Thread by @tunnelOFdawn

#MDZS, #Wangxian. #DarkLanZhan.

History of Music Cultivation is a grad-level class and yet Wei Ying manages to snag a coveted spot in the class. Wei Ying is accustomed to charming professors into allowing him into their overfull classes—a winning smile and effusive compliments.

And yet Wei Ying somehow thinks that Lan-laoshi is not convinced by the curve of Wei Ying’s mouth & the sweet words from his tongue. Nevertheless, Wei Ying triumphantly brandishes a signed form as he says to Jiang Cheng, “Guess who’s learning musical cultivation this semester!”

“Nie Huaisang,” Jiang Cheng says dully. He swats at Wei Ying’s smugly twitching hand.

“Ha, Nie Huaisang wishes! I heard he got stuck with History of Cultivational Etiquette under Meng-laoshi.”

Jiang Cheng grimaces. “Good luck to him,” he mutters.

Wei Ying laughs. “Yeah, I don’t think Meng-laoshi will let him skip class anymore…Anyways, what class did you get?”

“Methods of Computational Modeling for Arrays,” Jiang Cheng says laboriously.

Wei Ying blinks, his paperwork hanging limply in his hand like a felled banner.

“Isn’t that reserved for only Tech Cultivators?” Wei Ying says.

Jiang Cheng smiles; it is a hideous thing. “A-Niang says Cultivational Animal Husbandry is unsuitable for me.”

A leaden silence hangs over them for a long moment as Wei Ying mulls over his words.

It had always been Jiang Cheng’s dream as a child to breed and train spiritual dogs amongst other animals. He even had his own dogs that he had lovingly named up until Wei Ying came to Lotus Pier, the Jiangs’ lakeside estate up in Yunmeng. (Another black mark against Wei Ying.)

Yu-ayi has greater ambitions for Jiang Cheng—ambitions that Jiang Cheng fears he can never meet as Wei Ying outshines him. Wei Ying thinks that Yu-ayi will never be satisfied no matter how small he makes himself.

He fashions himself into a music cultivator with a concentration in biology. It’s an inoffensive occupation. And yet…

Jiang Cheng sighs. “Just so you know,” he says, “I don’t have time to be fooling around with you this semester.”

Wei Ying only laughs as his heart aches.

“Fooling around”—when it’s always been Wei Ying trying to spend time with Jiang Cheng. Jiang Cheng had always been a prickly person with his mother’s pinprick words easily flying out of his mouth until their only mutual friend is just Nie Huaisang. And heavens forbid if Wei Ying—

ever had the temerity to have a friend outside of him. Jiang Cheng would sulkily look on as Yu-ayi would prod Wei Ying to take care of his “brother”. They were only ever considered brothers when it suited Yu-ayi.

And it is with this hurt festering in his heart that Wei Ying—

meets his History of Music Cultivation professor. A wounded heart that resonates so piercingly—truly a student suited for music cultivation. Lan Wangji even recruits Wei Ying into his lab after a few weeks and Wei Ying knows better than to let such an opportunity escape.

With his own two hands, he plunges himself into a hell of his own making.

It is innocuous at first—animal testing done ethically. They play music for lab mice to calm & curb aggression. They spend late nights in the lab refining their sheet music as the other assistants leave.

Lan-laoshi promises that Wei Ying’s name will be on the byline of their paper (“Effects of Music Cultivation Intervention on Aggression”). His gaze focuses on Wei Ying as if nobody else exists. The intensity of his gaze & the deepness of his voice elicit an unparalleled thrill.

Wei Ying is used to praise even as he shrinks himself down for the sake of familial harmony. And yet Lan Wangji’s praise is so sparing and sincere that Wei Ying cannot help the heat that rises through him. He cannot help but meet it with his own sincerity.

Wei Ying blooms beneath such attentions & the sharpness of his familial separation dulls. “I’m great,” he says when Nie Huaisang probes worriedly.

“You look pale,” his friend says.

Wei Ying laughs it off. “It’s hard work playing mice lullabies,” he jokes as his head throbs.

“I haven’t seen you with Jiang Cheng lately,” Nie Huaisang says.

Wei Ying smiles thinly. “It’s a tough semester for him, what with the major change…”

Nie Huaisang is quiet in the way birds quiet before a storm.

“I like working in the lab; it keeps me busy,” Wei Ying ends.

And when Lan-laoshi mentions a private experiment on one of their unscheduled lab days—well, how is Wei Ying meant to resist?

“The world will leave us behind,” Lan-laoshi insists, “if we let our elders decide right and wrong. It is our responsibility to improve the world.”

Lan-laoshi is an idealist at heart and Wei Ying has always wanted to abide by justice. He thinks of the exorbitant costs behind the implementation of cultivation in healthcare. Cultivators are an investment few hospitals can afford. Cultivators are not like doctors.

The length of their training spans decades with the most pivotal period occurring in youth. Cultivation is still dominated by the Great Sects and their subsidiaries; it is an insular world. And yet this is the one thing that Wei Ying can freely believe he is entitled to.

His parents were cultivators. His father was a theoretical cultivator, bridging the gap between physics and cultivation. His mother was a physical cultivator, decimating the bridge between theory and reality. Her teacher had been Baoshan Sanren, who still resides in her mountain.

These are the legacies Wei Ying wants to fulfill and this is how he creates a hell of his own making.

“Play for me, Lan-laoshi,” Wei Ying declares. The research they’re conducting on mice will take years before they are approved to test on humans. The human brain is finicky.

There are stories of musical cultivators driving men mad with a single wrong note. Music cultivation, as they know it, is always on the precipice of destruction—of madness. The brain’s own neuroplasticity becomes its own weakness with music developing connections not meant to be.

“Play for me,” Wei Ying repeats.

“Wei Ying,” Lan-laoshi says with a foreign tenderness, “I have already played for you.”

Wei Ying’s head aches & aches until it radiates downward. His legs hurt—his thighs hurt.

“Have you?” Wei Ying says faintly as his hands slip into a pocket

Lan Wangji steps forward & the neat click of his shoes is the metronome timing Wei Ying’s unraveling.

“I call it ‘Wangxian’,” Lan Wangji says coolly.

Wei Ying collapses into Lan Wangji’s arms and his flashing phone clatters on the floor.

Lan Wangji smiles & he is beautiful.

“You have always complained about the cell signal here,” Lan Wangji damns.

Warm arms hold Wei Ying tight and a beautiful, deep voice resonates through him. His heart flutters in tune to a hum.

Wei Ying falls asleep.

🎵 based on @sweetlolixo’s prompt