[Completed]
As choices, rules, timeless deeds, and beginnings attract then push Zhan away between two peaks of bliss, he learns: It's easy to fall, but harder to love. It's one thing to spend a star-aligned winter, but something else to bear the war...
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"What the hell—did we jinx it?" I mutter at the sight of the crowd that was waiting for us in the roll call duet contestants: the former concertmaster—suit neat, glasses updated, violin case held in hand—standing over in a corner with another violinist. He looked collected, observing everyone around him with subtle focus, and occasionally whispering to the other violinist. She's taller and sharp-looking in a long black qipao. His partner, I suppose.
"Shit," Yibo mutters back. "I think we did." He was nervous. I could say from his ice-like hand that kept brushing against mine not so accidentally.
Once we were assigned to dressing rooms, I tell him—or myself, "We expected players of all levels anyway. Knowing one of them doesn't make a difference."
Yibo nods at that. It's the best we could believe.
Time flies down to Mr. Chen's final pep talk in the dressing room. A crew member calls us over to take our places leading to a walk of tangible tension across the hallway behind the stage. The crew member decides to leave us alone and keep the silence. Maybe she knows.
In pitch black backstage, behind the wings, I could practically hear the blood racing through my veins. Heart racing and nerves electrified, I search for Yibo. He links our hands—right behind you. I squeeze, sighing at the soothing solidity.
He taps his forehead to the back of my head and whispers, "Remember what Mr. Chen said? We've worked hard enough."
I chuckle, brushing my fingers under his jaw. "We did, didn't we?"
We pull away at the sound of applause before the contestants that went before us walk off the stage. It's a cellist and a violinist; we are going to be compared.
My trail of thoughts stops mid-run when the compere says, "Next up, group number two in the string duet category, contestants Xiao Zhan on violin with Wang Yibo on cello."
Stepping on stage—the familiar reverberation of nerves I could never get used to, the illusion of a sensory shut down, nervous beyond words but loving every second of it—the stage lights burn on my eyelids as if it's trying to say that the stage is alive.
We spread out music on the stands and get the instruments in tune. I set my violin in place and look over at Yibo for the cue. He gives a very small very promising smile. He nods.
The next fifteen minutes, it went on like an out-of-body experience.
I can't remember ever being so focused before: trying hard to keep my hands from shaking, trying hard to keep my mind in one single lane of communicating the piece without any slips, all the emotions and the stories and the consummation of all. This was it. This was the final and I wanted it better than perfect.
One page. Another. The sound of my violin, familiar but much louder, much projected, rings in my ear, the impeccable acoustics doing us all the justice it could. It felt like the tips of my fingers were charged with static energy. I felt like a goddamned power unit.
