yan. (resub) d9 / fin

consort yu
(or: the first passing)

but i know that for me there will be no death.
because grief (and what other name is left for me?)
has made me eternal.
 - dido's lament, rosario castellanos

YU JI: You, as our Lord, have lost confidence.

XIANG YU: Alas!

YU JI: I, as your Lady, have no strength to go on.

Rina: Dear, I don't think that's right.

Fuhui: Is it not?

Rina: See here, "I, as your Lady, have no courage to go on."

Fuhui: Courage.

Rina: Courage.

Fuhui: Right then.

Zheng: Again?

Fuhui: Let's do it again.

YU JI: You, as our Lord, have lost confidence.

XIANG YU: Alas!

YU JI: I, as your Lady, have no courage to go on.

orchids
(or: how the rot stays hidden)

i want to possess you completely -
your jade body and your promised heart.
my dear, let me buy you a red painted boat
and carry you away.
 - for the courtesan ch'ing lin, wu zao

As far as weddings go, it isn't a bad one.

Siyu and Jiao make a wonderful couple. They're practically picture perfect. He's primed to inherit a business, and she's nearly finished the training to be a school teacher.

Jiao's family is wealthy, or as wealthy as you can be in Nine, and so the wedding is at his parent's estate. It's a modest house of marble and polished wood and lilac curtains, and the flower beds are always well tended to. They have a greenhouse in the far back corner of their gardens because Jiao's father is fond of the more temperate plants.

"I look fat." Xiulan says crossly as she and Bowen walk up the front path.

"You don't look fat." Her husband says, one hand resting gently on her back, "You're glowing."

"That's what men always say. You don't look fat, dear - you're glowing. No, you're not flushed at all - you're just glowing!"

"Well, you are."

"Well, I'm about to glow my way right out of this thing. The colour Siyu picked out is atrocious. I mean really, seafoam? Who puts their bridal party in seafoam?"

She finishes hissing it out right as the front door opens. Jiao stands there, waiting with his dress shirt half-buttoned and his tie undone.

"Xiulan." He greets warmly, kissing her cheek. Xiulan pats his chest and compliments the floral arrangements, then moves past to embrace Siyu, who fawns over the roundness of her stomach.

"Any day now!" She cries, embracing her, "Oh, how exciting would it be if she came today?"

"Or he." Bowen chimes in from behind the entryway.

"Yes, well let's hope it's not today." Xiulan says as Jiao takes her coat, "I'd hate to ruin this dress."

"You look beautiful," Siyu gushes, "The green really brings out your glow."

Xiulan elbows Bowan when Siyu turns away, sending him a look.

"Why aren't you dressed yet, Siyu?"

"I need your help with the buttons." She takes Xiulan's hands and starts to lead her up the grand staircase, slow-going with the way she waddles, "Come on, we can leave the boys to catch up."

It's a silly little thing to say - there isn't much to catch up on, after all.

The four of them went to school together and have been good friends for even longer. At Xiulan and Bowen's wedding last year, Siyu and Jiao had been in the wedding party, and it had gone much the same way. Siyu had cried and Jiao had clapped Bowen on the shoulder, Xiulan spilled wine on her mother's old wedding dress before the ceremony and got to change into the new one she actually wanted to wear. The four of them went out after, stumbling their way down the crawl street like they were teenagers again.

There aren't many secrets between people who have grown up together like that. Siyu was always the smartest and none of their teachers would ever believe that she'd help Bowen cheat on his exams. The four of them decided that it wasn't really cheating if she was just reminding him of things he already knew.

It's the same way as how Jiao used to steal orchids from his father's greenhouse and bring them to Xiulan. Siyu found out and got jealous, so then she started getting a bouquet for her birthdays too. Even Bowen got one once, but when he opened it he laughed so hard that he snorted, which sent the rest of them going until they couldn't quite remember what was so funny in the first place.

Siyu babbles as they walk to the guest room, gossiping about the minor catering problem they had, the guests that arrived too early, the musician who - against all warnings, had actually forgotten his instrument and still wasn't back from retrieving it. She clicks the door open and hurries to the bathroom where her cheongsam is hanging, holding it proudly for Xiulan to examine.

"That's not your mother's, is it?"

"No, I decided to get something new. I like the embroidery along here much better. What do you think?"

"It's nice." Xiulan lies. "It looks expensive."

"Oh, Jiao said not to worry about that type of thing."

"Did he now?"

"Mhm. It's so nice not to have to think about the money, you know?

"Where's your veil?"

Siyu waves her hand, "I didn't want one. I can barely walk straight even when I can see where I'm going. Jiao's mother threw a bit of a fuss - you know her, but it all worked out."

"How nice."

"Isn't it?" Siyu starts to pull the dress from the bag, stepping behind a screen, "I was surprised honestly, but it's all been so wonderful. Although I do wish we could have been engaged a little longer before the actual wedding." She peeks over the screen fondly, "You and Bowen were so cute for all those years."

She's not wrong, Xiulan supposes. Her engagement lasted nearly five years. Siyu and Jiao have been fiancés for barely five months.

