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"Er, 'Xie Lian'?" Xie Lian says to the security guard, who's holding a clipboard with menacingly large hands. "It might be under 'Qingxuan', I'm not sure."
"Yep, you're in, enjoy the show," says the guard with a warmth he isn't expecting. He pulls back the heavy velvet curtain and nods for Xie Lian to step through.
"Oh, uh, thank you," Xie Lian mumbles with a dip of his head, and shuffles in.
There is a quiet murmuring that swells through the dark hallway like the tuning of an orchestra. A muted A note that soaks into the upholstered black and red velvet walls around him. Fake diamonds in each divot refract the last rays of dusk, just before night overtakes the world outside.
The decorated hall leads him to the true heart of the speakeasy, something jazzy is playing on the house speakers. Xie Lian resists the urge to groan—Qingxuan knows he hates jazz.
The main bar is dimly lit, with spotlights that ricochet off the onstage grand piano like stars. Red, black and gold with silver accents are punctuated around the circular room. It's small enough to be deemed cosy, just large enough for each audience member to blend into one sea of anonymity.
And of course, of course! Shi Qingxuan is sat in a booth right in front of the stage. Of course Xie Lian had no idea that 'Speakeasy' was codeword for 'An Underground Spot for Jazz'—because if he'd known, he never would have agreed to coming.
Because Xie Lian hates jazz!
Xie Lian seeks out ones and zeroes. He seeks out the facts; the tangible. After lifetimes of the unpredictable and inconsistent, it would have been more strange for him not to enjoy some concrete, solid consistency. He's old, older every day, Heavens forbid he find some comfort in it all. It is that mindset which led Xie Lian into teaching higher education mathematics.
There are, surprisingly, quite a few musicians in his classes. A few years into his teaching, Xie Lian came to learn from his students that music, particularly classical, has significant overlap with mathematics. Mozart, ballet, mathematics—they all work hand in hand. Xie Lian doesn’t mind any of that, he appreciates the different art forms, and admires their brutal ability to quantify art.
But jazz…? Xie Lian rubs at the spot between his brows.
He's late, which is sort of his fault, but it's already packed. 'Sort-of' because it was actually his projector which suddenly decided to detach from the classroom ceiling and shatter onto the linoleum floor with an underwhelming crack. Not him.
(If it were up to him, he'd have severed off his second cursed shackle himself by now.)
Unchanging body this, immortality that, it's a genuine wonder how Xie Lian hasn’t developed wrinkles from all the misfortune that still. comes. his. way. after all this time!
Instead, he'd sighed. Class dismissed.
The bar is relatively quiet, the crowd barely above a low murmur despite how every love seat, plush velvet booth, and bar stool is occupied.
“Qingxuan.” Xie Lian calls softly with a smile because he doesn’t have a stubborn bone in his body, apparently. “Why are we here?”
Shi Qingxuan has integrated seamlessly into the modern era, especially where fashion and looks are concerned, and tonight is no exception. They look like they're about to go up and commandeer the stage themselves.
“Your Highness!” shouts Shi Qingxuan excitedly and Xie Lian leaps into the loveseat with a yelp to hastily clamp a hand over their mouth. “—Sorrysorry, habit! Xie Lian. Can-you-let-go-of-my-lips-now? Ahem."
They clear their throat and smile innocently. "The person performing tonight is a friend-of-a-friend! Then, a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend mentioned my friend-of-a-friend plays piano for…I guess his friend? And they said I should come out and support. He’s good. Like, really good. This place rarely does this style, so it’s kind of a special occasion.”
“…Sure?” Xie Lian's head hurts.
Shi Qingxuan crosses a hand over their heart and says, “I didn’t know it was jazz, honest to Us.”
Xie Lian snorts despite himself. Shi Qingxuan's been doing that recently—these ridiculous self-insert jokes. As the world has grown interconnected over the years, foreign languages have crept in and, inevitably, so have the cultures behind it. Nowadays, even international slang transcends language—it turns out that a lot of common sayings in the West stem from Christianity. Now in modern China, it's commonplace to find churches in every town. Xie Lian watches Shi Qingxuan with quiet amusement while they fail to make their slang catch on.
Anyway it's been a long day. Week. Year? Millennia, Xie Lian decides with a nod—and the fight against jazz leaves him. He unceremoniously slumps back into the plush seats. “At least there’s no cover charge,” he mutters grimly and grabs for the drink menu.
