yan. (resub) d9 / fin

[tick 12a / calla]

白蛇歌剧
Baishe Opera Troupe

The Guimen Dan (闺门旦) is the role of the virtuous lady and, though traditionally played by a man, is often the female lead in Chinese Opera. They are dignified and serious characters that have high social status, and are usually characterized by their grace, elegance, and piercing voices.

Except for this one.

李沧海 Lǐ Cānghǎi
彩 Cǎi
飛燕 Fēiyàn
李燕 Lǐ Yàn

乘风破浪会有时
直挂云帆济沧海
a time will come to ride the wind and cleave the waves,
i'll set my cloud-white sail and cross the raving blue sea.

- the hard road, li bai

and i think we most fully understood each other
when i once tried to kill him with a kitchen knife.

- south and west, joan didion

original
haobin
ulysses
feng
yiming

[tick 12a / calla]

lanyan
(or: a pre-history)

red. red. father, you are blood red.
father,
we are two birds on fire.
 - anne sexton

tw // mentions of suicide

Lanyan is born before the First Rebellion. It’s within the blurry borders of what will eventually become District Three, but his family never really stays in one place. They travel with the troupe, because any building big enough to be a theatre has already been commandeered for the rising war efforts, and because the smaller conflicts popping up across the continent force them to pull safety from numbers. They throw their lots in with the other travelling acts - the circus, the snake charmer, and one very sad magic act.

There's a period of roughly six years where they settle in Two and make it surprisingly big. They make enough money to rent out an old dance hall and build up a section of the floor to have a stage. They drag in benches and hang curtains and even the magic act gets a little less sad.

He has a real rabbit now.

The Rebellion doesn't quite hit Two first, but there is a slow build to it. The troupe is just glad to fill seats, and it doesn't really matter if it's a rebel or a loyalist buying a ticket. It gets dangerous though, riots are breaking out and fights are starting, Two becomes a hotspot for rebel targeting and it becomes too risky to stay in one place.

Somehow, the tables flip, and morphing the troupe back into a travelling one is what saves them.

They bring a fleeting kind of allure where they go, and that's often enough to stop the bullets at the borders. It's funny, how quickly something as mundane as entertainment becomes a sought-after commodity.

Good for the soul, Lanyan's father is suddenly keen to tell everyone, good for the spirit.

The troupe moves to where they're needed and sometimes they move to where they're not. They start to be smart about it too - there'll be free performances of Peony Pavilion for the masses in Six and everyone suddenly knows that if Lanyan wears blue instead of yellow during the third act it meant that troops are on their way and once the curtain goes down the audience has to go home and board up their windows.

Lanyan is nineteen when the Rebellion is officially over and the Games begin.

The borders solidify and the Troupe ends up stuck in Nine, in a shitty old theatre where half of the roof has been bombed out. The owner actually tries to jack up the rent price because of it, selling it off as a skylight instead of a liability.

Consort Yu's swords are confiscated and replaced with tin replicas. Lady Bai's spear is hollowed out and filled with sand, the sharp ends shaved off. These are the only operas they're allowed to show. Anything else is too rebellious, even though the official who decrees it doesn't understand the first thing about Consort Yu and her undying fidelity and the symbol that she really is.

Lanyan is already first dan by the time this happens, and he plays Consort Yu viciously.

He smokes in between verses. He throws things. He paints a snake along his hairline to play Adder Ames in a Games performance that only stays in rotation for a month before he dramatically throws himself off stage because he hates the principal song so much. He was used to the steady glow of Two, and then the dazzling rounds of applause that came from travelling on the road, and so he mocks the audiences in Nine because they're all half-dead, the crowd is never again like it used to be and an entire generation of performers dies out because of it. The sea of empty seats is only ever broken up by wealthy arms dealers and bored off-duty soldiers.

Tao is somehow both. He's technically a dignitary now, but only because he picked the winning side of the war last minute.

Lanyan's name means blue swallow bird, and so after watching his first performance, Tao presents him with a winged fan lined with kingfisher feathers.

It glimmers like the green-blue of a pond surface.

Tao loves Lanyan, so much so that he'll buy anything that Lanyan sets his eyes on. And when Tao’s own eyes start to wander, he’s brought back by a hand on his chin, lacquered nails running down his face in angry red lines.

They are terrible together, but no one ever bothers to tell them.

Three years later, little Haobin, who had wormed his way into rehearsals and readings, eventually slips a set of sewing needles into the slippers of the fourth dan and Lanyan listens to the recounting of it stoically from his velvet chaise. He's never even heard of him. They have to let the fourth go because of his injury and he screams and cries as he's escorted out of the theatre.

Lanyan finds Bin practicing that night and makes a show of putting all the needles back into their case, moving with a pointed slowness.

It’s a bit like playing chess just to win, when you know your opponent is stupider than you are and won’t notice the way you dance your pieces around them, toying with them, until you grin and declare checkmate and knock their king down.

He promotes Bin to his brush cleaner.

And perhaps that is the biggest mistake in this whole story.

Bin goes from fifth to sixth dan over a single summer and Lanyan jokingly asks when he can expect the poison in his tea.

Except his gaze is so sharp that they both know he's not joking.

And Bin has not yet learned the necessary tact that he needs to hide his gloating, he’s not quite as gifted in this game. He speaks of Lanyan's age often. He's vying for the first dan spot, Lanyan knows this, the whole Troupe knows this. It's not just a paranoia in his head, they all see it.

"You'll be forty soon, won't you?" Bin asks him in front of everyone else, just to be cruel, because they both know that Lanyan hasn't even hit thirty yet and he’s already having a crisis over it.

But Lanyan just laughs, trilling his way through an aria - “I’ll kill myself before I reach forty.” He says, smiling terribly, and the subject drops.

Lanyan hates him. Deeply and intimately. He starts to smoke more, calls on Tao more often, sets more difficult roles for Bin and howls out into the fire escape when the boy doesn't stumble in his last flip.

“Marry me.” Tao asks sometime in the mid 10s.

He’s banned from the theatre for a month.

When Lanyan's second dan throws an engagement party for himself and his wife, no one is surprised to learn that she is already pregnant. Bin makes the company titter with his remarks and Fuhui looks at Lanyan in muted horror when rumours of her past occupation spread.

Lanyan does nothing. A new shipment of costumes arrive and none of them are tailored to fit him. Bin and Fuhui get into a terrible fight as the new year turns over.

And then Bin dies. It's a terribly bloody thing, on such a grand stage that most of the actors weep. His sister cries herself hoarse and Lanyan uses that as an excuse to finally get the whole bloodline out of the theatre.