Siyu comes around the corner with the dress pulled to her shoulders and then immediately throws a fuss when she sees Xiulan lingering.

"You shouldn't still be on your feet! Here, sit, you can help me from there."

"I'm just pregnant, Siyu, not dying."

"You know what I mean!"

Siyu stands patiently while Xiulan eases herself into one of the armchairs, hands outstretched for the dress clasps.

"Hold it here and I'll do it up."

"You know," Siyu starts with, which is never really a good sign, "I think I'm actually quite nervous."

Xiulan picks away a stray thread and tries not to laugh, "That's normal."

"I really love Jiao, you know?"

"I do."

"I just want today to be perfect."

"It will be."

"Yeah."

Xiulan stops and looks up at her, eyes narrowing slightly, "If you're getting cold feet-"

"No!" Siyu exclaims, "No, it's not that."

"It's normal to be nervous, Siyu."

"Were you nervous?"

"Of course I was."

"You just never seem nervous."

Xiulan tosses her hair back rather showily, "My mother was an actress. It's in my blood."

Siyu smiles. Sighs.

"I just want it to be perfect." She says again.

Xiulan pushes the last button through the last loop and casts an appraising eye over the whole thing.

"Everything will be fine." She says reassuringly. "Let's go get you married."



As far as ceremonies go, it isn't a bad one.

Siyu cries, which is to be expected. Jiao is very handsome in his suit and very charming with his vows, making all the ladies titter with his jokes. Even Bowen's toast goes well, and when he sits back down he runs a thumb back and forth over Xiulan's knuckles.

"How are your feet?" He whispers when Siyu's mother begins her speech.

"Swollen to all hell." Xiulan whispers back.

"And the seafoam?"

"Still terrible, but thank you for asking."

"Well," Bowen says slyly, with a certain twinkle in his eye, "At least you're glowing in it."

Xiulan whacks his arm and they hide their giggles in their champagne flutes when eyes turn to them.

"God, look at that woman's hat." Xiulan points from behind her hand, "If I ever get to that age and start wearing things like that, just shoot me."

"Be nice." Bowen chides.

"I refuse. Look at that thing."

"Maybe it's got sentimental value."

"I don't think it has any value at all."

Bowen chuckles, a little strained. "Dear, it's just a hat."

"An ugly hat. I'm pregnant and prone to nausea, just looking at it makes me queasy."

"Listen to the speeches." Bowen reprimands lightly, withdrawing his hand.

And so while Siyu's mother recites the longest poem known to man, Xiulan attempts to set fire to a woman's hat by sheer will. Bowen catches her glaring at it more than once, and he sighs deeper each time.

After an eternity finally passes, the speech finishes and the lady gets up, leaving for the banquet table and taking her hat with her. Xiulan leans over to Bowen and steals a kiss to get the bad taste out of her mouth.



"Wait, I need to fix my makeup before we go!"

"Hurry up, Siyu, it'll be closed by the time you're done!"

Xiulan lounges on a chaise in the sitting room while Siyu dashes off to touch up her face. The guests have all left now, and it's time for the quartet's yearly tradition of pretending they're not grown adults and they still have their whole lives ahead of them.

All four of them married now - and to each other no less. Who would've thought.

There's a vase of moth orchids on the low table in front of Xiulan that keeps catching her eye. They're a dark blush, and the petals have started to curl inwards, like they're shy.

They must be some new strain.

Jiao offers Bowen a cigar while they wait, but Xiulan breaks from her musings to intercept it with a glare.

"Don't you dare." She says fiercely, pointing at her stomach. "If I can't have one, then you can't either."

Bowen claps Jiao's shoulder goodnaturedly.

"Welcome to married life." He says, passing the cigar back, "You'll learn to pick your battles too."

Siyu comes prancing down the stairs, having changed from red to pink, and decrees her readiness. Xiulan holds her arms out so Bowen can help her up.

"This almost isn't worth it for me, you know." She grumbles, "I can't even drink."

"It'll all be worth it, dear."

Siyu gives a nervous sort of chuckle, glancing at them all and wringing her hands.

"Well, turns out I won't be drinking tonight either." She says excitedly.

Xiulan freezes.

Bowen lights up, letting Xiulan sink back onto the chaise, "You mean-"

"Yes!" Siyu rocks on the balls of her feet, bounding over to Jiao and wrapping her arms around his neck, "We're expecting!"

Bowen quickly moves across the room to congratulate them, "Oh, that's great!" He looks back at Xiulan, "The kids can be friends, isn't that great?"

"Great." Xiulan manages.

"We've already decided on the room for the nursery." Siyu starts, "We're going to look at paint colours next week and ask Jiao's mother to do the mural. I think it should be some kind of flowers, lilies maybe, but Jiao said-"

"And it's his?"

Bowen shoots Xiulan a surprised look. Siyu falters slightly- "I - what?"

Xiulan raises her eyebrows, her arms crossing, she repeats, "And it's Jiao's?"

Siyu seems taken aback, she looks at Xiulan questioningly. Jiao goes blank.

"Xiulan." Bowen hisses, "What-"

"I'm just asking."

Jiao rises from his casual lean, taking the cigar from his mouth, his face hardens, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's a fair question."