There’s a paper and pencil on the table so he jots down his order and waits for a waiter to come and collect it, all while updating Shi Qingxuan on the cost of the projector repairs at school.
“…Yes, I’m aware it’s not my fault, but you know how the university is.”
Shi Qingxuan knows a lot of things, a great deal more than anyone else in Xie Lian's life. Not only does Shi Qingxuan know Xie Lian’s dislike for jazz, Shi Qingxuan also knows that his school hasn’t been doing great in recent months. …Years. It's a wonder that Xie Lian still has a roof over his head some days, what with the government finally pulling their funding out a few months ago. But just as Shi Qingxuan has always been like this, Xie Lian has always been one to continue fighting until his nation's dying breath.
Conversation hops around chaotically—as it does with Qingxuan—while they patiently wait for the first intermission to end. “Anyway, try to keep an open mind, Xie Lian. The last segment was real interesting, I don’t think I’ve ever heard jazz that is also-"
Plink, goes the piano.
“Thank you Yin Yu,” says a voice, rich and deep, and Xie Lian’s attention is caught like the freshest fish. The biggest tuna. The most juiciest biggest tuna a fisherman could catch.
And what. A. Fisherman.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, we’ve made it to the scatting section of our show. Some of you may know how this works already; Yin Yu will come around shortly to collect your suggestions and we will then scat a song with all of your wild, strangest words. If you haven’t already, please go ahead and write out a short word or two on the sheets left on your table. We will begin as soon as he’s ready.”
Xie Lian’s can scarcely believe such beauty is animated. Real.
He’s remarkable. A black jade in the night, haloed by the spotlights like he belongs there, encased on stage. He has an ancient beauty about him, long hair as Xie Lian had once worn his, and is ornamented in traditional motifs on his tight-fitting suit. Lotus and magnolia swathed bloody red in a timeless, classical look.
Over his right eye sits a sleek black eyepatch.
Xie Lian's so preoccupied with gawking that he doesn't even thank the waiter when he comes and picks up his order sheet.
But, oh dear.
Oh dear, that waiter is not a waiter at all, is he?
The 'waiter' walks right onto stage, holding Xie Lian's order atop the pile with everyone's word suggestions.
…Great.
"Some ambience, Yin Yu?" calls the dazzling gem. "Right. We have… 'collect, exam, bandage, movie, lemon, flight, inspect'. Hmm, these are getting harder?"
Xie Lian knows enough about music to understand the usual stuff. The pianist is playing a simple arpeggio—a nice little tune up and down—with the pedal muted, muffling it to a gentle underscoring. Alright, so maybe Xie Lian understands a little more than the average person. Being immortal does that; gives you lots of free time to learn things.
The black-jade-Fisherman clears his throat and frowns. "'Pineapple, battery, mortuary'—four syllables… really? And…"
"Xie Lian why are you curled up like a shrimp?"
"Hrrghhh," he whimpers, knowing what's coming.
The singer snorts. Even that sounds melodious. "…'One passionfruit negroni, please'. With a smiley face. Okay, then. Ready?"
Xie Lian's not.
Xie Lian can't believe he's bypassing everything normal about jazz and going straight into scat; it's easily his least favourite invention in music ever. (And he's seen quite a few failed musical inventions over the years!) If they weren't sat dead front and centre, Xie Lian would get up and get the 'One Passionfruit Negroni Please :)' himself.
He rubs at his temple. It's been a long day.
The piano unmutes and plays a trill, clear as bells. Xie Lian squeezes his eyes shut, mortification blooming through him from deep within his bone marrow.
He supposes scatting is a type of singing, but honestly this is where Xie Lian's music knowledge falls short. Of course he's heard the classics, even willingly subjects himself to some Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald during the colder months; Christmas jazz is all the shops ever play around that time of year anyway.
But this is… something else.
He recoils at the first 'ba do bee ba', and literally has to duck his head as his ears burn with secondhand embarrassment. He can't stand this. As gorgeous as this jade beauty is, he could sing a wrong note at any time, and Xie Lian hates that. There's too much risk for failure, too much chance of a bad tune. The audience would hate it. He'd be humiliated. And how can Xie Lian trust him not to hit a wrong note, if he's never heard him sing before?
The thing Xie Lian loves about mathematics is exactly what jazz is missing: predictability, consistency, and emotional severance. He finds comfort in the unchanging binary, seeks its clinical coldness on hard days where the memories of the past are too searing, too blinding in its intensity. Emotions would not change the reality; he does not allow it to anymore.
