Chapter Text
The first rehearsal after a concert, everyone strolls in thinking they're hot shit. He'll admit, he's no exception. Wei Ying is still riding the high of the second flute and piccolo solos he'd absolutely killed in Dvorak 9, which had earned him a nod of approval from Lan Qiren, and he barely even feels the first truly chilly wind of fall trying to rip through him on his way to the concert hall. Then again, he's almost always too bundled up to notice things like that. He's rarely seen without a scarf, and even more rarely without his gloves. But examining that means a sour mood, so he pushes the thought away as roughly as he can.
Luckily, he has only a few steps to refuse to think about that before he spots Nie Huaisang crouching just a few feet away from the hall's revolving door entrance. Taking care not to let his flute case slip from where it's slung over his shoulder, he immediately jolts into light speed to join him.
"Huaisang!" he shouts, which makes the other man jump out of his skin. Wei Ying grins and skids to a stop just beside him. "Good morning!"
"Holy fuck," Nie Huaisang exhales, sounding like someone had physically punched him, and frowns upward. "What are you doing! You'll scare him!" He points downward at the concrete and Wei Ying frowns, seeing nothing but windswept leaves, before he immediately joins him in a crouch. Just at the intersection of the concert hall's outside wall and the concrete of the sidewalk lies a single, green lizard.
"A lizard? Do lizards even live around here?" He immediately pulls out his phone so that everyone he knows can be honored to receive approximately 9000 pictures of the tiny boy.
"I don't think so," Nie Huaisang sounds thoughtful. The kind of thoughtful that means something extremely chaotic will immediately follow. It's quite possibly his favorite thing about him.
Wei Ying smiles, raising his eyes from his phone's camera to look at the other man. Nie Huaisang's eyes are already twinkling. "Don't you think he should have a better home than this cold sidewalk?"
"You both are going to be late."
Wei Ying turns to find Wen Qing looking down at them both with an exasperated expression. Wen Ning is just behind her, looking down at the ground curiously, searching for the lizard. Both of their cheeks are tinged pink with the cold, probably having walked all the way here from their shared apartment.
"And abandon our boy?" Wei Ying asks, voice saturated with horror. Nie Huaisang makes a distraught sound beside him.
Wen Qing rolls her eyes. "Put the thing in your pocket and get on with it. If you don't get a chance to tune you'll be disemboweled."
She's right. The approving glance he'd gotten from Lan Qiren during the concert last weekend will only get him so far.
"Alright alright," he waves a hand at her, but she'd already dismissed him and started walking inside, horn case on her back. Wen Ning smiles at him apologetically and follows quickly after, his viola hanging around his shoulder.
There are a couple more minutes spent acquiring custody of the aforementioned baby boy, and a few more minutes filled with fervent Googling of what, exactly, lizards eat and whether or not it would be safe in a pocket for a short period of time, and then there's the discussion about "is this even a lizard, Nie Huaisang, look at his little toes?????" but eventually they both stumble into the concert hall. Nie Huaisang looks perfectly innocent, despite having a lizard in his pocket.
They're lucky to be able to rehearse in the same place they perform, meaning they never have to readjust to the acoustics of the space. The hall has wide, sweeping ceilings, two tiers of audience seats, and the largest chandelier Wei Ying has ever seen in his life hanging just in front of the stage.
Most everyone has already filled into the broad arc of seats on the stage, which makes it easy to see that there are more seats than usual. What's going on? Are they suddenly expecting an influx of transfer students?
He jumps onto the stage, ignoring the stairs on the side (as is his god-given bisexual right), and sidles up to the violins. Lan Qiren isn't around yet, and although he will be soon, he still has a few minutes to annoy his favorite person.
"Lan Zhan!" he calls at a perfectly reasonable volume. Lan Zhan sits in the concertmaster position, at the very end of the wide arc of strings, because he's the best musician in the world. He looks up to acknowledge him but does not stop warming up. Mianmian is already in her seat next to him, meaning he can't drape himself over it like he usually does, so he steps over until he's only a few feet away and pouts instead. "Lan Zhan," he says again.