"How is that a fair question?"

"I'm just asking!"

Bowen steps away from Siyu and approaches Xiulan, sitting beside her, he asks lowly, carefully - "Xiulan, what are you doing?"

She throws her arms up, "I'm just asking if Siyu is sure that it's Jiao's baby. He does have a tendency to forget these things, you know."

Siyu looks distraught, "I don't know what-"

"It's the hormones." Jiao says lightly, a hand on Siyu's elbow already.

"Hormones!" Xiulan cries. "Hormones? Oh, that's rich."

Bowen puts a hand on her shoulder gingerly, "Xiulan, you're not making sense."

"Maybe Jiao can explain it, since I'm so hormonal."

They all look at Jiao. He looks anywhere but them.

Xiulan lets out an awful little laugh.

"Yeah, that's what I thought." She says, dismissive.

Bowen looks worried, glancing between the two of them, "Dear-"

"It's not yours." She says.

Bowen goes very still. His mouth stays open like a fish. Xiulan stares at one of the bookcases.

"It's not yours." She turns, biting, "The baby."

"Don't-" Jiao starts, and then immediately cuts himself off, his jaw clenching as he looks at the ceiling.

Bowen's head whips towards him, an incredulously sort of expression spreading across his face.

"Surprise!" Xiulan crows terribly.

Bowen just looks dumbstruck.

“But we slept-“

“That was after I found out. Even you wouldn't have believed I'd gotten pregnant without sex."

"She's lying." Jiao says shortly.

"I'm not."

Then Bowen, quietly, "Do we need to take you to the doctor?"

"Oh-ho, fuck you."

Siyu's remained very quiet throughout this all, but now she turns to Jiao with teary eyes.

"Jiao," She says pleadingly, then again when he won't look at her, "Jiao?"

Bowen steps into the silence when Jiao says nothing, his voice rising, "How did this even happen-"

"My birthday." Xiulan says, "He stops by to bring me the orchids every year, you know that."

Siyu's voice is very small when she suddenly sits down, her hands in her lap.

"Why are you ruining my day?" She asks without looking up.

Xiulan turns on her, her fingers clenched in seafoam, "I'm not the one who brought it up." The room shifts, "And that's what you're so worried about? Your day? Not the fact that I have your husband's child in me?"

Jiao slams his hand against the wall, "Ripred, Xiulan."

Bowen stands from the chaise, "So you two were going to, what - run away together when the baby was born? Pretend nothing happened? Let me raise it, thinking it was mine?"

"Raise him." Xiulan reminds him snidely.

Siyu bursts into tears suddenly. She puts both hands over her mouth and then rises, fleeing up the stairs. Bowen looks between Xiulan and Jiao for a long moment, saying nothing. Then he nods to himself, pressing a fist against his teeth, and he leaves too.

The beat of silence that comes after the front door slams is startlingly loud.

Jiao rolls his shoulders and the handsomeness of him fades.

“You know, Xiulan,” He says sharply now, all that charm seeping out, “Making the people around you miserable isn’t going to make you less miserable.”

"Go take care of your wife." She hisses back.

He gives her one last dark look, and then leaves to chase after Siyu.

Xiulan leans back into the chaise. She puts a hand over her stomach and stares at the orchids on the table.

She wants out of this fucking dress.

lady bai
(or: something is born, again)

it wasn't that i vowed to be this character from now on,
but i would be less weak on the outside,
less available to be eaten alive.
 - sharon stone

BAI SUZHEN: I waited for you to come home, but you did not see me.

Yaoqing: Louder!

BAI SUZHEN: I waited for you to come home, but you did not see me!

BAI SUZHEN: How pathetic that I was woken from a dream of everlasting love and could do nothing but worry about my unborn child.

Yaoqing: Louder, Feiyan!

Canghai: I can't get any louder.

Yaoqing: If I cannot hear you in the front row, how will the audience hear you in the back? You think that it's my ears that are the problem?

Canghai: Well...

Yaoqing: Skip ahead to the aria, stand up- do not roll your eyes.

Canghai: I wasn't.

feiyan
(or: how one acts)

i etch my own face upon my wicked flesh. /
i am my own devastating god.
 - shiv, rachael mckibbens

Lazy August. Yaoqing wears a brocade that shines even in the shade. He's had his wicker chair brought down from his rooms and rests, watching the morning halberd training. Canghai sits on the floor copying over a script and refills the teacup whenever Yaoqing sets it down. It’s menial enough that it stops his mind from wandering. Boring enough that he's quickly overcome with the desire to claw his own eyes out.

“Which one do you like?”

Canghai doesn't look up from the line that he's copying, “What do you mean?”

There’s a line of at least a dozen boys doing the drills, lances glinting in the early sun. Yaoqing hasn't brought his pipe outside. His expression is sharper.

“Not all of them will be on stage." He says, "Too many emperors makes the palace uneasy.”

“You’re the one in charge.” Canghai mutters, “Why ask me?”

“You’re the one that will be performing with them.” Yaoqing gestures swiftly down the line, “You have two choices. Pick someone worse than you - shine brighter, but play opposite a fool. Or, pick someone better than you, regulate yourself to Consort, and let them do the heavy lifting.”

