Wangji’s arm. 

“Lan Zhan!” he wheezes, twisting on the seat to stare at him in wide eyes. “I was just kidding. I can continue the guitar part of our duet, but—”

Lan Wangji gently takes his shoulders and maneuvers them so that Wei Ying is facing the keys once more. He doesn’t go without any complaints or protests, and he ends up staring at the keys, still dubious and incredulous. “Lan Zhan. I’ve barely ever played on the piano, and I’ve only watched you teach A-Yuan a few times. Plus, you don’t have the books that you use for A-Yuan! How am I supposed to know…”

He trails off, voice faltering as Lan Wangji leans forward, fingers dragging down Wei Ying’s arms until he grasps at his wrists, then gently guides them to the piano. On the keys, they switch so that Lan Wangji’s hands resume their place on top of the keys, Wei Ying’s hands lying atop his, palms flush against the backs of Lan Wangji’s hands. His hands are cold—they usually are when their palms brush against each other, or when Wei Ying worms his fingers so that they interlock with his.

In this position, his breath glides hot against Wei Ying’s ears. In this embrace, he’s able to feel the shudder that wracks down Wei Ying’s body. His chest warms in response, and this time, he can’t attribute the heat to the stage lights, all of which remain dim and cool. 

With Wei Ying between his arms, hands sitting atop his, he repeats the song. At first, it comes out quietly, Lan Wangji unaccustomed to playing in any position other than proper. To fix that, he steps closer until his chin hooks over Wei Ying’s shoulder, elbows falling in a loose embrace around him. This is something his brother would never let him live down, something his uncle would froth over with anger. But in the here and now, it doesn’t matter, not when Wei Ying’s hair tickles his cheek, his breath stuttering as Lan Wangji’s fingers guide them through the song, each inhale causing his back to brush against Lan Wangji’s chest. 

Partway through the song, Wei Ying speaks. They’re so close to each other, practically flush, that Lan Wangji has no trouble hearing his question. “You never told me what the title of the song was.” 

Gradually, Lan Wangji stops playing, but he doesn’t release Wei Ying, not yet. The latter, with some maneuvering, swivels on his seat until they’re face to face. Wei Ying’s gaze sits in the middle of spring, when seeds begin to sprout through ground, leaves ready to extend a shy hand toward the sun. 

“You promised you’d tell me later,” he says, crooking a grin. He leans forward, tipping his head up so that the tips of their noses rub against each other, and he tugs playfully on Lan Wangji’s scarf. “And I’d consider this later.” Lan Wangji goes slightly dizzy at the contact, heat rushing up to his ears and blooming at the base of his neck. 

With just the two of them alone in the auditorium, time seems to come to a stop, surroundings melting around them. It’s as if Lan Wangji’s world has tilted on its axis. He’s the moon that orbits Wei Ying’s gravity, pulled in by the allure of his vivid colors and boyish personality. Of the warmth that pulses off of him in waves upon waves, breathing life into everything he touches. 

Wei Ying is someone who loves and loves and loves without abandon, and Lan Wangji loves him just as recklessly, just as wildly, just as intensely.

“Wangxian,” he breathes. “The title of the song is Wangxian.” 

Wei Ying’s eyes widen and the corner of his mouth drops as his lips part in surprise. Taken aback, Wei Ying stares at him in shock, and while Lan Wangji doesn’t fidget, he comes close to doing so. Then, without a warning, the shock begins to melt into something warm and impossibly fond. 

Before Lan Wangji can utter another word, Wei Ying cups his cheek, other hand tugging on his scarf to close the gap between them. For the first time, Wei Ying kisses him, lips sliding against lips, and their noses bump against each other. Wei Ying puffs a laugh between them, then pulls back, starlight spinning in the force of his smile, something shy sitting underneath it. 

“Wangxian, huh,” Wei Ying muses. “I can’t believe you remembered my courtesy name; that’s not subtle at all. Ah, but you were writing that even before I’d come to meet you— mfph!” 

Lan Wangji surges forward to kiss him again, this time, angling his head so that their lips slot together. He rolls Wei Ying’s bottom lip between his, suckling, nipping on it. The force of it surprises him as much as it does Wei Ying, and it’s as if there's something molten swimming through his veins, burning through his limbs, simmering his blood. At a particularly harsh nip, Wei Ying whimpers, and Lan Wangji darts out a tongue to soothe it in apology. 