Lan Zhan gives in and puts his violin down. Wei Ying wonders if anyone else would be able to see the gentleness in his expression. "Wei Ying."
"What's with all the extra seats?" He turns to Mianmian, too, wondering if she knows, but she apparently does not value him over her warm up. He sticks his tongue out at her but she ignores him.
"I have not been informed," Lan Zhan says simply. "You should sit down so you have a chance to settle before we begin."
"Yeah, yeah," Wei Ying says, waving a hand. "Who would I even be if I wasn't scrambling to sit when Lan Qiren walks--" Lan Zhan's eyes shift to something behind Wei Ying, and he sighs at the inevitability of it all. "In," he finishes uselessly.
"Wei Ying." a gruff voice sounds behind him. He blows hair out of his face, gives Lan Zhan an expression that means please help me, and plasters a smile on his face before turning around. Lan Qiren is standing right there, baton in hand, grumpy eyebrows at the ready.
"Good morning!" he greets enthusiastically. Remember when I absolutely killed it in the concert last weekend? he does not say. But he hopes he communicates it with his expression.
Lan Qiren just sighs, which is an improvement over his usual glare, so maybe it really did get him somewhere. He raises a hand and waves him off. "Stop pestering my nephew. Go sit down."
Wei Ying will absolutely not stop pestering his nephew, and they both know it, but he smiles in a way that he hopes looks halfway demure, gives Lan Zhan a quick little wave, and makes his way through the maze of chairs to the flute section.
Lan Huan is already there, of course, because he's the picture of a perfect section leader. He's chatting with Meng Yao, the first oboe who sits right next to him. In his humble opinion, Meng Yao is a snake-ass bitch, but Lan Huan still somehow seems to like him, so he tries to give him a small smile of greeting after waving enthusiastically at Lan Huan.
"Good morning," Lan Huan greets him politely as he dumps all of his stuff in his usual seat to Lan Huan's left and shrugs off his coat. He leaves his scarf and gloves on, just as he always does. "I've told you already, but you really did a great job with the Dvorak."
Wei Ying absolutely preens. "Your uncle didn't even glare at me when I came in! I think I'm growing on him via flute solos!"
Lan Huan smiles. "That may be so."
Lan Qiren taps his baton on the stand in front of him and clears his throat. Wei Ying hopes he looks like he's paying attention as he puts his flute together. "You may have noticed that there are more chairs than usual set out for today."
Wei Ying scoffs, turning his head in hopes of bringing Lan Huan into his look of how the fuck would we not notice, but although there's a gently amused upturn to his lips, Lan Huan doesn't look at him.
"This is because," Lan Qiren continues, "for the next concert cycle, we'll be playing host to a group of students from the neighboring high school. A few will be present in each section. You will incorporate them into your sections and mentor them on your respective instruments." He nods sagely, as if this is exactly as much information as everyone needs on this topic. "I assume you all received and printed the music that I sent you via email--"
Honestly, the minute he'd seen the words "Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto" in his email, he'd quite literally screamed in delight. (Jiang Cheng had jumped two feet in the air, although he would deny it.) It's one of his favorite pieces, and there are a couple of stunning flute solos that he'll have the pleasure of being right next to as Lan Huan plays them. At first, he couldn't wait.
But then he'd read the words "soloist: Wen Chao" and his mood had immediately soured.
Wen Chao is a senior performance major, like himself and Lan Zhan, and he walks around like he's the best violinist to ever live.
The thing is, loathe as he is to admit it, Wen Chao is actually talented. He probably hadn't bribed or murdered his way into the soloist position, as he could actually objectively win an audition for it. But the audition panel clearly had not had all the facts at their disposal. Like the fact that he is an absolute asshole.