“That’s- The Consorts are the main characters.” Yaoqing just hums. “Besides, there’s no one here better than me.”

“There might be.”

“Who?”

“Don’t be naive. It doesn’t suit you.”

“There was no one better than Lanyan.”

“There were plenty of people better than Lanyan.”

“Then why was he first?”

Yaoqing turns to look down at him, “You know why.”

There's a still moment where Yaoqing sets his cup down and Canghai begrudgingly lifts the teapot.

Then Yaoqing looks back towards the rehearsal, “Pick one.” He says.

Canghai huffs and leans back on his heels, he gives them all a cursory glance and then says at random, “Second on the left.”

“Why?” Yaoqing asks simply.

“Why not?” Canghai retorts.

Yaoqing waits, saying nothing. This has been his newest technique - to let the steam run out on its own rather than trying to smother it. The removal of the backboard for taunts becomes rather effective.

“He’s the tallest.” Canghai finally goes with.

“Go tell him to come over.”

Canghai sends him a questioning glance but Yaoqing is still watching the drills. He pushes himself to his feet and ignores how the boys all fall out of form and watch him approach.

He stops in front of the boy second to the left.

“Master Yaoqing wants to talk to you.”

The other boys start to snicker. This one flushes and Canghai turns, hurrying back to where Yaoqing is waiting without checking to see if he's being followed.

Yaoqing squints at the boy when they're back, turning his cup in his hands, “Which one are you?”

“Yitang.”

He sounds nervous. He's going to be eaten alive.

“Emperor Cheng.” Yaoqing corrects. Then jabs his cane towards Canghai, “This will be your Feiyan.”

Canghai makes a noise of outrage and looks at him, affronted.

It’s obvious that Yitang isn’t sure what to make of this.

“Um.” He says lamely.

Yaoqing bangs his cane against the ground once and both boys flinch away from it, “I don’t expect you to be familiar with it. Stand beside each other, let me see.”

They do, and Yaoqing looks at them appraisingly. He harrumphs, nodding, says: “The contrast is good.”

He gestures dismissively to Yitang: “You will eat more,” Then to Canghai: “and you will eat less.”

His cane hits the ground again and he crooks a finger at them until they both step closer.

“This is the story: Zhao Feiyan is a very simple dancing girl, left out and abandoned by her parents to die. She is taken in by a lowly family and grows up outside of the palace, but catches the eye of Emperor Cheng. Recognizing this advantage, she seduces him and turns him against his other consorts so that she may become Empress. She gets her wish eventually, she becomes Empress, but she does horrible things to get there, and eventually Feiyan gets old and can no longer hold the Emperor's attention as she used to. He finds someone newer and younger, Feiyan attempts to poison them both, and then she kills herself.”

Yaoqing ignores the way Canghai is trying to burn a hole through his skull. “You understand?”

Yitang doesn’t. He looks between them both gingerly.

"You will." Yaoqing decides, "You will continue with regular training, and in the evenings you come back for Emperor Cheng."

Before Canghai can even fully open his mouth, Yaoqing spits - "No arguing." He slams his teacup down and gestures Yitang away.

"Back to work."




Aloys, despite having a voice that sounds like a crow drowning, is surprisingly adept at landing minor sheng roles. He is also surprisingly adept at both stifling and egging on Canghai's temper. He's a terrible gossip and an even worse friend, handsome in the right lighting, but way too cocky to actually pull a handsomeness like that off.

He's also the number one rising influence in the crisis of underage drinking.

“We have to rehearse every night. And he just doesn't- he doesn't show up."

"You don't have to rehearse every night."

"How else will it be perfect?"

"Ripred."

Aloys cradles his pilfered gin bottle like a baby, taking one exasperated swig after another. He offers it to Canghai each time, who refuses each time. Alcohol makes the face fat and the skin inflamed. Aloys could evidently use some of this discipline.

"He doesn't even like me."

"Why the hell do you care if he likes you?"

"He has to like me. He's supposed to. Master paired us together."

"Hmm." Aloys hums, he sips at the bottle again, "Maybe if you weren't so insufferable."

"You're insufferable."

"Funny how we're both still here."

Canghai collapses on the cot beside him and traces the lines of the ceiling until they swim. The gin bottle slowly starts to float into his view as Aloys shakes it over his face.

"You know what would make you feel better-"

"Cut it out."

"I know you didn't eat." Aloys sing-songs, "That'll make it work faster."

“The consort shouldn't always have to die.” Canghai says suddenly, nearly out of nowhere.

Aloys blinks down at him and then rolls his eyes, not for the first time and not for the last - "It’s not real.” He chides.

Canghai tries to glare at him, but the effect is pitiful.

Aloys finally gets out of his face and leans against the wall instead, "Fine. Feiyan had to seduce the Emperor to get him to notice her, right?"

"I don't want to seduce, Yitang."

"Maybe that's your problem."

"That's not my problem."

Aloys sniffs. "I bet you don't even know the first thing about it."

