Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Meetings.

Had someone asked Lan Qiren when he was first starting out in this industry how he would spend his old age, he never would have thought the answer would be: in meetings. He sits at the head of the long table in the conference room, palms pressed together as though in prayer, chin resting atop his fingertips. He exhales slowly and opens his eyes.

The faces of the studio representatives and board members of the Lan Code Office of Morality and Ethics in Film are all turned his way, waiting. Lan Qiren lowers his hands and turns to look at Jin Zixuan, whose request is currently under review—a, frankly, bizarre request.

"Why are you speaking today?" Lan Qiren asks. "Could Jin Guangshan not be bothered to make his own case?"

Jin Zixuan's delicate lips twitch nervously. The boy's spinelessness is a direct consequence of the indulgent, lax environment he was raised in. A father who is more concerned with chasing forbidden skirts than his own son, and a mother who still dotes on him like a helpless toddler. Modern parenting.

"I represent the studio now, Mr. Lan," Jin Zixuan says in a shaky voice. "And contracting Wei Wuxian was my idea."

Of course it was. Lan Qiren shuffles the papers in front of him idly. He doesn't need to read the notes—they are all familiar with Wei Wuxian's work. What he still doesn't understand, however, is why a person of sound mind would voluntarily give that man a budget and complete creative control.

"It is not too late to cut your losses still," he says kindly. The youth never heed his advice, but it is his duty to offer it nonetheless. "Backing him will only serve to tarnish the already precarious reputation of Jinlintai Studios. As I am quite certain everyone in this room knows, every project helmed by Wei Wuxian thus far has been increasingly licentious, perverted, and morally repugnant to the p—"

"That's not true," a meek voice interrupts rudely from the far end of the table. The speaker's face glows pink as all eyes turn to her. It takes Lan Qiren a moment to place her. She was an outside hire for Jinlintai last year. Why is she even here? It is hard to keep track of all the new faces…

"Young lady," he says, "speaking out of turn is not an appropriate way to make your point."

The girl lowers her head in shame—an appropriate reaction, at least. Maybe all hope for the youth is not yet lost.

"Uncle," Xichen interjects softly from Lan Qiren's right, "all industry workers are welcome to present their concerns here. Why don't we allow Miss Luo to voice her disagreement, and then we can address her points directly?"

Lan Qiren sucks in a breath through his teeth, unhappy to be challenged thus, but he nods and gestures with his hand for Miss Luo to continue. He has been urging Xichen to be more assertive, more commanding—a necessary change if he is to take over GusuLan Studios next year while Wangji heads the Code Office. It is good to see him step up, even if it is to assert himself over his dear old uncle, who has raised him and given him shelter since he was a wee lad.

"Thank you," the young woman nods politely. "I only meant that his works are up for interpretation. I don't find them morally repugnant, rather… morally complex. And he did win multiple international awards, despite his lack of experience and meager funding."

"Weren't three of his shorts barred from screenings at educational institutions just last year?" a short, round-faced man barks out from across Miss Luo. Lan Qiren thinks his name is Yao something. He works at one of the other studios, one of the Little Five. When did the families lose control of the industry like this? Well... at least this one isn't a child.

"Banned for promoting wastefulness and indecency! Isn't that sufficiently damning?" Mr. Yao continues to a small chorus of nods and murmured agreements. "And the whole Yiling Laozu thing is not doing him any favors either." He chuckles ominously, as though referring to something shameful that everyone is in on. Lan Qiren is not in on it. Fortunately, he does not care to be in on it.

"Are we taking rumors and gossip into account now?" Xichen shuts down this line of conversation—good!—before turning back to the boy, his tone softening. "Jin Zixuan, can you state your case for continuing to allow Mr. Wei creative control in this endeavor despite the challenges? And how exactly do you hope the Lan Code Office can assist?"

Jin Zixuan flushes fuchsia under the expectant gazes of the Code Office members. He has only recently taken his father's place as head of the studio—since the scandal, Lan Qiren vaguely recalls now—and is clearly not prepared for it. He clears his throat, trembling hands straightening the wrinkled papers on the table in front of him.

"My research indicates a distinct drop off in box office numbers in recent years," he begins without looking up from his hands. "Our primary demographic are young people with small disposable incomes, and they overwhelmingly report that they can find more creative and more engaging content on television and online, so spending their time and money on the cinema has lost its appeal. Year after year, we release remakes, sequels, prequels, and adaptations, while all of our research points to the simple fact that the audience wants something new. They want something original. Not the same pedestrian fare we have been peddling for decades."

Preposterous! And rude. Lan Qiren should be shocked that the boy would display such blatant disrespect for his father's business approach—a tried and true approach that has withstood the test of time—but that seems par for the course with his generation. He merely shakes his head at the room at large and lets the boy continue.