The one saving grace of the situation is that Wen Chao himself won't actually be there until halfway through the concert cycle, and that the orchestra would be practicing without him at first. Sure, it will sound odd without the main feature, but the background of it all still needs to be worked on in and of itself. Which Wei Ying has no problem with if that means he doesn't have to see Wen Chao's face for a little longer.
When he tunes back in, Lan Qiren has finished speaking and is gesturing towards the side door of the concert hall, where there are high schoolers lingering in the doorway like vampires who need permission to enter. Wei Ying immediately perks up in his seat. Lan Huan glances at him, looking amused. "I believe we only have one," Lan Huan reminds him, as there's only one extra seat in their section.
As if this would temper his excitement. Mentoring young flute players is his favorite thing in the world. If there's only one, that just means that he'll have more time to spend on helping this young player's musicianship flourish.
"Let's sit them in the middle?" he suggests, thinking it would be best if the young fluteling would be able to whisper to them both if needed.
Lan Huan inclines his head in agreement, so Wei Ying moves his music to the stand to the left, leaving an empty space between him and Lan Huan. This means he's directly next to Mo Xuanyu on bassoon, like usual, and he gives him a brief wave of greeting before looking back to where the kids were shuffling in.
The high schoolers enter from the side, looking half terrified and half ecstatic to be here. He scans the crowd for flute cases, nearly sitting up out of his seat. When he finds one, he whoops and waves, yelling "flute gang!" The student in question flushes only a little and keeps walking, coming to a stop just before Lan Huan's seat.
"Good morning," Lan Huan gestures to the seat in between them. "My name is Lan Huan. I'm excited to work with you."
The student takes his seat eagerly and smiles. "Lan Jingyi." He side-eyes Wei Ying, pausing only a moment before asking, "is it true you once made the director pass out from pure anger?"
"My reputation precedes me! Do I not even need to introduce myself?" Wei Ying physically could not grin any harder. "You are in for a mentorship of a lifetime, little man, just wait."
Jingyi looks pleased. "So it is true? There are a lot of other stories. What about--"
"Let's save embarrassing anecdotes for after rehearsal," Lan Huan chides gently, motioning for Jingyi to put his flute together. He begins to unzip his case, looking only a little bit sorry.
"Yes, I can beatbox with my flute," Wei Ying whispers. It's not actually soft enough to prevent Lan Huan from hearing, but his whispering isn't impeding Lan Jingyi's ability to take his flute out of his case, is it? At Jingyi's widened eyes, he laughs and adds, "Yes, I can teach you."
"We'll begin with the Bach chorale book!" Lan Qiren's voice booms from the front of the stage, demanding their attention. "Number 14!" Jingyi hurriedly stashes his case underneath his chair and flips through his music to find the book and push it to the stand.
"So," Jingyi asks him, turning to him and barely trying to lower his voice, "do you really always play with gloves on?"
He has steeled himself for this question. Everybody asks him this question.
He exhales, and puts on a smile, and lifts his hand, wiggling his fingertips. "I've cut the fingertips off, see? I can cover the keys just fine." The fabric extends to each of his top knuckles and no further, leaving just the tips of the fingers uncovered.
When he was younger, with his $200 aluminum flute, he hadn't needed to cut the fingertips off. He could hide everything underneath a glove, as the flute hadn't required anything different. But now, his most valuable possession sits in his lap: a flute made completely of silver, with each of the keys open-holed. It sounds absolutely lovely, but it necessitates bare fingertips to play.
"Yeah, but why?" Jingyi pushes forward, adamantly requiring an answer.
He reminds himself to breathe. This kid isn't judging him, he's just trying to make conversation.
Wei Ying clicks his tongue. "Don't you know not to question another grown man's aesthetic?" He wiggles his fingers exaggeratedly. "It's called grunge."
Jingyi rolls his eyes but accepts this, turning back to his music. Wei Ying can't help but notice, as he watches him turn the pages looking for the right number, the bright orange running along the back of his right ring finger and the dark blue on the pads of both his left index finger and thumb. There's a muted green on the inside of his right wrist and bright red on his left palm.