"Excuse me-"

"Please. Locked up there in your tower with Yaoqing, he's probably isolating you on purpose you know, like one of those creepy stepmothers in the stories that Lilian likes." Aloys points at him, finger wavering dangerously close to his eye, "That's you. You're the princess. The one with the hair."

Canghai just stares at him.

Aloys gets closer, suddenly very serious, the gin wafts off him like cologne, "You need to get Yitang to climb your hair."

"You're drunk"

Aloys hoists the bottle up like it's a torch, "And you could be too!"

Canghai tucks in his little finger and wraps his index around his thumb in the vaguely operatic sign for fuck off. Aloys looks at him, unimpressed. Then his mouth turns wicked.

"He's probably with Hong."

Canghai narrows his eyes, "Who?"

"One of the clowns." He says lightly, which makes Canghai's mouth shutter closed.




Yaoqing cares very little for this plight.

"I am going to tell you something," He says, once Canghai has fully bored him with the rambling story, "And you must listen for once."

He exhales a single plume, waits for it to disperse, and then says plainly: "You will never be loved."

Canghai stares at the floor very hard.

"There is no love here. It doesn't exist. Someone may be infatuated with you, they will fall in love with the idea of you, they may very well tell you that they love you, they will buy you things and treat you kindly and they will come to watch you, but they will not love you. It will not be love. They will always want something from you."

"You know this." Yaoqing continues, not unkindly, "The Emperor did not love Feiyan, he was only infatuated with her."

"Xiang Yu loved Consort Yu-"

"Not enough to let her live for him."

"Xu Xuan-"

"Abandoned Bai Suzhen once he discovered what she truly was."

And the thing is, he's not wrong. But he's not entirely right either.

"I'm not saying this to be cruel." He remarks, "Now enough. Stop bothering me with these petty things."




Aloys is still drinking in his room when Canghai stumbles back. He takes one look at Canghai's face and his eyebrows nearly fly off his face.

“I thought Yaoqing liked you.” He says incredulously.

"Yaoqing doesn't like anyone.” Canghai snaps back bitterly and Aloys holds his hands up in surrender.

Then Canghai points at the gin - "Give me that." He demands.

And Aloys lights up.

lilies
(or: how things align)

i remember . . . my god, my god, whose performance am i watching?
how many people am i? who am i?
what is this space between myself and myself?
 - the book of disquiet, fernando pessoa

Xiulan’s mother gives her tickets to the opera for her 40th birthday.

She and Bowen have two children now, their own children, and they've grown up to be little monsters. But that's besides the point. The opera night is date night, and so it's just the two of them, dressed in the casual type of formal wear that comes from being strictly middle-class.

Xiulan clenches Bowen's hand when they approach their seats in the theatre, when she sees the back of the wheelchair.

"Jiao." She greets plainly, and then "Siyu." when his wife turns at her voice.

She curses her meddling mother and makes a mental note to take another look at the care home brochures tucked in their kitchen drawer.

"Xiulan! Bowen!" Siyu says gladly, like a day hasn't passed between any of them, "Don't you two look wonderful."

Jiao says nothing, staring ahead with his hands clasped in his lap.

"Nice to see you." Bowen says, surprisingly a little less stiff than Xiulan would've expected.

Jiao still says nothing.

Xiulan stares at the side of his face and nearly wishes he would turn to look at her. It's been years since that freak robbery incident put him in the chair, but they only really found out about it a few months ago. It wasn't even from Jiao. It wasn't even from Siyu. Some of the other parents at the hall had been talking about it, and how such a handsome, well-liked man had been dealt such an unfortunate hand.

Xiulan had to ask for his name three times before it fully sunk in.

Siyu still starts to beam as Xiulan and Bowen squeeze past them to take their seats, her trademark smile peeking out like a little sunbeam in the midst of a raincloud, “We left the girls at home." She says conspiratorially, "It’s date night tonight.”

Xiulan feels her face stretch into something uncomfortable.

"How nice." She says.

And then the drums start, and they don't speak again.




Once Zhao Feiyan has died and the palace has been righted, Xiulan turns to Bowen, her ears ringing and her face warm.

"Who was the lead?" She asks, rolling her ankles to get feeling back into them.

Bowen flips the playbill over and scans the writing while the crowd around them starts to disperse. Siyu gives them a little wave and then takes hold of Jiao's chair, pushing him down the aisle and away.

"Oh, here." Bowen says, one finger pointing at the paper, "Yan?"

"Hmm." Xiulan hums, scrunching her nose and grabbing her coat from the back of the chair, "Didn't sound very good, did he?"

banshi
(or: another performance)

he had grieved for me, i'll give him that much.
but then he is so good at grieving!
he wears woe as others wear velvet;
sorrow flatters him like the light of candles;
tears become him like jewels.

well, none of that trash works on me.

 - the tale of the body thief, anne rice

Yaoqing dies and Yan makes the theatre tremble.

He’s inconsolable.

The death is sudden and without warning. It’s Daming who finds Yaoqing in his high-backed chair, pipe in hand still, and when he stumbles strangely into the hall and announces it in a very meek voice, the entire theatre falls into a hush. Yan is midway through perfecting a move in Consort Yu's sword dance, and he bursts out laughing.