Even Tao falls into a depression that makes Lanyan seethe. He walks in on Tao holding the last guan Bin wore and he curses himself bloody over a dead boy all over again.

Eventually though, there comes a period where the time Bin has been dead is longer than the time Lanyan had known him for. No one else comes quite as close to a coup as he did, and Lanyan makes sure that no one ever can. He villanizes Bin now that there's no one left to defend him - not that there was anyone to begin with. The name passes into painted obscurity and Lanyan finally begins to breathe easier.

Fuhui has no interest in primary roles now that he has a fifth child to take care of, and Lanyan stops taking chances on boys with evil sparks in their eyes.

Without the drama, the allure starts to dull.

The first streaks of silver start to appear in Tao's hair when he shows up for the last time. The economy has started to crash, he says, like any group of self-absorbed performers would know what that meant. Lanyan thinks it's an excuse for why the money stops coming, but when he goes to Tao's estate with fire in his throat, the windows are all covered and the flowers in the front bed are all dead.

The world sluggishly pulls itself into the 20s and opera starts to fizzle out. Two decades of Reapings have given the people other things to worry about and it doesn't matter to them anymore whether Consort Yu lives or dies.

The story is tired. The seats don’t fill because everyone knows how it ends.

She always dies.

Lanyan continues to scrape at the bottom of the powder box and perform for the drunks that stumble in and the street kids that hide away from the cold. He keeps spending more money than they make - he cannot change his stripes so easily.

Fuhui’s first-born wants to go into accounting. His second-born starts to practice sheng roles.

Then that spring, when Lanyan is three days shy of turning thirty-eight, he disappears.

[tick 12a / calla]

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.

[tick 12a / calla]

lineage
(or: the importance of a background character)

所有的星星
都很像你
落在天涯也相邻
all stars are much like you
falling to the world's end and meeting once more
 - sigh, jiang junxin

It's Fuhui's troop when she enters it.

She has no name. She's only a secondary character, you see.

Maybe even a tertiary one.

So her name doesn't matter. It's Fuhui's troop when she enters it, but it's no one's when she leaves it.

Fuhui inherits the troupe when Lanyan leaves, and it begins as a beautiful disaster. He breaks tradition by letting the girls play the second and third Dan parts, but then un-breaks it by always keeping the first for himself. The company stays in their shitty little Nine theatre and continually prays that that night won't be the night that the stage finally collapses underneath them.

It might have worked better if Fuhui cared more, but he smokes too much and gambles often. He has six sons to take care off, but even this doesn't seem to deter him-

and see?

This part is supposed to be about her.

Even when it is, it isn't.

But this is the environment that she steps into - one of fading glory.

She is thirteen and lands a role as one of Consort Yu's maids. There are no lines and she is at the lowest rung of the ladder, she's only just begun after all, but it's very exciting nonetheless. One of Master Fuhui's sons is playing an advisor in the same scene, and he's one of the only other performers that's been nice to her.

He doesn't seem to like his father very much. It's hard to tell if he even likes the opera and -

there we go again.

Maybe a chorus member just isn't very important. She's only a minor part of the ensemble, so I can't see why you'd want to know about her in particular.

Wouldn't you rather hear about Yaoqing? The turbulence of the troupe when his father dies? The ending of it all when his brother inherits and gambles it away on a whim?

Fine.

You want the story of this random nobody character, here it is:

The troupe disbands three years later and she goes back home. She never sees Yaoqing again, but she keeps the picture that they all had taken after the last performance. She marries a decent man and has a baby girl, and then that baby girl has a baby boy. Opera is dead in Nine for a long, long time, and everyday she mourns something she never really had.

She was never a star. She was never famous. She dies like any other person would, full of regrets and self-pity.

Happy?

[tick 12a / calla]

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.

[tick 12a / calla]

canghai
(or: i'm so sorry)

"yes, that is his name. i didn't intend to tell it to you."
"but why not?"
"oh, i can't explain. when i like people immensely i never tell their names to any one. it is like surrendering a part of them."
 - the picture of dorian gray, oscar wilde

It doesn't go the way you might think.

The opera has become a thing again; a warehouse deep in Nine has been purchased and is in the process of being refurbished, but that's not quite where the baby is brought.

It isn't brought anywhere, really.

It's born. It cries. It screams.

It's supposed to die.

But somehow, for better or for worse, it doesn't.

In the middle of the night, it's dropped off on an old man's stoop by an old woman who might have known him once. Because once, she might have had a fanciful crush on him, and once, he might've been the only child in the theatre who was kind to her, a lifetime ago, nearly fifty years ago.

So when her grandson has to disappear, a nameless woman nudges him towards where children learn how best to hide themselves.

Maybe that should be the lesson here. At least for now:

sometimes a background character is important.

[tick 12a / calla]

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.

[tick 12a / calla]

cai
(or: how one learns)

i've forgotten what my face looks like
but can easily describe my spine.
the way it bends under pressure,
the way it curves, but will not break.
 - in the future, jay hulme

Yaoqing’s favour triggers the other children's vitriol.

It's the 80s now. The troupe has been reestablished by a wealthy baron and it's attracted orphans like moths to a flame.

Not just them -

"You're not here because your parents are dead. You're here because they just didn't want you."

- there are others, too.

It starts when one of the boys scrounges together enough tobacco to roll into a cigarette when he thinks no one else is watching. The kids all crowd around him outside and they each get one short inhale out of it. Canghai is the only one missing, because when he tries to go out to see what they’re doing, Yaoqing grabs him by the back of the shirt and drags him back.

“Not for you.” He says. His eyes black like a snake’s. He gestures to his own mottled neck, the age spots and the tissue-thin skin which makes Canghai automatically recoil, “Bad for the throat.”

But he says this about most things.

Canghai cannot do flips because he is incompetent, and he might fall and break his neck. Canghai cannot be given mopping duty because it will put calluses on his hands, and they’re already ugly enough. Canghai cannot go out with the other boys because he is so annoying that they’ll surely all rip him apart and work together to hide the pieces.

“And I wouldn’t blame them.” Yaoqing always finishes with. “Insolent little shit.”

Some of the other boys have little keepsakes from their parents that were left with them.

“Did you ever find anything with me?”

“No.” Yaoqing says gruffly each time, “You were wrapped in a sheet. I thought you were a piece of garbage that had blown over.”

If there is one thing that Yaoqing remains tight lipped about, it is this.

“But there must’ve been something. Maybe my mother was there waiting to explain and you just didn’t open the door fast enough.”

“You were abandoned. Keep it up and you will be abandoned again.”

