Chapter Text
2024
“Lan Zhannnn.. Lan ZhaaAAaann.. wake up bun bun. Your Wei Ying is bored.”
“Mmh, just a little more.” He cracks an eye open to see his backlit lover looking down at him. The light streams in so brightly he can barely make out his face, but he doesn’t need to see him to know he’s smiling. He can hear it in his voice; It’s a flavor of smile reserved for Lan Zhan. It is a special indulgence to be woken by Wei Ying. Sometimes he’ll slip back into bed and pretend to be asleep just to see what he’ll do. The smile turns into a pout when he closes his eyes again. “Bun bun, come nibble me. I’m lonely. Don’t you miss me?”
Miss you. Every slow tick of the clock. Every close of a door. Every chime of a text message. Every chord and key. He misses him.
Wangji opens his eyes to a darkened room only minutes before his alarm. He doesn’t bother opening the curtains, the sky will still be dark. He checks a schedule he already knows. Sometimes there are late additions or cancellations but everything seems to be as he expects. An interview at 11:00 am. Lunch with the venue’s directing team. A call with his manager at three to discuss some additions to upcoming tour dates. He’ll have some down time before tonight to have a light dinner before sound check. Some days were busier, some were less so. It doesn’t matter; there’s not much left worth anticipating.
He runs the treadmill in an empty hotel gym and watches the morning news on the small, built in television. He only takes note of the weather before returning to his room. “You smell so good after you workout. C’mere. Lemme clean you all up baobei.” He takes the same shower he always does, dresses in a familiar light blue cashmere sweater and gray slacks, and smoothes his hair back neatly. They are motions on repeat. He can do them half asleep. Honestly, there’s a part of him that feels he might be.
He exits the hotel to a pregnant sky. The forecast had been correct; it will rain today, or at least threaten to. Something old, something new. Nothing borrowed. Everything blue. It has been a dry season. A dry few years. He welcomes the sharp edges of the wind he walks into. It feels good to have something pressed against him. “Lan Er-gege, what if you carried me? It’s your fault my legs won’t move!”
He grabs a protein shake from the corner shop; it tastes of pseudoscience but it is nutrient packed enough to get him through the day. He ignores the play staged around him, loud cell phone talkers and frazzled employees forcing polite smiles as he wrestles his way back onto the street.
There’s an asterisk to the morning, most likely from the change in barometric pressure. ”It’s a rain day baobei! Don’t make me get out of bed. Let’s call in sick and watch movies. I’ll even watch one of your documentaries.” The rest of the shops are just now opening for the day, pulling out their sidewalk signs and greeting the customers impatiently clinging onto the bags of items they need to return.
He passes a bookstore and stops. His reflection catches him off guard. Sometimes he forgets how his face has changed. The hollowness in his cheeks. The permanent circles under his eyes. The straight line of his lips. Through it, he sees a display of children’s books.
He’s welcomed in with a nod and a smile. A worker has busied themselves with rearranging one of the displays. He declines the offer of help and navigates to the section of books displayed in the front window. There are roughly ten different titles displayed, just a small selection of a much bigger library. It is the bunny collection. A fluffy white little woodland creature that nibbles his way through the world in an attempt to teach children about the perils of overconsumption. ”You could be a rabbit, Lan Er-gege. You’ve got the nose for it. I’m gonna draw whiskers on you when you’re sleeping. You’ll see. NO! No biting!! Go back to nibbling!”
There’s a new one here, one he hasn’t read. He realizes each of the new copies is signed. Two elegant and dramatic W’s, side by side. W-hy? W-hy are you still writing these? He traces the peaks and valleys before flipping through a long familiar art style. He must have had a signing here. Maybe recently.
He looks through every book, finds the W’s he likes the best, and brings it to the cashier; they are all subtly different. “Little one at home?” The cashier is friendly. He doesn’t mean to wound him. Wangji nods his head. He doesn’t like it, but sometimes lies make things easier.
It’s started to sprinkle outside, so he secures the book safely inside his messenger bag. He’ll be early for his interview so he stops for a green tea and waits in the lobby. Sprinkles are now fat raindrops and the people on the street run, heads tucked under makeshift portable shelters. It could be night, for how little light makes it to the street. He wishes it was. He’d be back in bed and relaxing into the only small moment of respite he allows himself.
He takes the elevator up with five minutes to spare. As he walks to the office, he suspects he might have been here before. The receptionist seems to recognize him, her smile is too relaxed for a first meeting. “Green tea, right?” she asks after setting him up in the waiting area. He politely declines.
The interview starts along the same lines they always do. It’s for an album he’ll be releasing soon, not for the performance tonight although he manages a way to plug that in as well. It’s not needed, the event is sold out. He does it anyway, letting the universe know where he’ll be.
Halfway through, the interviewer gives him a look and Wangji remembers their previous encounter. 8 or 9 months ago. It was an interview just like this, only he’d met him back at his hotel later and fucked him against the floor to ceiling windows. The man seemed hopeful it could happen again. Wangji knows it won’t. He avoids the meaning under the man’s words and keeps his tone tight and professional. They shake hands and he leaves before it can become an issue.