It’s a shockingly loud thing with those cavernous ceilings. He turns hysterical in a way that makes everyone file out of the room very quietly. Yitang is the only one who lingers, mainly because Yan is crouched on the floor in tears trying to explain the joke to him. He clings to Yitang's kao as the other boy discretely nudges the blunted swords away, Yan's trying to get him to listen. just listen, it's funny.

It's fucking hilarious.

No one approaches him for a long time. The sounds from his room are unpleasant, and they make the juniors hurry past.

He destroys his own room first, takes everything from the walls and throws it to the floor, sits in the middle of the mess like he’s on a raft at sea. The first twenty-four hours are an entire blur, and he's sure that he sees no-one during that time.

Then Daming comes to him armed with a meat shield. Yan is surprisingly docile. Exhausted, more likely. They’re cordial for approximately five seconds before stupid little Daming peers out from around his shield's shoulder and says that Yaoqing’s estranged nephew, a boy none of them have even heard of, is there to take his inheritance.

Yan loses it so precisely that Daming actually ditches Yize in the room and makes a run for it himself. The attention draws the other actors. Yize walks out with the kingfisher fan and Yan spends the next nine hours as one continuous scream.

He moves on to Yaoqing’s room with a fractured sort of focus. There’s the scripts that Yaoqing had been marking up - he burns those in the fire grate. There’s the brocades that he always wore - he throws those from the window and watches them land in the dirtied puddles of the courtyard. He finds a picture of Yaoqing young and with the original company, his arm around a girl, and he throws it against the wall. He takes the kettle and uses it to bash at a crystal vase. He finds a set of very fine porcelain, where the plates are painted with cranes and shy flowers, and he takes his time in meticulously smashing each one of the cups.

He hasn’t eaten or slept in so long that he’s dizzy. He’s detached, but he can feel the anger in his bones. It's like he's watching himself from somewhere else, flitting in and out of his body, he feels nothing, he's so fucking angry that he shakes with it.

When he comes back up for air, he's already looking into the mirror, and lao Lei is there in the reflection, staring at him from the doorway with such pity that Yan turns away and hits the next porcelain plate against the vanity so it shatters.

"Daming will not take kindly to that." Biao's voice carries across the threshold.

He says it like it's a joke, says the name in a way that borders on affectionate, without the distaste of Yaoqing and without the subordination of the staff. He says it like Cao is some kind of son to him, and not his joke of a boss.

But that's just the way Yan knows he speaks. He treats everyone in the theatre with equal footing. He treats the rats like they’re kings and the clowns like they’re lords. He dotes on fools like Yitang and walks a fine line between soft and patronizing, somehow bypassing them both to be something altogether different and much more sad.

He’s left with the role of Master now, as much as he may not want to admit it. Even if he's not like Yaoqing, who hated his father enough to disregard his name, he will still probably be Master Biao rather than Master Lei, not to uphold Yaoqing's tradition, but to better connect with his students. To make them more comfortable.

Yan looks at him and burns.

"I don't care." He says, petulant, and goes about meticulously ripping a ledger page into smaller and smaller pieces, simply because it caught his eye. “He can find other things to give away.”

There's a distant ringing that settles over everything. It's piercing in the way a far off whistle is, not enough to keep your attention, but enough to grab it.

Biao steps into the room and gingerly walks around the mess. There's a fat cat in his arms, its yellow eyes lazily drifting open and closed in time with the jostling of Biao's steps. He lowers himself to the edge of an upturned chest and sets the cat in his lap. Its tail swishes to cover its nose and it peers out from behind it thinly, pupils slit against the light.

Yan stares at it. Remembers the explosion that Yaoqing had one winter morning because he'd found orange hair all over a set of freshly pressed costumes.

There was a little boy that worked backstage, carrying the smaller props back and forth, Yan can't remember his name because he never bothered to learn it, but he does remember his face, and he remembers that the boy had the unfortunate fate of both being ginger and stepping into Yaoqing's view at precisely the wrong moment. Yaoqing had taken him by the ear and thrown him out of the theatre, declared that he would be more use as food for the stray dogs, and all night Yan had to listen to the boy cry from somewhere beneath his window until sometime near dawn, when it finally stopped.

"Canghai." Biao says, after his hands have stilled from the paper ripping.

"That's not my name." He says flippantly over the sound of another plate breaking.

This is where the first flicker of discontent crosses over Biao's face. It's quick, and it's sudden, but it was there. Yan catches it like it's a sudden candle that's been lit, his eye drawn to the light the same way a bee is drawn to a bundle of marigolds. Biao watches him look for a hint of the expression again, the longer Yan tries to find it, the faster it morphs into something like sympathy, sickening enough to make him finally look away.

Yan always thought of Yaoqing as a distant storm. He was an inevitable disaster. But Biao was always a water surface. He was effortlessly still with his kindness, his presence like a balm, and Yan knows that his own biggest betrayal will always be the fact that if he was a child again, and he was given the option of the two of them, he knows that he wouldn't pick Yaoqing.

