Chapter Text
Sometimes, his knee still aches.
It's almost automatic now, the way Lan Zhan scoops it up, resting all the weight in his hand as he levers his leg onto the ottoman in front of his sofa that, until his accident, had largely been for show.
It's been six months since he came off crutches. Eight since he was told that he might not ever dance professionally again. Ten since the last time he was on stage.
It's the closing night of Don Quixote tonight. He'd been invited to the closing gala because – well, because originally he would have been there. And after the accident, it would have been awkward to disinvite him.
Instead, Lan Zhan is in his apartment, listlessly trying to distract himself from thinking about Su She in a tuxedo and smarmy smile, talking to all his patrons. He doesn't want to read, because he's spent months reading for lack of anything else he was allowed to do. He can't go for a walk, because his leg is already bothering him after the stretches he'd tried to put it through this afternoon. He can't eat anything, because he's trying to get back into dancer shape and he's already hit his intended calorie quota for the day. And he can't talk to anyone, because everyone he knows and interacts with on any regular basis is in Don Quixote.
He resorts to sulkily sipping water through a squidgy straw that he chews, and turning on the TV. He owns one, because that's what people do when they rent an apartment by themselves for the first time, and also because Nie Huaisang had come over to see his sofa facing an enormous stretch of empty wall and asked point blank if he was a sociopath. He's not really sure if he is, but if he can avoid the question again by buying a TV, it's a small price to pay.
It takes him ten minutes to figure out how to switch it on, and that's because it turns out that the batteries in the remote are still shrink-wrapped. That answers his idle question of whether he's actually used this thing before.
The first channel has a movie on. The soundtrack is good – suspenseful, lots of minor piano chords from what he can hear – but every scene is so dark that Lan Zhan has no idea what's happening, because he can't see anything. The second channel is some sort of game show, based on popular media. As established, Lan Zhan knows nothing about popular media. The third channel is of an outdoor concert, still daylight wherever it is, and he's about to click away from that as well when the camera goes to a close-up of the lead singer.
Lan Zhan knows that face. It's Wei Ying.
His head is thrown back, eyes closed, baring a long line of throat interrupted only by his adam's apple. He's pulling the mic stand towards him as he belts out a high note, long and piercing, the crowd screaming along with him. He cuts it off and snaps his eyes open – the camera catches it head on and for a single breath, it's almost as if he's looking straight at Lan Zhan.
His leather jacket is falling off his shoulders, dragging one strap of his tank top down with it, and his skinny jeans look far too tight for the full body roll and hip thrust that he makes. And then he looks away, a smile curling over his lips as he brings his voice low, a growl that crawls into the mic and sends frissons up Lan Zhan's spine.
At the end of the song, Wei Ying loses the sultry look as he shrugs the jacket back on, and a wide grin pulls at his face as he thanks the crowd, an expression suddenly so familiar that Lan Zhan inhales. He realises that he's leaning forward, his mouth half-open. Even though no one is here to see his moment of fluster, he picks up one of the decorative cream cushions from his sofa and tucks it his into his lap. He leans back, clutching the cushion, and smooths himself out.
He's not seen Wei Ying in over a decade now.
They used to have dance lessons together. Or, more accurately, their separate dance lessons (ballet for Lan Zhan, hip hop and street dance for Wei Ying) had been held in the same studios and they crossed paths in the smallest of ways: while stretching in the corridor as they waited for their respective classes to begin, waiting backstage together at recitals, or walking part-way home together when heading in the same direction.
Lan Zhan had been entirely focused on ballet – has always been and still is, he supposes – and could never quite understand how someone like Wei Ying could be so talented and in advanced classes and still not take it seriously. He had asked, once, and Wei Ying had laughed that bright laugh of his and asked in return, 'What's serious about dance? It's meant to be fun.'
It had riled a teenage Lan Zhan up all the wrong way, and he hadn't had the wit or quickness of mind then to come up with a retort, especially not when ballet was his whole life, so he'd stewed upon it in sullen silence instead.
Did you know that Wei Ying is in a band? Lan Zhan texts to Nie Huaisang, who doesn't reply because he's the representative of Qinghe Arts Foundation and therefore at the gala that Lan Zhan is meant to be at. Lan Zhan stares at his phone hopefully for a few minutes; Huaisang is so attached to his phone that he might well receive it anyway. Alas, no luck.
He realises that this text comes with no context – their last exchange had been about the progress of Lan Zhan's physiotherapy – and he's not really sure how to provide any. You remember, Wei Ying who used to be at the dance studio. I haven't spoken to him in over ten years but I saw him on TV tonight and he performed a very evocative hip thrust.