As he talks, Jin Zixuan's body seems to slowly inflate with confidence, until he swells up like a big balloon, now looking commandingly around the room, finally meeting the board members' eyes.

"Wei Wuxian's films—made with a laughable production budget and next to no marketing," he continues, "have gained remarkable traction among the very audiences we target. Social media and movie forums are flooding with memes as well as serious discussions of his work. He has amassed nearly as many followers on Bluesky as all of the Big Three's official accounts combined. And, as Luo Qingyang pointed out, he was nominated for quite a few awards last season and won several." He leans back in his chair pompously, suddenly looking a lot like his father. "Simply put, it is worth the risk."

A convincing argument—or it would be if any of them believed it. If they didn't all know that Jin Zixuan's wife is Wei Wuxian's adopted sister. That this whole ordeal is her influence. Like father like son. The Jin men have always been weak for their women, Lan Qiren thinks but then quickly scrubs that thought from his mind. The Lans are not ones to judge. Not about that.

He clears his throat. "Be that as it may," he says, "allowing a man like that complete creative control is nothing short of reckless. You may choose to do it, of course—it is your studio—but the likelihood that Wei Wuxian will produce something that meets the Code Office's standards of decency is very nearly none. Good luck finding a distributor who is not bound by our rules."

And again like a balloon, Jin Zixuan deflates.

"That is why I'm here," he mumbles. "He will not work without complete creative control."

"Then find someone who will!" Mr. Yao slams his hand on the table.

He is not wrong, Lan Qiren thinks, though he does not approve of such emotional outbursts in his boardroom. The Lan Code Office is not a marketplace.

"May I suggest a compromise?" Xichen, ever the diplomat, offers. "Why don't we appoint an adviser from the Office to oversee the production? Wei Wuxian still has final control, but we can help guide his hand, point out when certain choices may lead to the film never seeing the light of day. Surely, he wants to complete this project. He wants the film to be screened. None of us can deny his passion for the art. We simply have to be mindful of how we frame the situation."

A murmur ripples through the room.

"And who exactly do you suggest?" Jin Zixuan asks, still deflated.

He doesn't have to elaborate. Everyone knows that Wei Wuxian is highly paranoid and hostile to outsiders, so even getting him to believe that whoever they send is only there to advise and not wrest his precious control away from him is a challenge. Not worth the effort, if Lan Qiren's opinion was to be consulted. Which, evidently, it isn't.

The boy is wasting all their time. Wei Wuxian is not capable of being reined in. Lan Qiren has not had a single positive interaction with that miscreant, and not for lack of trying!

"I was at film camp one summer with Wei Wuxian," Miss Luo pipes up again. She sure is chatty. "It was a while ago, but I remember that he and Lan Wangji got along well. That is to say, I think he would agree to Lan Wangji advising on the production."

Surprising, Lan Qiren thinks, and likely erroneous. But with plans to appoint Wangji as the head of the Code Office next year, it would, indeed, make perfect sense for him to take on this responsibility. What's more, Lan Qiren's favorite nephew is incomparably stalwart, obedient, and competent. If anyone can remain steadfast and wrangle a demon director like Wei Wuxian, it is Wangji. It would be a brilliant addition to his already impressive resume. And if Wei Wuxian refuses, well, that's that. The Lan Code Office has done what it can. An excellent solution!

"U-uncle—" Xichen stammers, but whatever it is can be addressed later. This discussion is already eating up too much of their time.

"It is settled," Lan Qiren says. "Wangji will oversee Wei Wuxian's project. What's next on the agenda?"

Lan Wangji snaps his laptop shut and packs it neatly into his midnight blue briefcase. He straightens his collar—it feels odd not to wear a tie, but he has made the decision, and he will stick to it—runs a hand over his hair to ensure no stray hairs have escaped the low bun, and checks his watch. Again.

He does not have to leave for another twenty minutes. Thankfully, a text notification offers a brief distraction.

Lan Wangji takes a measured breath to quell the bubbling frustration in his chest. It has been over a decade since he last interacted with Wei Ying. He has barely mentioned the name in all that time (aside from his online pursuits, which take place under a pseudonym and hence cannot be traced back to his real identity thankyouverymuch), and still, his brother simply knows. He always does.

It is for this reason that Xichen had been hesitant to allow Lan Wangji this assignment and even attempted to talk their uncle out of it. He did not elaborate on his hesitation to Uncle Qiren—thankfully—but he did not need to. Lan Wangji knows what he meant. As Xichen once jokingly put it, Wei Wuxian is Lan Wangji's only weakness.

Or he had been. A decade ago! Surely, Lan Wangji's professional interest in the man's career is a significant departure from his misguided teenage crush.