But a thought like that is a luxury. Biao is easy to drown in. It's easy to see the sun glint off of him and not wonder about bone-hidden depths. Yaoqing wore his disapproval plainly. Biao wears his hidden.

When he holds his hands out, Yan stares at them uncomprehendingly. He’s easily offended by the olive branch until Biao reaches and takes his wrist for himself, turning Yan’s hands over to show the jagged bits of porcelain that have been embedded into the softness of his palms. Biao tuts.

Yan rips himself away, stepping to the other side of the room and putting his hands to his chest lightly. He can’t feel the pain of it, but the blood is plainly there. It's in the air. It roars in his ears and he can see his reflection in the water, distorted.

"Yaoqing had his faults," Biao starts, like he's here to comfort instead of to torment, "but he was admirable."

"Don't you have a whip to start cracking?"

If Biao is taken aback by the sudden attack, the sudden vitriol in his voice, then he doesn't show it. Yan never spoke to him often. Hardly interacted with him. Not when he was with Yaoqing. Certainly not like this. There's a curiosity that settles into the lines of Biao's face when he leans back slightly.

"Did you speak to him like that?" He asks, seeming very genuine.

"I wasn't afraid of him." Yan retorts, half of the lie getting stuck behind his teeth.

Biao watches him struggle through it and says nothing. He gives off the distinct impression of knowing more than he should, and it's stupid, he’s a frail old man quickly losing his mind, but the simple echo of the feeling is enough to set Yan back off course. He reels as he goes back to the porcelain set, his thumb smearing red against a saucer.

"You were close." Biao remarks softly, "I know you might feel like he was the only thing you had-"

"You don't know anything."

"-but he did that on purpose."

"Shut up."

"He isolated you on purpose. You must know that now, don't you?"

"Leave me alone."

The saucer breaks and the jagged edge of it slips into the meat of Yan's hand. He hisses from the intrusion rather than the pain, and then Biao is rising, nudging the cat away from him to stand and stop at Yan's side and command so gently - "Let me see."

But Yan turns away again, he's hissing "No," and clutching his hand, retreating like some kind of skittering animal. He hears the compliance in Biao's demand, or his mind tricks itself into hearing it.

Better to be difficult, the scattered pieces of the cranes remind him, better to be difficult than compliant.

Biao doesn't try again. He reaches behind himself for his seat, the cat curling around his ankles. Yan watches him in the mirror but pretends not to. He bleeds freely onto the floor.

“Do you know why he took to you?” Biao asks, but his curiosity from earlier is gone.

The question feels prying. Biao is trying to flay him, trying to get him to slip up and admit something he doesn't want to. Yan breathes heavily from his outburst, but it’s like the rest of the air suddenly leaves him.

“He found me, so I was his responsibility.” He says harshly but flatly, long practiced, “Garbage on his doorstep. Abandoned”

Biao is silent for a second too long.

“That is what he told you?”

Yan glances up sharply at that, pinning him, “It’s not true?”

“No, it is." Biao says plainly, "I’m just surprised he told you.”

Yan scoffs, part frustrated part exasperated, simmering, "This is ridiculous." He starts to say.

Biao is looking at him, thoughtful, and he ignores the input, "You don't want it to be true, though."

It isn't a question. Yan scowls at him.

"You want to be special." Biao presses on, "Chosen."

Yan stirs again, the anger rising like a pot boiling over, "You're just here to antagonise me. What is the point of this-"

“I came to see if you were alright.”

Yan holds up his bloodied hands, annoyed, “And what's your verdict?”

Biao doesn’t answer.

"How did Du Liniang's father keep her in line?" He asks instead.

Yan turns at the suddenness of the question. He's taken aback as it cuts him off and his expression goes blank. Maybe Biao is losing his mind faster than he thought. Except he stands there, considers the question, and considers the answer because being tested like this is at least familiar. Apprehension clouds over his face.

"It doesn't work." He says, something rarely unsure in his voice, "She disobeys him and dies."

"Her death is irrelevant. You didn't answer the question."

Yan looks away.

"What about Jia Baoyu?" Biao goes on, "How does he treat his son?"

"I get it, old man."

"And Lady Wang?"

"I said I get it."

"Qin Ye?"

"You're just listing characters now." He grits out, "This isn't an opera, this is real."

"Look at the way you stand." Biao says, voice sharpening. "Look at your hands. The way you curl your fingers as you speak. Look at how you step when you walk. Listen to how you speak, Canghai, you are stuck in the performance. You bleed in it."

Yan scoffs again, looking away, shifting his stance-

“Your cadence shifts when you’re upset, did you know that? You group your syllables like you’re giving an aria, I can hear the banshi rise as you go.”

"And so what?" Yan explodes, "Maybe that's the reason I'm better than everyone else. I actually care about it. I want to be here. I like it here."

As Biao shifts, the light does too. It reflects off his glasses and blocks his eyes.

"He would have had the troupe if it'd stayed open, not the Caos."

"I know that. He always said that."

"He was a failure though."

Yan's eyes narrow, back twisting like a reed as he spins, "He was not-"

"He was setting you up to fail too."

"Do you enjoy this? This vague shit you're spilling? Is this some sort of game?"