Canghai rolls his eyes and flops down on a bench dramatically.

“I will not coddle you, Feiyan.”

“Don’t-”

“Cai, then.”

He looks up sharply, then away.

Clown, the others call him, shortening his name into the lowest role. The Cai Dan doesn't even exist anymore, but they always laugh at how red the name turns him still.

Yaoqing eases into his chair and huffs flatly, “You think I don’t know what goes on within these walls?”

“They shouldn’t call me that.”

“No, actually I think they should.”

He scoffs, “I am not-“

“You are.”

"I'm going to be first dan." Canghai says loudly, "They can't call me that."

Yaoqing takes a long drag, silent as Canghai stares at him incredulously. He blows the smoke between them and then says, very plainly, “You are very unpleasant to be around.”

“Well,” Canghai splutters, “So are you!”

“They are forced to tolerate me. They are not forced to tolerate you. You have given them no signs that you are worthy of respect.”

"I have given them every sign-"

"Stop arguing with me, Feiyan."

"Stop calling me that."

"Then stop acting like a spoiled little whore."

"You are a sad, sad old man and you are just jealous because your life is over and mine isn't."

“Stand against the wall.”

“No.”

But Yaoqing tends to only say things once.

He rises from his lattice-backed chair and hobbles to the side table. His cane adds an extra step to his stride - a thump thump tick.

Canghai watches him warily, hot-faced, slouched against the cushions with his arms crossed.

Yaoqing lifts the kettle from its coals and pours the hot water into a shallow bowl, all the way to the top. He reaches over to tap Canghai’s leg with his cane.

He drags himself up to stand.

Yaoqing jabs a knuckle into the small of his back, “Stand up straight.”

“I am.”

“Your back looks like a fish hook. Are you a fisherman?”

Canghai scowls at the ceiling.

“Look forward.”

He does so, with an exaggerated sigh.

He hears the tick of Yaoqing’s cane as it’s set aside. Then the weight of the bowl settles heavy on the top of his head and Yaoqing’s hands fall away, leaving it balanced there. Canghai goes rigid for a moment, trying to catch Yaoqing's eye, but even the smallest movement of his head shifts the weight of the bowl and when he reaches a hand up to steady it, Yaoqing smacks it back.

He lifts his cane and moves back to his chair with a thump thump tick, and then sits back down.

“Try not to get the floor wet.” He says calmly, leaning to refill his pipe while Canghai glares at a spot over his shoulder. “It’s just been polished.”

Yaoqing relights his pipe and smokes for a beat, and then he gestures to the phonograph in the corner.

“Pick something and come back.” He says.

Canghai glances at him, evaluating the amount he can retort, and then he very carefully starts to make his way over.

He has to feel his way around the record case, because when he tries to look down, the bowl shudders. He picks one record at random and slaps it onto the turntable, catching the arm in the bottom of his vision and pushing it down to the vinyl. As soon as it touches, the music starts with a loud crash and it jolts him, the water splashes over the lip of the bowl and he hisses when it lands on the edge of his shoulder, body automatically recoiling from the burn and nearly sending the bowl tumbling down the other side of him.

He rocks with the motion until the bowl settles again. Clenching his jaw and taking a short breath through his nose, he turns and shuffles back to where Yaoqing sits, watching him shrewdly.

“I don’t care for this one.” He says.

“I like it.” Canghai grits out, not even knowing what it is.

“Then go ahead.”

But he doesn’t recognize the flow of lyrics, it's all just drums and cymbals and so he stays silent.

Yaoqing exhales ribbons.

“Terrible liars make terrible actors." He says with little inflection, and then, with a tilt of his head: "You don’t know it.”

Canghai hesitates.

The song swells, the chair creaks as Yaoqing leans back. “Say you don’t know it.”

“...I don’t know it.”

“Why not?”

“How am I supposed to know why not?”

"Feiyan."

"Don't call me that."

"I'm not." Yaoqing says, his eyes narrowed, "This is Zhao Feiyan."

Canghai blinks at him.

"Your face does not make up for the rest of you." Yaoqing says testily, "Stop being dense and use your brain for once."

"I can’t stop these wicked tears from wetting my clothes" The phonograph sings, "Look at this little orchid crying so hard."

"Sounds like shit." Canghai sneers. The weight of the bowl is starting to hurt.

Then suddenly, there's a knock at the door and it makes Canghai jump again. The water hits the back of his neck and he bites his lip hard. Yaoqing peers around him to see who it is, and his face goes twisted.

“Daming.” He says, like he’s just eaten something sour.

"There's a problem outside." A reedy little voice says.

“Insolents.” Yaoqing grumbles, rising with his pipe and muttering the whole way out.

When the thump thump tick of him fades, Canghai hears footsteps approaching from behind, crossing the room. He keeps his head straight as a gangly, surly looking boy comes to stop in front of him.

“What are you doing?”

“None of your business.”

He stares at the bowl, and then at Canghai's face, then his shoulder.

"That looks burned." He says slowly.

"Go away."

He scowls and it turns his face ugly, "You people are weird."

Canghai frowns at him, he's obviously older, but not by much, he carries himself like he's middle-aged already, "Who are you then?"

The boy stops, shifts his head back and looks at Canghai like he's grown a second head. He gapes for a few seconds before speaking.

"...Daming?" He says stupidly.

"Are you asking me or telling me?"

"We met last month. You sang at my brother's birthday."

"Oh." His knees have started to shake slightly, "Oh. You mean Xiaoming."

Daming's entire face shadows.

"Xiaoming." He mutters under his breath, and then louder - "My father owns this place. You should know who I am."

"I guess you just weren't very memorable."

He looks genuinely taken aback at the remark, a little rich kid being told he doesn't matter, he puffs himself up like some kind of angry rooster, "You-"

"Are you done?" Canghai snaps at him, wobbling slightly, "I'm busy."

Daming glares at him for a long moment, and Canghai glares right back. Daming's eyes shift up to the bowl and Canghai, with his stomach suddenly at his feet, gets the distinct feeling that he's about to be pushed.

And then Daming leaves.

*

The room is dark when Yaoqing eventually wanders back in. He stops when he catches sight of Canghai, his pipe halfway to his mouth.

"Why are you still in here?" He asks, squinting.

Canghai looks at him with wide eyes. His legs are shaking and his back aches, the water's long gone cold, "I-"

"I didn't tell you to stay here."

"But-"

"Get that ridiculous thing off your head, get out."

Canghai's arms tremble as he reaches above his head, fingers curling around the edge of the bowl as he tries to steady his grip enough that it won't immediately crash to the ground.