There is too much time to kill between appointments. Things are slowing down lately. In the beginning, he wouldn’t have time to breathe in between here or there. ”I miss you. Do you miss me? What if I came to see you? Would that make it better?” Breathe in to breathe out. Breathe out to breathe in.
Lunch is an arduous test of manners. Pay attention, smile when appropriate. That was a joke, now laugh. No, chuckle. Save the laugh, you may need it later. Tell them how happy you are to be here. How it’s still an honor to perform for such a distinguished crowd. Accept their praise, but be humble. Yes, you hope to work more with them in the future. Yes, a picture would be fine. Of course, I’ll sign that for you.
And then it is over and he’s back to passing time. He could go back to his hotel room for his three o’clock call; he doesn’t want to. The rain has lightened to a persistent drizzle. He heads to the venue early and security lets him backstage. He likes seeing the empty auditorium. Tonight, every seat will be filled. The lights will be shining on him, and he won’t be able to see anything other than the sheet music in front of him. Now, he can gaze over the room and imagine the faces he wants to see. The face he wants to see.
He has no complaints with the piano; it’s rare he does these days. The sheet music is already prepared and updated as to his most recent request. He doesn’t need it right now. He plays an old composition. One only for himself. He likes to hear its variations across venues. Some are better than others. Here, it is nice. It’s still not as good as his brother’s old piano bar. It never has been. He doubts it ever will.
The door opens and he freezes, his hands paused on the keys. He waits for footsteps that never come. Someone to approach that never does. He scans the room, more intently this time. It is empty; he is alone.
In the dressing room, he calls his manager. The additional dates will require him to miss a family function, so he doesn’t agree instantly as he normally would. His manager seems annoyed, but he no longer cares about pleasing others.
“Wangji, it’s really no problem. Mingue knows you’re busy. He won’t mind. You can just video call. No, really, it’s okay.” His brother has always supported him. Always wanted what was best for him. It was only a problem when he did not know what “the best” meant in Wangji’s heart. He was tired of being alone.
He sends a short text to his manager, agreeing to the new schedule, receiving a thumbs up emoji in response. Five minutes later, his calendar chimes with the updates. This is his life. Stumbling from one appointment to the next. Giving permission and letting his boundaries drift with the tide. "You can’t make it this weekend, can you? No, I heard from Xichen. No, it’s okay. You can video call at least? I don’t care what time. You know I’ll be up. Hey, don’t sound so sad. You know I love you, baobei? You know I love you so much?”
He doesn’t look over the crowd before he performs. What he wants isn’t there. His performance is set in advance, written into contracts. He does not have the freedom or desire to make changes at this point. Performing is perfunctory. Like eating. Like sleeping. Like sex. It happens when it is supposed to happen, in the way that it is supposed to happen. When it is over, he can get back to the interlude.
A cell phone interrupts his performance tonight. It happens. It used to annoy him more, but he’s learned to be professional about it. Let the ushers deal with it. It’s a reminder of his place. He is the entertainment, a screen for them to watch. He is only special in that there is no pause button. Whatever happens, he must continue. Time must pass. Life goes on. They merely hold a ticket stub and he is the torn off piece of it.
He returns to his hotel room exhausted. Not because the day was tiring; it wasn’t. It’s a lingering fatigue that has built up over time. A weariness of his soul. He swallows down dinner. Takes a quick shower. He tries to jack off but loses interest in himself.
When he is toweled off, he returns to bed and grabs his phone from the charger. He allows himself this every night. Once he’s fulfilled his obligations, once he no longer needs to be present for anyone’s demands, he scrolls through a continuous feed of social media posts. There’s rarely anything new. He has to go back several months to find what he is looking for.
Huaisang most likely took the photo. A child is suspended mid toss. A jubilant expression across his face, Wangji could almost hear the squeal of delight. A man is underneath him, poised to catch him when he descends. Lopsided grin. Angular jaw. Long, lean body with hip bones jutting out where his pants barely hang on. Behind him is a house in the countryside. A beautiful picture of father and son.
He’d cried the first time he saw it. Not sweet tears of adoration. Gasping sobs of emptiness and self loathing. It almost felt good to cry like that; it had been so long since he’d allowed himself to let anything out. And the next morning, he did feel better. Like maybe this time he could move on.
It had been a foolish thought, over as soon as he’d had it. He kept coming back to the picture. He didn’t really even need to look at it anymore; it is carved in his mind. It is a ritual though, one of the few holding him together. Tonight, he pretends he had been the one to take the picture.
He makes sure his alarm is set; he has an early flight out. Another city awaits him. Another place he doesn’t want to go. Another bed he doesn’t want to sleep in. He takes a sleeping pill and sets his phone back on the charger.
”Stay up a little longer, baobei. Nibble on me. Don’t I taste good?
Don’t go tomorrow.”