And that is the beauty of mathematics. It doesn't. No matter how much you cry and pull your hair over an equation, the answer doesn't change. Xie Lian is or Xie Lian is not; it's right or it's wrong.
But… a wrong note doesn't come.
Xie Lian can somehow tell over the loud whirring of his thoughts because his toes have mysteriously uncurled in his work loafers that are a size too big, and his tense muscles have relaxed somewhat despite his near-chronic shoulder pain.
A wrong note doesn't come. Instead, 'collect' does.
Then, exam. (Oh, that's right—exams are coming up in two months. Could he recycle last year's questions? Or would he have to rewrite them again?)
Somehow transitioning seamlessly into ba-ba-bandage. (He smiles ruefully. He'd worn one for so long. Ruoye mostly likes to stay at home recently. Nowadays, people just assume the thing around his neck is nothing more than a unique tattoo.)
Morphing into who wee who moVIE! (When's the last time he went out and watched one? He likes the movies.) Pulling back to lick at lil lil-a-lemooan. (Oh, that was certainly a sound, he flushed.)
And…
And Xie Lian isn't thinking much else anymore because it's brilliant.
It's like watching applied physics at work. Like seeing an equation balance itself out.
It's brilliant and calculated and it's a perfect string of ones and zeroes, and Xie Lian finds himself in safe hands despite the unpredictability of its foundation. Each syllable, rhythm and note are so precisely placed it's as though it had somehow been rehearsed hundreds of times before.
But it couldn't have been. Not when it's Xie Lian's drink order sounding out past his gorgeous lips like: "Pa tss tss—passion fra fri fra fro fruit no no no, na negroni na no no—"
Xie Lian's mouth twitches.
Finally, "Please?"
Xie Lian laughs. Actually laughs.
And at first he feels bad for it. He slaps a hand over his mouth to stop the involuntary sound, but the rest of the audience is laughing too—and it's not polite; it's genuine, boisterous amusement. It's like the singer just told a really funny joke, and honestly the warmth in his chest feels a lot like it too. And Xie Lian wonders: It's really okay to laugh?
The Gem dazzles on brightly through the crowd's laughter, outshining all else with that vulpine smile. It's okay to laugh, and everything Xie Lian thought he knew about jazz is flipped on its head.
One thing about Xie Lian is that he will never grow tired of learning new things.
And recently, a lot of the things he's been learning about have been from the world of self-help; self-improvement. He reads about it, watches videos on his phone on it, and listens to podcasts about it on his drive to work. He journals, he meditates, and he saves tips for later to forget to come back to. He's tried his fair share of its practices over the years, and in this moment, one such concept he's learned about comes to mind: 'You are not your feelings, so don't identify with them.' He's gotten fairly good at this one!
But…it's glaringly obvious that he's missed a few blind spots when the identity of 'Xie Lian hates jazz' is suddenly on the cutting room floor and he's left a little bereft without it. Who is he without his hatred for jazz? Is he a better or worse person for it?
Into the mic comes that equally vulpine voice, "Could we please get a passionfruit negroni for table…"
"Three!" shouts Shi Qingxuan beside him with a cheer. Xie Lian flushes a little at the attention, then pauses when he realises that out of the entire crowd of people, the singer is looking straight at him.
Not just looking. But staring.
Like this: wide-eyed, slack-jawed.
"…table three," the gem finishes hoarsely.
Maybe he needs a drink. Xie Lian smiles back awkwardly.
"I- I need five!" The singer frantically shoves the fancy mic back into its holder. "We—I said take five, Yin Yu." Then practically flies off the side of the stage, so quick that even the pianist is sat there a little shellshocked.
The audience murmurs among themselves, confused. So do Xie Lian and Shi Qingxuan. "I think he needed to use the bathroom," whispers Shi Qingxuan seriously. "Makes you wonder what the hygiene standards for the bar are like here."
"Mm," hums Xie Lian, still trying to decipher what that look had been for. Did he recognise Xie Lian? Have they met? Probably not a good thing.
"Do you know him? Uh, whats'is name," Shi Qingxuan scans through the program ad on the table, "'Crimson Rain'?"
"Hm? Huh? No, no I don't think so."
"You sure? Looks like he knew you."
Xie Lian purses his lips. "'Crimson Rain'? I," I wouldn't forget someone like that. "I'd remember a name like that."