"I thought-" He tries again, "You-"

"Stop blubbering, you could have taken it off whenever you wanted."

Canghai stares at him. Standing so still for so long has made his muscles seize. His head is pounding and any comeback lies dead deep in his throat.

Yaoqing flicks at the tear-tracks on his cheeks with a gnarled finger, "I thought you wanted to be respected." He says distastefully, "What kind of artist listens to a sad old man so blindly? Are your eyes gone? Are you a dog?"

"No." He whispers.

"What?"

Louder - "No."

"No, what?"

"I'm not a dog."

"Then what are you?"

"I'm- I.."

"Cai." Yaoqing says coldly, and Canghai hiccups.

"I'm not a clown," He says, voice cracking so delicately, "I'm a dan."

"You don't look like one."

Canghai starts to sob.

"Go clean yourself up." Yaoqing gripes, already turning away, "Crying will ruin your voice."

[tick 12a / calla]

feiyan
(or: how one acts)

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

tw // mentions of suicide, disordered eating

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.

[tick 12a / calla]

laoban
(or: hate is a funny thing)

and if the devil was to ever see you,
he'd kiss your eyes and repent.
 - farouq jwaideh

The day Daming takes over the troupe is, overall, inconsequential.

He makes his announcement on stage, maybe because he fancies himself an actor, maybe because he likes standing above everyone else while they mill around the main floor.

There is no applause after he explains the hand-down. The company is silent as he stands there, expectant.

“That’s it?” Someone calls.

*

His first decree is on the names.

“Excuse me?”

"Your name." Cao says flippantly, "We're changing it."

It's funny how at the age most people grow into their looks, Daming begins to grow out of them. Early adulthood doesn't treat him kindly. The theatre treats him even less so.

At least there had been a muted sort of respect reserved for his father. Mainly for his money. The elder Cao was treated the way one might treat an estranged, wealthy uncle. The actors treat Daming like a particularly annoying cousin.

"You need a stage name." He says. "Canghai - it doesn't roll."

Already in his short stint of rule, there have been several times where Daming's life has been legitimately in danger. The anger in Canghai snaps like a twig. His spine goes brittle, he's dried out, quick like kindling it rises up and up.

"It's my name."

"And you can keep your name." Cao says, fiddling with a set of papers on his brand new desk, dismissive with it, "This is just for the advertising. It's very in fashion."

Canghai just stands there, staring at him incredulously. It's almost shocking really, how stupid Daming is. It would be almost admirable if he was this obtuse on purpose. He's gotten an ounce of power and it's puffed him up three sizes too big. The whole room inflates around him, his cockiness is overwhelming.

"Also-" Cao starts up, and Canghai groans, pushing his fingers against his forehead and praying for patience. But Daming willfully ignores him. He holds up the papers he's been distracted by with the air of a man unearthing gold.

"Seventh Honour." Canghai reads out flatly. "Sounds tacky."

"It'll be the next show." Cao declares, slamming the papers back down and running a hand across them reverently. He pushes them across the desk. Canghai pushes them back.

"Master Yaoqing has us doing Feiyan."

"And Troupe Leader is telling you-" Cao slides the stack again, more forcefully, "-to do this instead."

*

When Yaoqing hobbles into the dressing room and glances over, the first thing he says is, "Your eyebrows are uneven."

For once, Canghai doesn't glare at him. He sets his brush down and glances at the stupid Seventh Honour script sitting on the vanity. He has a fantasy of burning it, but the thought makes him oddly nervous. He wants to lock it in a box and bury it somewhere far, far away, so he doesn't have to look at it and Yaoqing doesn't have to read it.

The sound of Yaoqing's cane travels across the room and Canghai steels himself, starting, "Daming-"

"Cao Laoban."

At the interruption, Canghai glances up incredulously.

Yaoqing simply continues his venture to a chair, easing himself down slowly and huffing out, "Propriety is still above distaste."

Canghai stares at him through the mirror. The age spots along his neck have grown in size and nearly all his skin is mottled now. His pipe is permanently fixed to his hand, but there's a cough that settled deep in his lungs last winter which never quite went away. He looks older in the harsh light of the room. The bare bulb above the mirror cuts his face too sharp.

"Cao Laoban," Canghai corrects himself slowly, drawing it out, testing, "He's changing people's names."

Yaoqing does nothing but harrumph, so Canghai rectifies - "Stagenames."

"And what is yours?"

"Yan."

"He picked that?"

"I did."

Yaoqing tilts his head back and looks at him. For the first time, there's something in his face, something in the shark darkness of his eyes, that looks faintly like approval.

Then he breaks into a particularly nasty fit of coughing, nearly bending in half in his chair, and Canghai waits with his hands in his lap, watching in the corner of the mirror because the first time this happened he had gotten up to help and had been backhanded for it.

The fit subsides as quickly as it came on and Yaoqing sucks at his pipe like it's water.

Then, "That's a girl's name."

Canghai rolls his eyes, but it doesn't quite have the same insolence to it.

“It’s just a stagename.” He retorts.

Yaoqing harrumphs again. Without looking, he reaches to refill his pipe and points at the Seventh Honour script, asking gruffly, "What is that?"

There's a moment where Canghai seriously considers telling him that it's nothing. Not that he would get away with it. He eyes the papers and flicks at one of the corners, imagining that it's Daming's face.

"Cao Laoban wants to replace Feiyan with it." He tells Yaoqing unsurely, "He said Lanyan wrote it."

Yaoqing snorts. "Trash then."

Still he leans back, exhaling to cloud the room, "Open it." He says between drags, "Let me hear."

[tick 12a / calla]

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?"

[tick 12a / calla]

kingfisher
(or: another blue bird)

i have to wipe it all off me -- and be clean again.
i want to be a good person again, not this.
not what you made me into.
 - disco elysium, robert kurvitz & aleksander rostov

There is a very specific type of mourning that occurs when someone terrible has died. You don’t want to grieve them, but you do. You don't want to feel any sort of regret, but you usually do.

It's rather insignificant for the rest of the theatre. When the old bastard finally croaks, many of the students breathe a sigh of relief, and then simply go on with their lives. A few celebrate when it gets dark, when no one else can see the ways they grin and clasp their hands together and thank some long forgotten god for sending the devil back home.

Yaoqing dies, and really, the theatre gets better. Parts of it heal, like water-damage drying out or like a foundation shifting back into place. The training turns kinder without his old ideals, and the actors prefer Biao so much more that they start to act like there was never a time when he wasn't their Master.

The playbook shifts, certain operas get pulled from rotation and newer ones are introduced once Daming is free to manage the way that he wants. He starts making adjustments to the costumes, boasting about his knowledge of the colours and the ideas he's found scrawled in the margins of Lanyan's scripts.