A soft ding! alerts him that it is now time to leave, and his heart suddenly hastens its usually steady rhythm, beating out, instead, an erratic, fluttering melody, lacking the basic decency to hide its alacrity. Lan Wangji may have been able to fool most of his family and the world at large, but he has never quite been capable of deceiving himself. His professional interest in Wei Ying may be… slightly more than that, still.

But it is easy for a youthful crush to grow out of control in the absence of its fixation, granted only occasional secondhand glimpses through films, interviews, and other people's errant opinions! It is only natural. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. And Lan Wangji's heart certainly is fond. In truth, it is more than that.

Lan Wangji's heart is a stringed instrument. Ancient beyond its years, its strings have been stretched too tight, too brittle, too dusty from disuse to produce any music. For as long as he can recall, the only song inside its chambers has been a faint, ghostly melody born of the few fuzzy memories remaining of his mother. Lan Wangji prefers it this way, always has. A static, untouchable heart is steady, is reliable, is safe. An antique—pristinely preserved in a museum, no longer expected to endure the abuse of meddlesome fingers or the scrutiny of prying ears.

But the summer he turned 18, Wei Ying had shoved his figurative fist directly through the safety glass of Lan Wangji's rib cage and plucked—a single, nimble digit tugging and releasing at once. Years later, the echo of the chord still ripples through Lan Wangji's body and mind, setting the tone of his thoughts, the beat of his breathing, the pitch of the pulse throbbing through his veins. Even now, he can hear it growing in volume, quickening its rhythm, shooting tiny trembles up his spine. Which Lan Wangji expertly ignores as he picks up his briefcase and heads down to the lot for his first day overseeing the production of Wei Ying's motion picture.

Be still, he whispers, before crossing the threshold of Jinlintai Studios.

"Jiejie, what are you saying?" His phone in one hand, Wei Wuxian unlocks the office door with the other and slumps into the chair behind his desk at the far end.

Shit. Forgot to turn on the light.

His face is only illuminated by the glare from the phone screen, where Jiang Yanli bites her bottom lip, looking away from the camera.

"Jiejie, please, you know it's too early in the morning for me to process vague information," Wei Wuxian pleads when she still doesn't speak. "Just put Jiang Cheng on the line. He'll tell it to me straight."

Jiang Yanli's brows furrow, and she exhales heavily. Wei Wuxian uses the opportunity to take a long swig from his Extra Large coffee cup. He wishes they would offer a Jumbo at the cafe. A Giant. A Colossal. The shit they brew here is, well, shit, so he typically tries to chug as much of the good stuff as he can before his day really gets going. And it gets going unconscionably early these days.

"They're sending in a babysitter from the LCO to make sure you're being a good boy," Jiang Cheng's voice crackles from the speaker, and his face pops in from beside his sister a moment later, grinning in what can only be described as an evil way.

Wei Wuxian nearly chokes on his coffee.

"Jiejie, I take it back," he huffs. "Punch Jiang Cheng in the teeth for me and tell me what's actually going on."

"You still maintain complete creative control," Jiang Yanli says, less reassuringly than she means to. "This is just a precaution to make sure your masterpiece doesn't get rejected at the very end."

Wei Wuxian frowns. "And you're just telling me this now?"

"We've been trying to get a hold of you all weekend, A-Xian," she sighs. "It was only just decided on Friday. I think maybe someone may have complained about what you've shot so far…"

She grimaces apologetically, and Wei Wuxian humphs. More like Jin Zixuan has been whining about him until she gave him permission to ask the fucking Purity Police to step in.

"And the peacock is too chicken to tell you himself," Jiang Cheng adds from somewhere offscreen.

They are probably in the Lotus Studios office right now, where the budgets may be small, but so is the bullshit. Wei Wuxian suddenly wishes he had never accepted the peacock's offer.

"A-Cheng!" Jiang Yanli chides. "That's not true. He just thought you'd receive the news better from me. And you both need to stop calling him that. He is my husband and A-Ling's father!"

"For now," Wei Wuxian mumbles. (His sister graciously pretends not to hear it, as she has every time he's said it for the past seventeen years.)

He sighs. It's too fucking early for this shit. He'll be pissed about it later. Right now he just needs to get through his fucking coffee and maybe figure out a way to get his super-fucking-star actors to do their fucking jobs. One drawback of working with celebrities that no one had warned him about is that their brains apparently shrink as their egos expand, so every set direction just reverberates in their cavernous heads for an hour before it registers. He never had this problem working indie.

"Whatever, it's fine," he grumbles at the phone after a moment. "Who are they sending? Is it anyone I know?"

"Lan Xichen's younger brother, so it can't be too bad!" Jiang Yanli says with forced pep.