He resolutely does not think about his own hands. The gloves cover up a lot, but they do not cover up everything. Even just having the fingertips exposed felt sometimes like an unbearable vulnerability.
Here's the thing. Nearly everyone has marks on their hands. That's just how it works. If you're going to touch someone, you do so with your fingers: a brush against their cheek, a hand slipping into another hand, a gentle touch on an elbow.
If you have no marks on your hands, it means you have never initiated a touch that resulted in a mark, or you initiated touch with something other than your hands. Some people do this for the dramatics of it: kissing someone on the cheek as the first touch, or butting heads with someone, or touching their nose with yours. But of course, these are easily visible too.
He can cover up his palms with his gloves, so that the blankness does not draw stares. But he has no marks on his fingertips, which he cannot easily hide, and none visible on his face or neck, the blankness of which is even more difficult to hide. People look at him and, with a single glance, understand the single most devastating truth that he knows about himself.
They assume that he does not have very many marks. He may be an eccentric, dramatic person, but the likelihood that an individual has all of their marks on, say, their feet or their torso or other places that are not immediately obvious-- that probability goes down as your number of marks increases. He can laugh as much as he wants about how he loves touching people for the first time with odd places, like the knee or the elbow, but it doesn't quite mask the feeling of other that he knows he exudes.
They assume that he does not have a lot of marks. This, while a heavy weight, is not unbearably so. It is okay that they think he is not much loved. It chafes a bit, and feels occasionally like something he has to furiously push down within himself, but it is not unbearable. What would be unbearable is if they knew the truth: that he does not just have very few marks, but none. That he is simply an individual who is not loved at all.
It is a decisively dramatic thing to put on paper, but in practice it is not the worst thing. To be loved is not so different from being liked, and he knows that certainly he is well liked. He sees this in the way that his sister brings him soup when he's sad or when his brother will needle him about wearing enough layers in the winter, or-- he is a few seconds late in raising his flute when Lan Qiren raises his baton, too lost in thought-- Lan Huan casts him a concerned glance.
He sends him a quick reassuring grin and turns to his music. Warming up is a breeze, although taking care to blend with Jingyi as well as Lan Huan takes a bit of work. The flutes hardly ever warrant the conductor's cold stare, a privilege that seems to be wholly for the brass (which they sometimes deserve) and violas (which Wen Ning absolutely does not deserve but handles with more grace then Wei Ying ever shown in his life).
The balance of the ensemble is a little different with the added juniors, but not unmanageably so. Directly after the woodwinds tune, Wei Ying hears some sort of spat in the clarinet section that ends with a loud bang, which he will definitely be asking Jiang Cheng about after.
Hearing the beginning of the Tchaikovsky always puts him in a good mood. The beginning swells of the violins are beautiful, and knowing the violinists in the section creating that sound makes it so much sweeter.
He's really starting to enjoy himself, leaning into the sweet, small flute entrances that all of them nail-- but then. Well. An interesting sound comes from Jingyi about 20 bars in.
Because Lan Qiren is Lan Qiren, he immediately stops the whole orchestra and stares him down. Poor Jingyi looks like he's about to melt into a puddle of goo.
"Do you need some assistance fixing your flute?" Lan Qiren asks.
"I. Um." This is usually the point in time where Wei Ying might make some sort of ridiculous distraction in order to take the heat off of the other kid, but he's honestly curious if he does need help fixing his flute. "Were we not supposed to fluttertongue there?"
Ah, so that sound was a fluttertongue.
Lan Qiren's face does something interesting. "No." he says simply, and then raises his hands again like that was all the clarification needed.
"Fluttertongue is indicated with three slashes, not one," Lan Huan explains softly.
Wei Ying can't help but laugh, a little. "Your fluttertonguing sounded nice, though!" which is a complete lie. But sometimes you need to lie to young musicians to give them a little confidence.
"Then what's this?" Lan Jingyi points to the bar with indignation. Lan Qiren gives a downbeat and the violins start playing at the beginning.