Yaoqing dies and the world starts to change.

*

Yaoqing dies and Yan gets worse.

*

Master Fuhui had seven sons. Yaoqing was only the second, but the rest of them don't really matter. The eldest became an accountant and died rich enough that the rest of his brothers hated him for it. The third and fifth did very little with their lives. The fourth died old and the sixth died young.

The seventh son, the youngest, wasn't particularly extraordinary either. There was a sizeable age gap between him and the eldest group of brothers, so he grew up relatively distanced from their drama. He was plain in the way that most people are, with a steady job and a steady home and a son that just happened to show up on the doorstep of the Baishe Theatre three days after his uncle died.

He speaks to Daming first, introduces himself as Yize, explains who he is without explaining why he's there.

"Yaoqing never mentioned a nephew." Daming sneers at him, and immediately goes to slam the office door in his face.

Yize sticks his foot against the frame before he can, charming as can be, "Yeah, I heard he was kinda a dick."

The crunch of his foot does little to deter him, and Daming's expression turns flat. Yize nudges the door back open and walks in, sitting himself down and stretching his legs out.

"I dunno what's going on, really," He says, "I got a note from the District Office this morning that he left me something."

Daming looks cagey all of a sudden, his hand falls from the doorknob and the lighting in the room brings out the sheen on his forehead, "He... left you something."

"Yup." He pops the 'p'.

Daming slowly walks around him to sit behind his desk, clasping his hands on top and scrutinizing them, fidgeting with the ring on his finger, "And did the District Office say what this something was?"

"Yeah," Yize shifts to pull something out of his jacket pocket, "I've got the letter right here-"

There's a sudden loud crash from further in the depths of the warehouse, then a very long scream and another, more dramatic crash. The sound of sprinting footsteps comes from down the hall, followed by a figure flashing past the open office door towards the noise.

Yize freezes with the note in his hand, twisting in the seat to look back incredulously, "What the hell was that?!"

Daming hasn't moved. His eyes look very dead as he smiles and says through gritted teeth, "Infestation."

"What, like rats?"

Daming's face goes tighter.

"No." He says, strained.

Then he clears his throat, gesturing to the envelope, "The letter?" He prompts.

"Right." Yize settles back into the seat, unfolding the paper while still warily glancing back a few times, "Uh, blah blah blah condolences, blah blah blah legal procedures, uh, here, to his nephew, Yize, it says 'Lanyan's fan.'" He glances up at Daming, "I don't know what that is."

At the declaration of the item, Daming goes very, very still. His face takes on a particular wax-like quality.

"Lanyan's fan?" He asks, the inflection shaking, like he hasn't quite heard him right.

"Yeah, is that code for something?"

"No." Daming says, his voice going thin and high and his eyes flicking between the open door and back, "No, it's not."

"Okay then, is it at least worth something? I mean, I barely even knew this guy, and now he's leaving me some random fan? Is it just sentimental?"

"Is that signed?" Daming suddenly asks, leaning forward to see the letter, "Legally?"

"Uh, I think so?" Yize turns it around and points at the bottom, "See? Stamped and everything. The Office said he never had an official will, but he wrote this in a few years ago."

"Oh, that's not good." Daming puts his fingers to his temples, staring at the letter, "That is not good."

"Look man, I just stopped by to grab it, I've still got to get to work today so if it's not too much trouble-"

"Yeah, I just-" Daming stares at the letter a little harder, "Let me think for a second."

Yize stares at him. He leans back a little, like the letter might suddenly burst into flames, "...Okay?" He draws it out, unsure.

"This just might have to be done delicately." Daming explains. Then he looks away, "Or not."

"Should I come back later?"

"No, we'll just do it like ripping off a bandage." And then muttered: "Hopefully there's less casualties that way."

"Casualties?"

"The timing isn't great, but we can't do much about that."

"I thought you said this thing wasn't worth anything."

"Oh, I never said that."

"Okay, so then it is valuable."

"Very much."

"Alright!" Yize exclaims, tucking the letter away and clapping his hands together, "Nice."

Daming grimaces as he stands, "No," He sighs, "This will not be nice."

He walks Yize out to the hall and stares down the direction where that awful noise came from. Daming gives him a look over, squaring his shoulders in a way that seems a tad extreme for just the retrieval of a simple fan.

"You'll probably want to cover up any soft bits."

[tick 12a / calla]

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.

[tick 12a / calla]

plaything
(or: the cautionary tale)

a moth-
tattered and damp
hem of a dress-
shiver on the glass.

the bird takes the moth.

it will eat the small body,
quilt its nest with the wings

 - love, an index;, rebecca lindenberg

Lélio goes to the private red-bricked school in the heart of the district; the one the Office makes people pay to send their kids to. He'll be graduating soon, and he wants to be a teacher. Literature or something. He's the co-founder of a semi-illegal book club that helps distribute semi-illegal books to other students.

Only semi-illegal.

It's stemmed from the fact that History of Panem is really only interesting the first few times you read it. It's got nothing on the anthology of fairy tales that someone eventually pulls out of their grandma's attic. It doesn't have the same passion as a beat up copy of Othello, or a few loose-leafed chapters from Mary Shelley, or the unclaimed, handwritten book of poetry that appeared tucked away on the shelf one day.

The opera is the newest fascination of the group - an art from before the war, surprisingly untouched by the Capitol, thriving quietly in an old warehouse. The walls shake with songs of rebellion and the patrols walk by, unaware.

It's wonderful.

But Nine is terribly warm in the late summer. The theatre is stuffy in the late afternoons and balmy in the evenings, full of restless audiences fanning themselves with playbills. The matinees are particularly humid.

“Can’t believe you talked us into this again.” Beltrame complains in his ear, turning to glance around, “There’s no one else under fifty here.”

Lélio shushes him and goes back to scratching pencil marks into the margins of his notebook. Bai Suzhen is about to sacrifice herself to save her love.

Beltrame's evidently bored and keeps tapping his knee. Isabella seems dazzled by the costumes, but not much else. They're sitting so close to the stage that Lélio can see the paint melting off the actors' faces in the final stage.

When the applause finally stops, Beltrame and Isabella rise to stretch. Beltrame pokes Lélio in the side when he doesn't move and gestures to the bar. It's not the usual guy working, which means they can try to convince him that since Beltrame's the only one technically eighteen, he's the only one that will be drinking. He'll just need a few extra shots maybe. His tolerance is very high. Obviously. No other reason.