There’s a tug on his scarf, then his shirt as Wei Ying tries to pull him closer, sighing and melting into their kiss. Lan Wangji runs the tip of his tongue along the seam of his mouth, and his lips part easily. He tastes the ribbon of his breath, sweet and warm and fragrant with coffee, and groans quietly. He continues to push forward, and Wei Ying continues to scoot back on the bench until his back hits the piano. Even then, they don’t stop, Wei Ying slanting back as Lan Wangji tastes him, suckles on his bottom lip until they’re as red as cherries that have burst. 

A burst of sound startles them both, and Lan Wangji tears himself away, breathing heavily as if he’s run a marathon. He feels unhinged, unmoored after having been given a taste of Wei Ying’s kiss. Dazedly, he blinks at the piano, a discordant chord caterwauling through the auditorium, and finds his hands gripping the edges of it, fingers digging into the keys. Half of Wei Ying’s torso had also hit the keys, emitting the harsh cry that’d startled them apart. 

At first, Wei Ying stares at him, almost uncomprehending, eyes slightly unfocused as he reorients himself. When he turns his head and absorbs the situation, he blinks. Blinks again. Snorts. Then, erupts into laughter, throwing his head back as he wheezes at the absurdity of it. Lan Wangji can’t help the short burst of air from his throat, and his head falls on Wei Ying’s shoulder, the both of them quaking with laughter. 

When they come to, Lan Wangji helps Wei Ying up, and when he stands straight, he immediately leans forward and slings both arms around Lan Wangji’s neck, a slow smile curling across his face, eyes crescenting into half-moons. “Hey, Lan er-gege, you said that we have the stage for the rest of the day, right?” Wei Ying starts coyly, still slightly breathless.

Lan Wangji feels slightly winded himself, and he manages a nod, gripping the juts of Wei Ying’s hips. 

“Then kiss me again, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying whispers, and Lan Wangji is more than happy to oblige. 

--

“Gege, the violin people are here!” A-Yuan whispers, except it’s loud enough to catch the quartet’s attention, and Qin Su, who occupies one of the mismatched seats, leans forward to point toward Lan Xichen and Nie Mingjue. 

“You’re half right!” she whispers back when Lan Wangji directs his attention to the quartet. “A-Yao and I play the violin! But Xichen and Mingjue play other instruments. Xichen plays the viola, and Mingjue plays the cello.” 

A-Yuan narrows his eyes in confusion, peering up at her, then to the rest of the quartet. Jin Guangyao merely sips on his cup of tea. Lan Xichen’s lips twitch wildly as he smothers his laugh behind a cough. Nie Mingjue, on the other hand, crosses his arms. A-Yuan points toward the cellist. “He plays the big, big violin!” he declares, much to everyone’s amusement. Nie Mingjue sighs with exasperation, but it’s without any real chastisement, and he rubs at his forehead. 

“It’s more like a big, big viola, given the strings, but we’ll accept it,” Jin Guangyao compromises as Qin Su giggles and ruffles A-Yuan’s hair. The boy ducks his head shyly and clutches Xiao Tuzi closer to his chest, its raggedly limbs flopping over his arm.

“He plays the cello,” Lan Wangji gently corrects him, and A-Yuan repeats the word with a confused nod of his head. 

A-Yuan shifts his weight, sliding closer to Lan Wangji until he’s pressed against his side. He gives Lan Wangji a glance over, then straightens his shoulders, sitting upright. The position must be uncomfortable because he gives up after a few minutes and clambers onto Lan Wangji’s lap, seating himself comfortably against his chest.

His body is warm, full of youthful energy, especially when tucked in a large sweater and a scarf. With the passing of the season, it’s gotten colder with each passing day. Mornings are cool with mist, afternoons brimming with sunlight, and when the sun sinks below the skyline, it drags the temperatures down with it. 

Tonight is no exception, and Wei Ying has bundled A-Yuan up. Wen Ning brings them all a pot of tea and a cup of warm milk and honey for A-Yuan. The quartet chats amiably, no signs of friction between Jin Guangyao or Qin Su to spark any debates or heated arguments, and Lan Wangji is content to listen. A-Yuan seems to ride the same current, keeping quiet as he watches the four converse over the next leg of their tour. 