"It's just telling you to keep playing eighth notes, bud," Wei Ying says a little apologetically.
"Oh." Lan Jingyi shifts in his seat and looks a little contrite.
With that one incident aside, sightreading the Tchaikovsky goes pretty well, although there is one memorable moment where the trumpets have some sort of tuning conniption, and while Lan Qiren is more focused on making the violas quieter, the look that Lan Zhan shoots them probably killed a few of them. In fact, Wei Ying probably would have suffered a few injuries himself just from pure proximity to it if they weren't already best friends. As it is, he muffles his laugh into his sleeve, only half trying to disguise it as a cough. Seeing as the trumpets were led by Nie Mingjue, the look is even more impressive.
As expected, the piece sounds odd without the soloist, but if that's the price they have to pay for Wen Chao's absence, he'll take it. Wei Ying is so familiar with the piece already that he barely has to pay attention, and the second flute doesn't even have to play at all in the second movement, so he can just sit back, relax, and enjoy Lan Huan's solos three feet from him.
They don't quite make it to the third movement by the time rehearsal ends, but seeing as the piece is 40 minutes when you don't keep stopping to tell the brass to fix their articulation (which is apparently Lan Qiren's favorite thing to do) it makes sense.
Jingyi thanks them profusely and then immediately sprints off like he has somewhere to be exactly after rehearsal ends, which, although he has only known the kid for approximately two hours, probably tracks.
"Hey," he says, as soon as Lan Huan is done saying goodbye to Meng Yao. Lan Huan turns to him with his full attention. "I know you're probably going to suggest having our sectional in a practice room here, since we have a little one now, but I have a counter-argument prepared."
Lan Huan blinks amusedly. "What is your counter-argument?"
There are multiple reasons why having such a small section is amazing. You have an easier time tuning within your section, for one, but it also means you have an easier time emotionally manipulating the section leader into changing the sectional location for your own personal gain.
"Why don't we just have the sectional at your house, like normal?" he asks, already having his pleading voice turned on. It's the same one he uses on Jiang Cheng when he refuses to watch reality TV with him even though it's the ideal sibling bonding activity. "Three's not so much of a crowd, right? And I can bring my own stand, so there will be enough. And I can email Jingyi and give him your address and everything. It will be amazing."
Lan Huan listens to him as he takes his flute apart and puts it in the case. He pauses with the head joint in his hands and just looks at him. "Is there a problem with the practice rooms here?" he asks dryly. Although he's clearly trying to fit into the role of Serious Section Leader, there's a trace of amusement in his mouth.
Wei Ying blinks back as innocently as he can. "Of course, we can practice here if you want, I just thought your home might be more comfortable." He blinks again. "For Jingyi."
Lan Huan shakes his head and continues putting his flute away. "So this has nothing to do with my brother?" Damn it.
"You have a brother?" He asks innocently.
Okay, so he wants to show off a little for Lan Zhan? Sue him?
"I will email Lan Jingyi and ask him if he is comfortable with that," Lan Huan says, and Wei Ying nearly cheers in victory, "but if he is not, we will meet in a practice room."
"Of course, of course," he agrees eagerly, waving his hand.
Lan Huan zips up his case and stands. "I'll see you tomorrow," he says, half a smile on his face.
He waves goodbye enthusiastically before turning to look behind him at the clarinet section, yelling at Jiang Cheng to hurry up.
It's tradition for the three of them-- himself, Jiang Cheng, and Jiang Yanli-- to meet up for lunch after Monday rehearsals. At the beginning of university, the three of them shared an apartment, but then Jiang Yanli had the audacity to "fall in love" or something, and she moved out after she got married. Ever since his sister moved in with her bastard of a husband, Jin fucking Zixuan, it's the only regular time that the three of them are alone together. He treasures the lunches above almost anything else.