Lélio follows them over, but it's in a daze, the cymbals still crashing in his ears. It's more like a silly little waddle that he does.

Isabella manages to charm the poor bartender and Beltrame carries their watered down shots away in some mock semblance of responsibility. They don't make it very far, huddled against a wall while other stragglers mill about, everyone chatting and trying to avoid the stagehands that emerge to realign all the chairs for the next show that night.

Lélio gingerly takes one of the shots from Beltrame before he leaves to sidle back to the bar with Isabella. He doesn't really begrudge them for it, he knows it's the only reason they've humoured coming here again. Lélio stares at the contents of his shot glass and shrugs, then proceeds to choke on it. There's a boy in a robe leaning casually against one of the pillars, watching him cough in amusement. There's smudges of black around his eyes.

It’s Bai Suzhen. The playbill says his name is Yan.

Lélio doesn't know how long he's been standing there, watching him splutter.

“Well?" Yan asks, close enough to not have to yell over the chatter, "What did you think?”

Lélio instinctively looks behind him. There's only the wall.

He points at himself - "Me?"

Yan must think that's funny because he smiles a little, spreading his palms out in invitation.

“The water fight scene could use some work.” Lélio blurts out, and it is all at once the wrong thing to say.

Yan looks immediately taken aback. His expression goes frighteningly blank, just for a moment, and then it shifts. He had obviously expected a compliment, and it seems now like he can’t decide whether to be offended or amused.

Lélio fumbles to correct it, mortified with himself, “You were fantastic though, I’ve seen it three nights in a row-“

“I know.” The expression’s decided to settle now into a cool bemusement. "You were taking notes."

Lélio's face flushes warm and red.

"I just-" He stumbles over it, "I'm comparing everything, not just the performance. I'm not a critic or anything, I've just been studying the original-"

Yan's tone turns curious, a funny little look flits across his face and he takes a step forward, "You know the Legend of the White Snake?"

Lélio turns sheepish, "Madame White.” He says, dipping his head a little, “I’ve read a sort of piecing together of it? It’s a little different. Not as romantic as this."

It's probably something he shouldn't be admitting, because it's not like Madame White is on the National Panem Approved Literature List, but Yan tilts his head, decidedly avian-like, inviting again without saying anything. Lélio starts talking before he’s even taken another breath.

"Well, okay, Lady Bai is supposed to be evil, right? She's a demon, so she has to be. She’s bad. But here," he waves to the stage, "she’s, I don’t know - more human? But then how do you humanize a demon? Should you even? It's so against her nature to be good that she dies for it in the end."

Something about that makes Yan's mouth twist up, "The consort always has to die."

"That's not it. It's about society over the individual." He's on a roll now, "They're trying to make her into something she's not. Madame White and Xu Xian should be allowed to be together, it doesn’t really matter if she's evil or not, it's still his choice to be with her. Doesn't that just say more about him? If he wants to risk getting his head ripped off and his soul eaten, then that's his problem, right? Bai Suzhen shouldn't be the one punished for it.”

Yan is looking at him with the strangest expression.

It’s difficult to think clearly, all of a sudden.

Lélio's mouth goes dry and his shoulders rise a bit, self-conscious, "But yeah, that's just- that's my opinion."

The way Yan's staring at him hasn't changed, he seems to blink to himself and then starts, "Do you think-"

"Ready to go?" Isabella appears at Lélio's elbow and makes him jump.

"Uhh."

Isabella looks impatient, but Lélio glances back at Yan to see his face shuttered, looking away from them both to study his palm instead.

"Actually." He turns a little shy when Yan looks back up at him, "I think I'm gonna stay a bit longer."

*

Yan seems at turns dismissive and delighted by Lélio’s literary criticisms.

Lelio smuggles in leaflets of old yellowed paper with the plays on them, watches Yan pretend not to be interested while he explains the nuances of narration and motifs.

“See,” he points out in several places, “If the narrator wasn’t explicitly telling you that Madame White was evil, then you wouldn’t assume she was.”

Yan eventually digs the theatre’s script out, this ancient looking thing covered in notes and markings and held together with twine.

Lélio is immediately taken.

He’s breathing a little fast. Like he’s just run around the District twice. Like he’s halfway through discovering the secrets of the universe. He’s sitting with the papers fanned out in his lap, hunched over them, but Yan is sprawled out beside him, attention lazily coming and going as Lélio keeps reading and letting out little exclamations.

“Exactly.” He points out, laughing a little, exuberant over the pages, “Exactly, look, it goes from a cautionary tale to a full on romance.”

This seems to be one of the revelations that actually draws Yan's attention. He leans over languidly and takes the page, haphazardly scanning it himself.

“And which one do you like better?” He asks smoothly.

Lélio is only paying half-attention, already flipping to the next set of margin scrawlings.

“What do you mean?” He replies distractedly.

But then Yan is very close suddenly. He’s holding the page in front of Lélio’s nose, a blazing edge to his tone that curls the consonants.

“The cautionary tale or the romance. Which one do you like better?”

Lélio blinks and then flushes, lowering the page and looking away, “Well, the romance, obviously.”

Yan hums, his gaze burning into the side of Lélio’s face. Eventually Lélio gives in and sneaks a glance back.

Yan’s eyes are gleaming - he isn’t quite able to hide his grin. For all the actor he is, he can never seem to hold a poker face.

“And,” Lélio says, clearing his throat and shuffling the papers around aimlessly, “the actors do make a big difference.”

This is how it usually goes. Praising the script means praising Yan. He’s so full of it at this point that it’s a wonder his feet still touch the ground.

But this does seem to be what Yan's waiting for. He laughs a little, obviously pleased, and then leans back, taking the heat with him.

“Bias.” He teases.

*

He and Yan argue one evening. Not one of their playful back-and-forths about source materials, but something nastier. It’s not over anything terribly important, but Lélio can’t remember that last time he was so provoked.

He can’t recall ever losing his temper the way he does that night.

*

There are other things that should've tipped him off, but Lélio stubbornly stays in this little bubble of bliss he's created for himself.

Sometimes things are good, but sometimes things are very, very bad.

Yan makes a habit of saying cruel things, usually without thinking. Lélio makes a habit of sending him roses, also without thinking.

Yan is demanding and possessive and seems to get some strange joy from parading Lélio around in front of the other actors. Lélio, in his good nature, attributes this to the material culture of the theatre, and the obvious affection that Yan holds for him.

He's very foolish.

*

Lélio never misses a show. He makes a point of it, actually. He sits in the second row because the first row is actually a little too close, makes it too hard to see the entire stage.