Perhaps he will just leave it be.
The concert – or festival, as Lan Zhan now realises – has moved onto the next act, who are warming up, and he scans them very quickly for any other signs of old friends. With none found, he realises that his interest has gone. He pulls his laptop towards him instead, not quite sure what to search. Perhaps just 'Wei Ying' to start? He hadn't managed to catch the name of the band.
Wei Ying has a Wikipedia page. It has different sections for 'early life', 'personal life' and 'discography' and everything. Their dance school – Cloud Recesses – is named as somewhere he studied and Lan Zhan finds that his heart skips a beat at even the hinted proximity of a mention.
Their four-member group is called The Remnants, formed from friends who met each other at university. They have released five albums, and three of their singles have been certified Platinum. Lan Zhan glances ruefully at the text he sent Huaisang. It now seems rather likely that he has, in fact, noticed one of their old acquaintances being in a world-famous band.
YouTube is next. The Remnants have plenty of performances uploaded, ranging from dingy bars in their early days to arena concerts – Lan Zhan has a vague idea that he might start with older videos and make his way to more up-to-date ones but that idea quickly goes out of the window as the YouTube algorithm and auto-play sucks him into a spiral of performances, interviews and chat shows.
They're good. They're fun, and funny; charming on screen and engaging with fans and able to bounce off each other when they talk. The ballet world is... not quite so exuberant, and Lan Zhan has certainly never done anything as mainstream as Good Morning America, but he is well-known and respected within ballet, and he has never managed quite this amount of ease when talking to someone else about his art.
Lan Wangji looks up from his laptop when his phone buzzes – and oh, it's 1am. That's... that's probably why he's feeling slightly fuzzy.
It's a text from Huaisang: Yeah?? Did you not??? Getting tix for their next gig, thought you wldn't be interested but wanna come with?
A second text: OT but you missed a great party, know you didn't wanna be here but we missed you
There's a photo that takes a moment to load, and then it comes up as one of the giant bouquets that people send for the closing galas. They're usually displayed around the edges of the venue with notes upon a variation of 'Congratulations on a wonderful performance', except this one has 'For Lan Wangji, the most exquisite Don Quixote – wishing you a speedy recovery and return' written on the note, which is... just excessive. He only performed with the company for a month before he'd had to be replaced, after all.
But nice. Excessive but nice.
He carefully saves the photo, and types back to Huaisang: Yes, please do let me know about the tickets.
He looks back at his laptop, noticing that The Remnants have their own video channel. He opens it up in a new tab, ready for tomorrow, and then reluctantly heads to bed.
*
By now, ballet stretches and basic forms are second nature to Lan Zhan. He's been doing them for almost twenty years, and his body falls into the routine of them easily. He likes to start his day off with these, the exertion on his body clearing his mind for the day in time for daylight to emerge from a hazy pigeon-blue sky.
What he's not used to is fighting his body for it. He's been stringent with his diet and working out while he was on crutches, and he's not out of shape by anyone's standards apart from a professional ballet dancer's, but the fact of the matter is that his pliés look and feel lopsided.
He scowls at himself in the wall-length mirror, and then smooths his expression out when he catches his own eyes. Before moving in, when he'd first viewed the apartment, he'd been drawn to the obscenely large wardrobe with its mirrored sliding doors that he'd be able to practise his form in front of. The estate agent had mistaken his interest and said something about being 'a man of fashion, eh?' and Lan Zhan had blinked at her, uncomprehendingly, not sure how to tell her that mostly he wanted it to stare at the arches of his own feet.
There's something thrumming in his brain today though, distracting him from the quiet meditation of pushing his body into the perfect pose and trying to make him go faster. It's not until he's finished, and making himself breakfast and some tea that he realises he's humming a tune. He can't quite remember what song it is, but it must have been one of the videos he watched yesterday.
He makes himself eat first, before flipping his laptop open to the channel he'd set up the day before. The Remnants YouTube channel is a mix of things - music videos, Making Ofs, interviews and each of them has a playlist where it looks like they do their own thing. Wen Qing, the guitarist, has a playlist of videos where she does acoustic covers; the bassist, Luo Qingyang, apparently likes to watch videos of people reacting to their songs and then record her reaction to their reactions; and the drummer, Wen Ning, mostly has short videos of his dwarf hamsters in increasingly complex mazes made out of household items.