There's the added bonus that Jiang Yanli, being nine months pregnant, can walk into almost anywhere and get a table instantly. Not that they have the budget to go anywhere with long reservation lists or anything, but sometimes Starbucks can get really fucking crowded, okay?
"So," his sister asks, smiling over the top of her cup of hot cocoa, "did you get along with your new juniors?"
Jiang Cheng immediately groans while Wei Ying brightens.
"Mine kept trying to try 'extended techniques,'" Jiang Cheng mutters, stabbing his panini. "She was trying to show off? I think?"
"Was that the noise I heard?" Wei Ying grins.
Jiang Yanli blinks at him, concerned.
"She introduced herself as 'A-Qing,' smiling like she was the most innocent clarinet player in the world," Jiang Cheng says darkly. "I will not fall prey to her emotional manipulation."
"Sounds like you already did, bud," Wei Ying says apologetically. Jiang Cheng glares at him.
Jiang Yanli reaches out to clasp his hand. "I'm sure everything will turn out to be okay." she reassures him.
Wei Ying is sitting on one side of the table with his two siblings across from him, which means he's able to see both of their faces at the same time. They have matching marks, on both of their right temples, from Madame Yu. It's a wonderful swipe of deep purple, extending into the hairline.
Sometimes, when someone is bold enough, they'll ask him why he doesn't have one, since he's also technically a Jiang sibling. He never knows how to respond to that. The truth is too heavy, and there are no convincing lies.
Luckily, neither of his siblings have been within hearing range when someone's asked. He's not quite sure what they might say in response, but he knows that the looks they would give him afterward would cut him a little too sharply.
The thing is, neither of them know the whole truth. Neither of them know he has no marks at all.
The first time he'd touched his sister, when they were both children and he'd been fooling around in the woods, she'd extended a hand to pull him up. He'd accepted it readily, jumping at the first opportunity to touch. He'd been excited, sure that this new sister of his would be someone who could give him his first mark.
He grew out of that sort of excitement quickly. It soured in his stomach almost instantly when their hands met, and, when she pulled away, found her palm smeared with a brilliant red and his utterly devoid of any new color at all.
She'd done a lot of frowning. She'd touched him a few more times, as if that could make any sort of difference. And then, shakily, she'd apologized. As if she shouldered any sort of fault for this at all.
"I'm sorry," she'd said softly, so softly. The wind in the trees had seemed louder. Her gaze was on his hand, which had started to itch with something he'd only later categorize as shame. He put it in his pocket. She sighed, lifting her eyes to his. "You're my brother," she said, like some horrible confession, as if it was unfathomable to her that she would not love her own brother. As if that were something to do with her character and not his.
"It's okay," he'd said, because what else could you say? He hadn't understood, then, that this was the beginning of many more conversations just like it. "It's not your fault."
Her expression tightened with determination. "I know I will love you," she said, mouth tight. "I know it."
"Okay," he'd said, unable to argue. "Maybe the mark was wrong." He'd said it honestly, at the moment, but only later realized how naive that was. He wanted to believe it, but the want was not so much that he was willing to live his whole life in a self-made delusion.
She'd nodded sharply, as if he'd suggested a perfectly reasonable thing. "It is. The mark must be wrong."
"Okay," he'd said again, and they'd walked back home together.
Love isn't the kind of thing that can be easily measured in a gaze, in a smile, in an action. The only way people are physically able to measure it is with the marks: the deeper the color, the more the capacity for love. If a mark was wrong, there wouldn't be an easy way to prove it.
And perhaps, if that had been the one time someone had said that to him, said that they loved him and it was his skin that was at fault, he'd learn to believe it. To take his sister's warm smiles at face value. To believe the mark really was wrong.
But it wasn't the only time.
The first time he'd touched his brother, perhaps a few weeks later, was entirely an accident, and much less of a moment than it had been with his sister. Both hadn't realized it had happened until afterward. He'd been on the top bunk of their shared bunk bed, dangling off of it and teasing him as he'd sputtered below. Gravity had won eventually, of course, and Wei Ying had fallen, landing directly on top of him.