Yan rebukes him on this point several times, tries to get him to move up because there's really no reason to even need to see the entire stage when he's just there for him. Lélio thinks this is rather endearing and starts to pay the theatre extra just to reverse that second row spot.

There's a new little journal he pulls out as the music starts now, but most of his notes have come to revolve around the lead. He'll bring it to Yan when the other boy is feeling particularly down, because nothing seems to cheer him up like three full pages of everything he's doing well.

The criticisms he tears out and tucks away and considers burning. It feels cruel to write them down, even if it is his scholarly duty. He just resolves to never let Yan see them. He doesn't really mean most of it anyways.

*

It isn't the first time Lélio's snuck into the back of the theatre to see Yan when he's stopped by the silhouette of a shadow.

“Stephen?” The silhouette asks.

"Huh?'

"You. Are you Stephen?"

"Uh, Lélio, actually.”

"Oh." He can feel himself being looked up and down, "Well, it doesn't matter, he's kinda busy right now."

“Aloys, come tell me I look good.” Yan's voice comes from down the hall, demanding.

“You’re ugly.” Aloys calls immediately without turning. Then his face turns wicked, "And Lélio is here!"

There’s a moment of silence and then a thump. Aloys titters off into a laugh and then tells Lélio to stay put, sweeping away down the hall and already admonishing loudly, “You’ve really got to start spacing them-“ cut off as a door opens and closes.

Lélio's left there to awkwardly stand and wait.

A few actors pass by while he does, in various states of dress and makeup. A rehearsal maybe? He nods at them as they go by, trying not to bring too much attention to himself, but they all give him the same sort of grimacing grin, like they're all in on some pitying joke that he's not.

The line of them peters out gently, until the only one walking down the hall is an old, weathered looking man. Lélio presses himself against the wall to get out of his way, but the man stops anyways, staring at him for a long moment before glancing at the door Aloys went through. That seems to hold his attention for a beat, and then he looks back at Lélio. There's no hint of expression in his face at all, not even a twitch, and that sends something chilled through the air. Lélio feels rooted to the spot. He stares back with increasingly wide eyes. Then the old man keeps walking and disappears down the hall and Lélio releases a breath he didn't know he was holding.

He loathes this place sometimes. Actors are weird.

Speak of the devils - the door bangs open and Aloys comes striding back. He jerks a thumb behind him, “Go get ‘em, tiger.” He says teasingly, reaching out to flick Lélio as he walks by.

Lélio just tries not to trip over his own feet as he ducks into the doorway. There's Yan, standing in the middle of the room. The sun cutting through the window turns him into a marbled statue, but he looks a little flustered. A little awkward.

At least the feeling's mutual.

“Lélio,” He says, “Hi.”

“Is this a bad time?”

Shit, was he expecting someone else? Is that what all that was about?

And then the awkwardness of the moment seems to smooth over. The light changes over Yan as he takes a step closer.

“Not at all.” He says, strangely warm.

And then he's moving to pull Lélio by the arm, "Come in, come in, you can help me."

He puts a script in Lélio's hands, directs him to a chair by the shoulders, and then takes centre stage.

"You're good at keeping pace, like my own little metronome.“ He says, and they’re pretty words for a boy who’d called him a snivelling stuck up school-boy with no career prospects just two days prior.

He's supposed to be following the script while Yan practices, but Lélio isn’t even looking at the pages. He can’t help but stare at Yan, with his flashing eyes and his fluttering hands and the way he smirks when he points out specific lines to rerun. In the short span of knowing him, Lélio notices how little colour he wears off stage. The reds and the yellows and the blues turn muted, even if the personality doesn't. But he's still so loud.

He points out another section of an aria he wants an opinion on. That's not really what Lélio came here for, though.

Unthinkingly, like he's in a dream, Lélio raises a hand to drag at the linen white of Yan's shirt, and then travels back up to touch reverently at the softness of where his collarbone glows.

Yan's suddenly stopped monologuing and gives him a long look that he can’t decipher. It feels like the room shrinks three sizes.

"I brought you something." Lélio says softly.

Yan's face goes a little tight, his posture a little stiffer, "Oh!" It's light and artificially sweetened, "You shouldn't have."

*

It's been 5 months. Winter.

"I think I'm in love with you." Lélio says dumbly while they walk down some street, and then he immediately slaps his hand over his mouth.

"Shit, I'm sorry." he says, muffled, "I know it's fast-"

But Yan's started to laugh.

The sound seems to startle both of them. Lélio looks at him a little hesitantly, glancing at the unawareness of the people around them. Something about the sound makes him uneasy. There's something off around the edges, Yan's eyes are too wide as his shoulders keep shaking and shaking.

It takes a moment for him to compose himself. He swipes at his eyes and then reaches over to hold Lélio's face in his hands, sighing.

"Don't be stupid." He chides, giggling through it even as Lélio pulls away, stinging from the reaction.

"I'm sorry." He tells Lélio, who's taken a full step back, but the effect is somewhat lessened by the way he can't get it out with a straight face, "Baby, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that, you're not stupid."

"Stop laughing at me-"

"I'm not!"

Yan holds his hands up in the very picture of innocence.

Lélio slowly starts to unwind, his arms falling from where they'd wrapped around himself. He gives in too easily and Yan sidles back up to him.

"C'mon," He whines lightly, reaching for Lélio again, poking his cheek and coaxing a little grin out of him, "Let's just go back, I'm tired."

*

Lélio misses his first show when his grandfather dies and he's expected to spend the night at his bedside with the rest of the family.

Yan doesn't notice.

The roses still show up.

[tick 12a / calla]

notes
(or: the boring bits)

the obligatory rambling on motifs, inspirations and references:


NOTED OPERAS:

The Peony Pavilion
Dream of the Red Chamber
Zhao Feiyan (made up, lines from Green Pearl Falls)
Farewell My Concubine
The Legend of the White Snake
Seventh Honour (made up, based on the 7th Games)

Pictured in the first post is Mei Lanfang, one of the most important figures in Chinese theater, partly the inspiration for Lanyan. Gifs are mostly Tan Jianci and Yin Zheng in Winter Begonia and Leslie Cheung in Farewell My Concubine. Most performances are inspired directly by Shi Yihong or Mei Lanfang himself. This article has some good historical context on the dan role.

Yan was originally only supposed to be based on White Snake, but you'll see how quickly that got out of hand.

(There are 34 background characters in this. I've lost my mind.)



COLOUR:

Looming theme from the proverb: "green is born from blue, yet green always wins" - describing the student outpacing the master. From Yan's original bio as a quote he stuck on his door.