Lan Xichen's brother. That means nothing to Wei Wuxian. As far as he knows, the Lans are a family of boring windbags with sticks up their asses. Granted, Lan Xichen's stick may be a tad shorter than the rest's, but that's not saying much.

"Maybe I should just quit," he sighs, and both his siblings start yelling at him simultaneously:

"A-Xian, you can't quit before giving it a fair shot!"

"If you fuck this up, Wei Wuxian, I'll break your fucking legs! We vouched for you."

"Just play along for now, and I know you'll find a way! You always do! It's a great opportunity."

"Put your fucking ego aside for five fucking minutes and act like a normal human being! Everyone does things they don't want to get by."

"Okay, bye!" Wei Wuxian yells over them and ends the call.

Guess I'm getting a babysitter. Fuck.

He remains in the dark, sipping his coffee and stewing, until the growing hubbub on the other side of his window gets too loud to ignore. That's what he gets for getting up at the buttcrack of dawn. So much for an early start.

He should be used to it by now, really. First, it was the film stock. Wei Wuxian had been so excited when he was offered the deal, but he is not naive. He knew there would be a price to pay. It's real hard to be free when you're bought and sold in the marketplace.²

Maybe because it came from Jiejie, he had hoped it wouldn't be so bad. Or that it would be more good than bad, at least. But as soon as he asked to make the film(!) on film(!!), he was slammed with a compromise: we can only allot enough film stock budget for a fraction of the final product. It's fine, Wei Wuxian can work with that. So he saves the film stock for the on-location scenes. Digital will do for the rest.

Next, it was: of course you can have Nie Mingjue star in your film, as long as you allow us to pick your costar. Like a horrible little gift with purchase! Nie Mingjue is no picnic himself, but at least he has the acting chops to make up for it. Wang Lingjiao's entire skill set boils down to looking pretty for the camera and pouting.

And then: yes, certainly, you can oversee the entire process from conception to post-processing, of course! But your crew will be reduced to a skeleton. And it does not escape Wei Wuxian's attention that most of the crew he gets are first-timers on set.

Wen Ning, who is to act as both his first and second assistant camera, has never actually held a camera before. Which is fine. He is eager and takes instruction well. And he's not technically supposed to hold the camera anyway, per se. The primary concern there is that it leaves his sister, Wen Qing, to juggle being not only the Director of Photography and cameraman (camerawoman? cameraperson.) at the same time, but also her little brother's keeper.

To be fair, Wei Wuxian is pretty hands on about the cinematography himself, and Wen Qing's distraction is mostly because she seems incapable of allowing Wen Ning to make his own mistakes, so, in turn, she misses things on her end while watching out for him. And actually, this is also fine. She is the one who wanted Wen Ning for the job, and Wei Wuxian wanted her. He can deal, because she is quite brilliant, and her shoddy work is far superior to your average DP's best. It's also worth it just to have someone on his side in the hostile territory that is Jinlintai fucking Studios.

Wei Wuxian had specifically requested Wen Qing as the DP, which had, of course come with its own caveats—even though she was under Jinlintai contract to begin with.

From day one, it has just been one thing after another, death by a thousand paper cuts. Wei Wuxian can feel himself being herded toward a metaphorical cage like a wolf about to be domesticated into a dog (shudder), begging obediently for scraps from the studio's table, his magnum opus flattening into a cardboard cutout before his eyes.

Which brings us to this. To now. Now, they're sending over a puritan paper-pushing peon to babysit him? Him! The great Yiling Laozu! Bullshit! Complete fucking horsecrap.

Any reasonable creative would have just quit by now. And maybe that's what they really want. There's no denying that Jiang Yanli nudged her peacock husband into putting his neck on the line to get Wei Wuxian this job. Jin Zixuan didn't actually want to hire him. It would be easiest for everyone if he just quit now.

What they don't know, of course, is that Wei Wuxian is not a reasonable man. Wei Wuxian is a maniac—and he likes it that way. The more they try to shove him into their little box, the more he lashes out, the more his creative fire builds. He will give them a masterpiece. It will break box office records. His movie will be taught in film schools alongside Citizen Kane.³ Nay, it will replace Citizen Kane! (What a low bar that is.)

They can all just wait and see.

1. Mild throwback to Blow Out (Brian De Palma, 1981), which opens with a sound effects technician's search for the perfect scream for a low-budget slasher film. He accidentally records evidence of a political conspiracy, tries to expose it, but in the end is only left with the recording of a scream of the girl who helped him as she is strangled on a rooftop. He uses that sound footage in his film.

2. Easy Rider (Dennis Hopper, 1969)

3. Citizen Kane (Orson Welles, 1941) is taught in pretty much every intro to film course, largely for its cinematography and to demonstrate expertly done depth of field. It is often cited as the greatest film ever made.