After a few minutes of cursing (on both of their parts), Jiang Cheng had blinked at his arm, a little below the shoulder, where a new, stark red partial handprint now lay. "Wait, holy shit," he'd said, immediately reaching for Wei Ying's hand. He hadn't pulled away fast enough.
To this day, Wei Ying wasn't quite sure what it was that he saw on his brother's face when he saw his colorless palm. Was it confusion? Anger? Guilt? He wasn't even sure what he himself had felt, only that it had twisted painfully within him then and that the tension had never quite let up. He carried it with him, like a tax for being broken in a way no one else was.
They had never talked about it. Not then, and certainly not now. Not that Jiang Cheng not talking about his feelings is in any way a surprise. It is perhaps a very good thing, if the resulting awkward conversations with the few that had managed to touch him before he'd learn to avoid it at all costs are anything to go by.
His father, months after adopting him, had offered him a hand after dinner. The rest of the family had left, and his father had a sort of soft look in his eye. And then, after a beat, had raised his hand slowly over the table. He left it there, palm up, a clear invitation. At this point, Wei Ying hadn't noticed the pattern. At this point, he'd still harbored a little bit of hope.
He'd extended a hand over the table, mirroring his father's, with the palm up. His father had smiled, something warmer than he'd ever seen, and brought the back of his knuckles to the inside of Wei Ying's wrist.
He'd stained his father's knuckles a modest blue. For a moment, Wei Ying had looked at the color almost proudly, as if loving someone could be an achievement. As if loving someone was something you could help at all.
His father-- his father had just looked sad, as he'd pulled his hand slowly away, eyes never breaking from his wrist. Wei Ying had felt a sense of nausea, then, as if he'd just failed an exam. As if it was on him, now, to make this moment less awkward. But he had nothing to offer: no lighthearted quips, no carefree smiles, no easy words to make the other feel more comfortable. The guilt had climbed up into his throat and stayed there, muting him. The skin of his wrist was as blank as it always was.
He didn't say sorry. That is, perhaps, the one thing he could be proud of. At least he didn't lower himself to the level of apologizing for being who he is.
His father had brought them out of the moment, eventually, clearing his throat. "Ah," he'd said, "no matter." He'd reached out and patted his wrist a few times, in comfort. "You're still my son."
And really, he shouldn't be so wrapped up about it. You didn't need to love someone in order to be important to them. He knew that his father saw him as his son, completely and wholly. That is something he treasured.
A soft touch to his hand startles him out of his thoughts. Jiang Yanli is looking at him, eyebrows furrowed. "Are you feeling okay?"
"Yep!" he says cheerfully, squeezing her hand. "Sorry, I was up all night writing a midterm paper for music history." Which isn't a lie, Jiang Cheng could attest to it.
She hums. "Maybe you should go back and take a nap," she suggests.
"And miss time with my sister, unmarred by Jin Zixuan's presence?" She gives him a look , but he just grins. "Never. Talk to me about your juniors?"
Jiang Yanli led the cello section, because she's a badass, and apparently now had a bunch of starry-eyed high schoolers ready to do her every whim. Wei Ying certainly couldn't fault them for that. His sister's smile could probably end wars.
The rest of lunch goes smoothly, with no more Emotional Incidents, but eventually Jin Zixuan shows up, ready to sweep her away. They let him, but only because the bastard looks at her like she hung the moon, attentive to her every movement. As he should.
Jiang Cheng, in a moment of what might even be emotional intelligence, understands that he's still feeling a little out of it.
"Why are you so mopey?" Jiang Cheng asks him as he unlocks their apartment and steps inside. Wei Ying rolls his eyes, taking off his coat and hanging it up. "Don't give me that shit about being tired, I'm not going to let it go like Yanli."
How honest can he be? How much honesty would Jiang Cheng tolerate?