There are blue connotations to the names Lanyan ("blue swallow") and Canghai ("raving blue sea"), both of whom are overtaken by their fresh “green” counterparts, Bin and Yan respectively. In the story of Feiyan, she goes through the same thing when the Emperor eventually chooses someone younger than her to become new consort once she's aged. The greatest fear of any actor is getting replaced by something shiny and new.

Other references to this blue-green pop up throughout (see: Lanyan's costume change, the kingfisher fan, Siyu's bridesmaids).

In Chinese opera, and specifically in masks, blue symbolizes someone astute, honourable and stubborn, while green symbolizes someone brave, impulsive and hotheaded.

There's also a thread of red. Not just connected to fate. There's foreshadowing in the way Siyu changes out of her red wedding dress into something pink before the affair is revealed. Pink represents a higher social standing, which she achieves by marrying Jiao, but also showcases dignity, which she immediately loses.



THE FAN:

The kingfisher fan’s first appearance is when Tao gifts it to Lanyan. Take it as either a sign of love or obsession, it still does the job. It’s based on tian-tsui, the Chinese art of making jewellery using inlaid kingfisher feathers. Here's some real pieces.

Tsian-tsui is unbelievably expensive and rare due to the nature of its creation. A single headdress may require the feathers from hundreds of birds, some historical sellers placed a special emphasis on "taking the feathers alive" to ensure the colour and quality. Farming kingfishers is impossible because in captivity, they are known to thrash themselves to death out of sheer terror.

There's a metaphor in there somewhere.



BIRDS:

Besides the obvious kingfisher reference:

Feiyan's complete name translates to "flying swallow", and in her story she's described as being able to capture the Emperor's attention due to her dancing which makes her seem as light and agile as a bird.

The “yan” character (燕) is the same used in both Feiyan and Lanyan and the same one that Yan adopts, meaning “swallow.” Little bird. The first and last post quotations reference birds. The theatre is an unassuming cage, Yan is described as avian-like, maybe a bit too on the nose.



ORCHIDS:

Orchids became a narrative point after this thread. Notoriously hard to take care of and outrageously expensive. How familiar!

Depending on the character, “lan” has different meanings, for Lanyan (蓝) it means blue, for Xiulan (兰) it means orchid. What a coincidence.

Yan is the baby from Xiulan and Jiao’s affair and is terribly unwanted. You see the beginning of the problem.

Xiulan ("beautiful orchid") and Jiao, the orchid cultivator, (perhaps the affair was obvious, if you knew what to look for), if you puzzle it out hard enough you can also discover that Jiao was the one stabbed by Yiming.

Note that orchids are terrible temperamental flowers.

Being abandoned because your parents don't want you is objectively worse than being abandoned because your parents are dead. They made that choice. The child reaps the consequences.

When Xiulan goes to the opera, it’s her supposedly-dead son who she listens to and insults. Cruel circle of fate. They'll never meet each other.

The story of Feiyan is real, but the opera is questionable. The line "I can’t stop these wicked tears from wetting my clothes. Look at this little orchid crying so hard." which I've attributed to the opera Feiyan actually comes from Green Pearl Falls, but the way it fit into the scene between Canghai and Yaoqing was too perfect to ignore.

Operatic hand gestures are very much a thing and they each have meaning. They're sometimes called "orchid speak" since the formation of the hand is based on the petals of an orchid. Here's a neat post about it. Here's a video of Mei Lanfang demonstrating. This article from 1958 also mentions it + a bunch of other interesting traditions.

The heavy flower references also refer to dan actors being known as "flowers" and calls back to the huapu "flower guides" - originally guides to famous or local courtesans, but by the nineteenth century it came to mean the small books written by elite men which contained comments and reviews on dan actors. These usually involved physical descriptions of the actor and their relationship with the writer rather than any reviews of stage talent or performance. Some of them are just as icky as they sound. Info on them here.



LORE:

Some parts of the pre-history are taken from Bin's bio or Yan's original bio. Much of it has been expanded. The troupe’s foundations are now shaky, tangled with both sides of the war, and not at all glorious. An actor is nothing without their adoring audience and when that fades, Lanyan follows Yu. The consort dies in every story.

Fuhui is Yaoqing's father if that wasn't obvious. The troupe goes to Fuhui once Lanyan disappears and Yaoqing starts performing roles as a kid. He never gets very popular. It creates a complex. The nameless girl from the troupe is Yan's grandmother. If I was kinder, I would have given her an actual relationship with Yaoqing instead of whatever it is they had going on that helped turn him so terrible.

Yaoqing continuously being described as wearing brocade is symbolic of his old fashioned mindset.

The industry is brutal. Traditionally, children were brought in under contract and made no income from performances until the full expense of their living and training was returned to the theatre. Some of them never repay this. Their lives are devoted to training and performing, and the theatre takes precedence over anything else. Abuses are unfortunately based on reality. Here is an incredible interview with two real performers.

The cruel nickname "Cai" stems from the squishing of Canghai but actually comes from the outdated Cai Dan, which was the exaggeratedly hideous female clown role in the opera. Yan has it out for the clowns. Hong very much included.

Yaoqing’s harsh speech on love is one of the most important things in here. You could remove everything else and still get a sense of Yan’s character from it.

Due to an offhand remark in a post, Yaoqing was already dead by the time this bio was started. It was just a matter of how much psychological manipulation, emotional neglect, and plain abuse I could fit in before he got written out. I kept wanting to keep him alive, but his sudden death and the lack of closure that comes with it is worse than any other thing I could do.

If a child can only do one thing, and if they only know one thing, then they won't leave that thing. Yan only knows the theatre. He has no other prospects. Yaoqing had no other prospects. He leaves the kingfisher fan to someone else on purpose. One last kick in the teeth. One last lesson. None of these characters are good people. There is no love here.

The other vital moment is when Biao decides to give up on Yan. He’s right to, Yan’s turned terrible, but this is about the single worst thing that could’ve happened. Everything would have changed. Yan essentially shoots himself in the foot and winds up alone. This is unacceptable.

Enter Lélio "the hero", Isabella "the lover", Beltrame "the blunderer" - stock characters from Commedia dell'arte, the traditional Italian comedy and one of the oldest forms of professional theatre. You can tell this is the point where I started branching into Italian opera.

Lélio and Yan are meant to parallel Tao and Lanyan. Perhaps obviously, Lélio's criticisms of Bai Suzhen's character are criticisms of Yan's character. It's hard to humanize a demon without destroying them completely. The performance Lélio misses is the one from this thread. The unreliable narration is purposeful; Yan is terrible to Lélio, Lélio overlooks it. This is the cautionary tale - the romance comes later.