"'Blood Rain' does seem pretty morbid for jazz. Especially jazz that's—actually, now that you say that," Shi Qingxuan finishes off their drink and chews on an ice cube thoughtfully. "Where have I heard that name before…?"
"You'd think someone like that would be in a different genre at least," Xie Lian laughs to himself quietly.
"Urgh, it's like, on the tip of my tongue…"
"Passionfruit negroni?"
"Oh, ah, thank you! Here, please. Qingxuan, don't pull something thinking too hard, I'm sure it's not that serious," Xie Lian reproaches kindly. He pulls their hand away from their forehead, where their nail has already left an imprint between their furrowed eyebrows.
"Am I going insane? I could have sworn I'd heard that name cursed—"
"Check, check? And we're back. Apologies, folks. We are now ready to continue on with our final few numbers of the night."
Obviously, Xie Lian's attention is on the singer in an instant.
…But Heavens knows how long it's been since the two of them last spoke about anything of, well, the Heavens. Gods. The life that once was. And that is mostly due to Xie Lian himself, who is less than enthused when conversations drift to topics of the past. Xianle, his shackles, the heavens—even their godhood is murky territory. Shi Qingxuan generally steers clear of all talk of religion for good measure.
So as the rest of the band returns to stage and begin to pluck at their strings and sizzle their snares, it's shockingly Xie Lian who whispers, "Did you say 'cursed'?"
"Oh, no, I meant cursed like," Shi Qingxuan raises a fist, "Grr! I curse ye! Though, by who? Weirdly, I feel like…"
"Oh, right." Xie Lian's shoulders sagged. He takes a tentative sip of the passionfruit negroni, just to nearly spit it back out when he hears the first line of the song.
"As I look to the sky, I can feel the tears start swellin',
And I cry, 'Help me, Lord, what am I to do?'"
"This," Shi Qingxuan frantically rubs Xie Lian on the back to try and stop his spluttering, "this is what I was trying to tell you."
"He- It's religious?" Xie Lian stage-whispers, wielding nothing but accusation in his eye.
"It's gospel jazz, yes. Are you good? Can you breathe, please?" The look Xie Lian shoots them is so full of uncharacteristic vitriol, yet Shi Qingxuan doesn't even flinch. "I literally had no way of knowing," they say defensively. "Just ignore the words, ignore the jazz, Xie Lian, try to enjoy…something? Anything?"
Xie Lian catches one of the waiters off to the side glaring daggers at them for talking during the performance. So, reluctantly, Xie Lian sits still, and tries.
"I gotta have faith, faith in the Lord
That the sun'll rise tomorrow, and I'll be stronger than before."
…They should have known, he thinks sullenly. Shi Qingxuan is usually so good at these things; organising events, planning meetups, finding new places for the both of them to catch up after a long day of work.
He shuts his eyes with a sigh and tries.
"I look around and begin to count my blessings
One by one, and I see what God has done."
…But truly! Given the repertoire of the night, given what they know about Xie Lian's painfully short list of 'I mean, they're not really dislikes', he thinks Shi Qingxuan should have known. His eyebrow twitches.
He's trying!
And…well…
He supposes he doesn't mind the strange walking bassline.
He quite likes the complex little riffs Crimson Rain sneaks in when the audience least expects it.
He unexpectedly enjoys how the notes never quite go where he expects them to, suspending them in unpredictable rises and dips like a rollercoaster in the dark.
Xie Lian dislodges from his sullen, reluctant enjoyment when feels the weight of a gaze settle on him. He looks up.
"Oh, and I know that my Savior's walkin' with me
By my side, in my heart, and in my mind,"
With a black jade eye fixed only on him, close enough for his raw voice to be heard beneath the microphone's cheap imitation of that brilliant timbre, it feels like the words are being sung just to him. For him.
"He's the light of my life that I need to survive
And I know that I am because of Him,"
It's bizarre. Everything about it really—the fact that Xie Lian is even sat there to begin with, the fact that he doesn't hate it, the fact that he even enjoys it a little, maybe.
The fact that there's something about the way he sings those words that makes Xie Lian go hot and prickly all over; like they're not just lyrics—like it means something to him.
"That these tryin' times will help me and I can reap my reward
I gotta have faith,"
Xie Lian may not recognise him, but he can recognises the square of his shoulders, the upright line of his spine, the sheer awe.
"Faith in the Lord."
It's reverent, like a prayer.
"I need my reward."
A shiver runs down his spine. God. God!
What is wrong with him?