Lan Zhan clicks on Wei Ying's playlist. It's mostly of him doing a capella covers of songs – and dance covers. Lan Zhan clicks on one of those. It's choreography to one of their songs, a slow, rhythmic piece with an almost overwhelming bass drum that reverberates around the cavity of his ribcage. Wei Ying is in a dilapidated warehouse with exposed metal beams and dust motes hanging in the air as he slides across the floor wearing grey ripped jeans and boots with no shirt, and Lan Zhan fumbles for his glass of water when he finds that his mouth is dry. Wei Ying definitely doesn't look fifteen anymore.
The video ends and the next automatically begins, and Lan Zhan finds himself hunched over on his sofa ninety minutes later with a very full bladder.
The dances range in style - yes, most of it is hip-hop based but Lan Zhan can see a lot of contemporary influences, and even some ballet forms. Wei Ying had always seemed too cool for ballet when they were kids. Lan Zhan had picked it up because everyone in his family was involved in ballet, but by the time they'd hit the advanced classes, he was always one of the only boys left.
His phone alarm goes off halfway through a video, startling him enough that he nearly knocks it off his lap. He normally doesn't need this alarm to tell him to get ready for his physiotherapist, because he's always keen to get there on time, but he finds himself pausing the video with regret.
Lan Zhan downloads their latest album while he's waiting for the bus, and then remembers that he'd told Huaisang that he's interested in going to their next concert. They'll probably play some older pieces as well, right? He ends up downloading all five albums.
The physio appointment is both encouraging, and not. He needs to schedule some more massage appointments for his calf, but the twinging muscles essentially indicate that they're healing. He's still not allowed to do any leaps off his left foot, or participate in any lifts. He is very tentatively allowed to try some hops off his left foot. Lan Zhan's spent a lifetime in and out of physio appointments, so he furiously chews the inside of his lip, and says nothing. It grinds on him, the waiting, the uncertainty - but every dancer has heard horror stories of that person who tries too much after an injury and ends up aggravating it into an even worse state.
By the time he gets back to his apartment and makes lunch, Nie Huaisang has woken from what is probably a post-gala hangover. Lan Zhan pauses the dance video he's watching (the first one, with the shirtless - uh, with the warehouse is his favourite so far) and answers the phone. "Huaisang."
"Lan Zhan! Morning."
Lan Zhan doesn't bother to correct him. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine, fine. It was a good closing performance. How was the physio?"
"Still an indefinite timeline," he says, closing his eyes. He can't dance professionally if he can't do jumps or lifts.
Huaisang hums sympathetically. "You deserve a break, you know. You've been in shows non stop for almost ten years."
"I'll rest when I'm retired," says Lan Zhan, which is what he says any time anyone alludes to it. He's at the age where he's starting to slip into the bracket of older dancers now – if he stays out of it for too long, he won't be able to get back in. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he fears that Don Quixote was his last principal role.
"Of course, of course," says Huaisang. "But you know, I'm actually calling because of this text you sent me last night! I know your entire mind, heart and soul is devoted to ballet, but how have you never heard of The Remnants?"
"I don't watch TV," he says, slightly defensively. "Or listen to the radio. Or watch YouTube videos." He stops, because he's aware that it's making him sound like a sad, sad man with no hobbies, which he is, but still.
"Yeah, but you and Wei Ying were friends."
Lan Zhan stares up at his ceiling. There's a spiderweb in one of the corners. He'll have to get the broom out. "That was... a long time ago."
"You didn't fall out, did you?"
"No, we just didn't keep in touch after I left."
"Okay, good. Well, they're in town next month, what works better for you, the fifth or the sixth?"
So soon? Lan Zhan knows nothing about getting tickets for gigs, but given their popularity, he would have assumed that tickets went on sale months ago. He waves an arm around at his empty and silent apartment, despite the fact that Huaisang won't see it. "I'm currently unemployed and have no plans," he says dryly.
Nie Huaisang is silent for a moment. "You need to stop saying things like that or I'll start feeling sorry for you. Okay, the fifth it is. I'll text you details."
"How much is it?"
"Don't worry about it," says Huaisang, and Lan Zhan squints suspiciously at the offending spiderweb.
"Why should I not worry about it?"
"Come on, Lan Zhan, I'm not paying for these tickets. I have my ways, you know. So you don't owe me anything, apart from the pleasure of your company."
"Mn," says Lan Zhan dubiously.
"You could at least pretend that your company is pleasurable."
Lan Zhan doesn't bother replying. Huaisang chuckles at him, and hangs up.
He turns back to his laptop. As suspected, tickets for this tour went out almost a year ago, and had sold out within the week. Extra dates have already been added. The reviews for the cities they've already played are raving, and prices for resold tickets are astronomical. Lan Zhan is not going to question Huaisang's little spidery connections.
Speaking of which – he goes to get that broom.