Biao has the audacity to smile at that.

"Some men hold too tightly to their pasts." He says, "They are threatened by anything new, and they would rather kill it than see it replace them and thrive."

The lull is sharp and sudden, drawn out suffocatingly. The cat starts to purr as Biao reaches down to scratch its head. Yan's fingers are sticky with blood. He goes to gesture and then purposefully doesn't, conscious of it now. The moment lingers and lingers.

"He called me Feiyan." He says in the quiet, removed from the admission, he caves to the silence embarrassingly quickly.

"I know." Biao says calmly, with some of that sympathy creeping back in.

"It wasn't a bad thing. Don't say it like it was a bad thing."

Biao stops patting the cat and looks up.

"Alright." He says, appeasing.

"Stop it."

“You do have a choice, you know." Biao says then, "You can stay like this, be whatever Yaoqing was trying to make you. Or you can just not. You can come back down. The other students might even like you when you’re not acting like a child.”

Yan stares at him, for so long that it seems like he's seriously contemplating it. Then something clicks his face transforms. His face turns taunting, his mouth curling, he drops into a mockery of a bow and clasps red hands against his forehead as he whines

"At last, the real display! Give me your wisdom, oh great Master Lei! Tell me how I can make all those stupid sniveling little nobodies out there be my friends."

He's vicious in his delight, sarcastic when he spits, "I can't believe you've discovered the one thing that would make me happy. I can't thank you enough, really. Let me be your disciple! All of them as my friends - wow. How would you even do it? Blackmail them? Force them? Pay them for every hour they spend with me?"

Biao says nothing to this, and unknowingly or not, he makes it worse.

"They hate me." Yan says with a cold burn, "I am insufferable to them. I am 'unpleasant to be around.' Yaoqing didn't do that - I did. If he did it, then it would've died with him."

Yan throws his arms wide, his voice loud now, "And here I still am! Still insufferable and still unpleasant, so it can't be his fault - he's dead, you senile idiot."

Biao is standing now, quiet and very old-looking.

"I'm right." Yan says triumphantly, "You know I'm right."

It still doesn’t garner much of a reaction. Biao remains impassive as the cat stretches against his leg to be lifted again. Biao’s arms settle around it and he takes a step towards Yan, who doesn’t back down.

“It’s just us.” Biao says, “Drop it."

Yan sets his shoulders and squeezes his hands hard enough that the cuts start to sting, his voice pitches taunting and cruel, "What are you gonna do, hit me?"

"Yaoqing gave you a role to play. And you did it. Now enough.”

"You've lost your roar." Yan seethes at him, "You're nothing."

They look at each other for a long moment, Biao blank and Yan practically writhing.

"They all think you're grieving." Biao says, heavily, like it's a great weight he's bearing, "Daming's told them that you're upset because Yaoqing raised you. They didn't know him as anything other than Master, they couldn't understand it."

"I am grieving!" Yan screams at him now, but it's hard to tell if the shake in his voice is real or rehearsed.

It seems impossible, but Biao's face goes stonier still.

"You're not upset that he's gone." He says plainly, that sympathy all but gone, "You're upset that he's gone, and that it didn't fix you."

"Go to hell." Yan hisses, bloodied finger pointing accusingly, "It should've been you."

"Now you can't blame him."

"Why are you nice to them?" Yan asks - demands, but there's something dangerous to it. He stands there coiled, tensed, vibrating with a sudden hatred that he can taste.

"Is kindness such a foreign-"

Yan cuts him off immediately, barely even gives him a chance to speak, he's alight with something terrible.

"Is it just because them? Little kids? Getting close to them, treating them kindly, is that what gets you off?"

He knows it isn't true. It burns him as soon as he says it. It doesn't matter. He takes whatever little control he can of the situation and he yanks so hard that the whole thing topples.

Biao finally looks shocked. He looks appalled, physically taking a step back. He watches Yan in a way that's astounded.

"Tell me you don't actually believe that."

He doesn't.

"Get out."

"Canghai-"

"Get OUT!" He's yelling, lifting the last porcelain cup and holding it above his head, like he's about to throw it.

Biao shakes his head, opens his mouth like he's about to say something, and then gathers himself instead.

“Yaoqing isn’t here to protect you from them anymore.” He's telling him as he moves back towards the door.

And the unspoken words are there: I will not protect you from them.

Whatever this little test was, Yan failed it.

Fine. Good riddance. Yan didn't need Yaoqing. He obviously doesn't need Biao.

Biao disappears and Yan drops the cup. It shatters.

His hands sting. His throat feels like its on fire. The energy thrumming through him makes him shake so badly that he collapses bodily against the vanity, the feet of it screeching against the floor as it holds him.

He thinks about Biao's words, burns over them. There's no devil standing over his shoulder anymore. The other students are going to rip him apart and work together to hide the pieces. It'll be the single greatest moment of camaraderie they ever have.

"And I wouldn't blame them." Yaoqing's favourite finishing line "Insolent little shit."

Not anymore.

Now he holds his fate as an ugly, bleeding thing in his hands. He cradles it like it's something precious. He recoils from it.

He becomes his own funeral pyre.