He waits until they're both on the couch, and Jiang Cheng is flipping through channels for something that probably isn't reality TV, because he sucks. "Sometimes," he says slowly, "seeing you two together, side-by-side. It reminds me what Madame Yu didn't give me." He brushes his temple under the guise of sweeping the hair out of his face.
Jiang Cheng frowns but doesn't look at him, a typical Jiang Cheng move. "Just because she never touched you doesn't mean she doesn't love you. We all do."
"Damn. Did that hurt to say?"
His brother snorts. "Shut up. Just because some sort of fluke happened with me doesn't mean I don't give a shit about you."
He is very careful not to flinch. Some sort of fluke. He doesn't know that it had happened again. That it had happened every time.
Wei Ying does not correct him. He doesn't want to put that particular devastation on his brother's shoulders. And perhaps a small part of him is hesitant to hand him the keys to his own undoing. To write the name of his most revealing secret on his brother's heart. Present him with his greatest weakness, all wrapped up in a bow.
"Of course I know that," he forces out instead, and it's not really a lie. He knows that his brother gives a shit about him. Love is not the only way to give a shit.
"I mean, even if you wanted to write me off as a jackass who didn't love you, you still have our sister."
He should laugh. This is something that he would have laughed at, if he were normal. He should smile and wave it off and reassure his brother-- but he cannot get the corners of his mouth to move upward. He feels as though he can barely even breathe.
He hopes his brother won't notice his discomfort, but Jiang Cheng's eyebrows furrow, and-- damn it. "What the hell is wrong with you?" he asks sharply. "You tell me you don't think Yanli loves you and I'll kick your ass."
He swallows. He knows that she cares for him. He knows that. He can't tear his eyes away from the window.
"The fuck is wrong with you?"
He needs to change the subject. He needs to say-- anything. Finally, his mouth cooperates, and he's able to shove his lips upward into something like a smile. "I'm fine. Just tired." he forces out.
"Don't give me that bullshit, I'm your fucking brother. Why do you look like someone just broke your flute?"
He can't tell him. Can he? He trusts his brother, he loves his brother, but trust and love do not mean that his brother will not hate him for this.
"If you won't talk to me, I swear to god I'm not above bringing Yanli in here."
What else can he say? What kind of story can he spin that will be believable? His heart hurts too much to make anything up right now. And so he-- he tells the truth.
"She didn't leave a mark on me," he says hollowly. And there it is.
His brother is completely silent for a full 20 seconds. He has halfway decided to just stand up and go back to his room when his brother breaks it. "That's bullshit. She loves you."
He looks at his hands. "She cares for me," he says, trying very hard not to make it sound like a complaint.
"Wait, what the fuck, you're serious right now? How could she not leave a mark on you? Are you fucking with me?"
Very, very slowly, he takes off his gloves. As soon as he does so, he feels worse. Suddenly, he is sure he is going to be sick. "It wasn't just you, or Yanli," he says quietly. "No one has."
He does not look at his brother's face. Why is he saying this? Why is he giving his brother a weapon against him? Is he really so desperate for even the slightest amount of comfort? Is he so desperate to share this burden with someone?
"What the fuck," is all his brother manages.
"Yeah," he says shakily, pulling on his gloves again.
"Who else knows?"
Wei Ying closes his eyes. "I've never told anyone else."
"Why tell me?" Jiang Cheng sounds incredulous, like that's the most unbelievable thing he's heard in his life.
He stands, now, truly intending to go back to his room to sleep. He is unsure what to say. It was half because he wanted to, and half because he was pushed into it. Or perhaps he'd been wanting to tell someone for so long that when the slightest opportunity to share presented itself, he jumped at it.
Or perhaps he saw the opportunity to cause himself a world of pain later, and started the ball rolling now.
He does not say don't tell anyone else and he certainly doesn't say you won't use this against me later, will you? because that sounds too pathetic even in his head.
He bites back an apology, which bubbles up out of nowhere, and instead shakes his head. "I'm going to go take a nap," he says, a purposeful non-answer, and leaves the room.
His brother does not stop him.