“What’s after London again?” Jin Guangyao asks. 

Qin Su sniffs. “Paris, and I don't like that look on your face. We are not doing the Eiffel Tower again—” 

“Why not—”

“No. You can go yourself. I will be eating my weight in croissants, and Mingjue can carry me back to the hotel—”

“Who’s carrying you? You can carry yourself.” 

Lan Xichen chuckles. 

It’s strange to see the four of them sitting in the bookshop, crowded in a dim corner next to the coffee joint. Slightly out of place in their rehearsal clothing among the newspaper clippings and polaroid photos artfully plastered on the wall. Yet, all seem comfortable in the setting, lounging and relaxing as they all wait for the show to start. 

“Well, I see you stuck around.” 

Lan Wangji lifts his gaze to find Wen Qing staring down at him, arms curled around her notebook. There’s a graceful arch to her brow as she appraises Lan Wangji, his brother and his quartet, and finally, A-Yuan as he rests on Lan Wangji’s lap, playing with his fingers. 

He inclines his head in agreement. “I have,” he agrees. “I plan to stay.” 

Wen Qing snorts, but there’s an iota of a smile lifting the corners of her mouth, even on an expression as fierce and stern as the one she constantly wears. Crouching down, she smooths back A-Yuan’s hair before clamping both hands against his ears. He wiggles in protest as she says, “Good. If you leave, I’ll kick your ass.” 

A-Yuan whines until Wen Qing releases him, then tucks a lock of his hair behind his ears. “Be good,” she says, tone softening into something reserved for the toddler. He purses his lips at her but nods. Wen Qing levels Lan Wangji with one more look before moving toward Wen Ning at the counter, the hem of her dress susurring with each step she takes. 

A figure makes its way to the stage, slim and confident, a bit of a swagger to his steps, even with a guitar slung over his shoulder. At his appearance, conversations begin to dim, and Lan Wangji straightens. A-Yuan, who feels the change, blinks up. “Baba!” he whisper-exclaims, hugging Xiao Tuzi in his excitement. 

The quartet’s conversation grows muted when they realize the performance is about to begin, and Lan Wangji turns to meet his brother’s reassuring smile before he turns to the stage, a cup of lavender chamomile tea cradled in his hands. 

Up front, Wei Ying takes his seat on the bar stool, setting the guitar on his lap, one leg perched on the rest, the other settled on the ground. He tunes his guitar, lashes casting webs against his cheeks, each plucked note cutting through the faint murmur, rising and falling as he listens with his eyes shut, brows furrowed in concentration as he adjusts the pitch. And when he finishes, the guitar goes quiet.

Wei Ying lifts his head, and the audience goes quiet under his silent command of the room. Each shift, each hollow knock of the guitar, each breath—Lan Wangji can hear it all, the prelude to the melody. It’s the same hush that falls when a conductor lifts his arms, baton at the ready, prepared to change one, or two, or a hundred lives within a span of two hours. 

Under the stage lights that glare from above, Wei Ying takes a moment to survey the crowd, silver swimming through shadow until he finds what he’s searching for. Lan Wangji isn’t sure how he manages it, but their gazes meet in the center, twin galaxies drawn in by matching gravities, pulling and pulling and pulling. 

Lan Wangji thinks back to the first night he’d wandered out of the concert hall. Of a city replete with life and a sky awash with rain. Of a successful concert pianist harboring an abyss between his ribcage, born from a loss that burned through endless questions and countless memories. Of a young man who’d taken shelter in a bookstore to escape the rain, ignorant that it’d been the lighthouse beacon to his wayward, adrift soul.

Never would he have thought that this chance encounter would lead him hand-in-hand toward happiness, a solace for pain to be met head-on and soothed over, the strings of their fate mending the hole gaping in his chest. A young boy with a love for rabbits and a burgeoning passion for music. A young man who loves and loves and loves with every fiber of his being, with every breath he exhales, with every song he coaxes from his heart.

As he holds the boy he’s come to care for and watches his beloved prepare to perform, Lan Wangji feels at peace. Content. But more than that, he feels a sense of completion, of wholeness. Of a chapter that’s come to a close, a new one coming to fruition—one he will not face alone as a soloist. 

Wei Ying quirks the smallest of smiles and begins to play.