Chapter Text
Lan Zhan is walking down the wide Nanjing Road, summer air lying close and humid to his skin, the sky grey with haze. Street vendors are frying skewers of pork dripping with fat, of whole fish with crackling skins, of chicken hearts, the oily smoke rising to the sky. Stores are busy with customers – young, fashionable, women carrying trendy purses and wearing short skirts, men with loose shirts and bright shoes.
If there’s a part of the city where Lan Zhan feels less at home than the city’s most stylish shopping street, he’s hard put to imagine it. But part of the government’s marketing campaign has been to put athletes in unusual situations, eager to show them off as everymen and -women, someone any youth can aspire to. He’s already seen pictures from some of the first photoshoots that were held with China’s most prominent, most watched athletes: Nie Mingjue in Beihai park; Jiang Yanli at a street market; Luo Qingyang doing karaoke. And now, Lan Zhan outside some of the boutique shops at the west end of Nanjing Road, staring into the middle distance with Louis Vuitton and Ferragamo glittering behind him.
Lan Zhan is not a famous athlete. He’s not one of the Olympians China is watching with bated breath to bring home gold in less than a month. No one’s camped outside his modest third-storey apartment hoping to get slice-of-life photos of him drinking a latte that will sell for hundreds if he makes history. He watches the ads that pop up everywhere – on buildings, on buses and subways, on his phone – with a tired apathy. Sport isn’t synonymous with press to him. He does his duty when it comes to photoshoots and video interviews, nothing more.
He's nearing the stop for the train that will take him to the far end of Nanjing Road and connect with his regular line when his attention is caught by red light flickering overhead. He looks up and sees an enormous electronic billboard mounted on the side of a glittering new building, LED light flashing out into the hazy afternoon. There’s a young man’s face smiling down at him, his eyes round and crinkled with joy, his teeth white. The video footage is slowed, wind blowing through his mop of dark hair as a CGI background ripples behind him. I’m going for gold! reads the line of text beside him; beneath it is printed Wei Ying – Archery.
It's… preposterous, how handsome he is. How much he looks like he belongs there, up on the screen above the city’s most fabulous shopping arcade. More like an idol, a high-paid talent, than an athlete. Lan Zhan is perfectly aware that there’s a high degree of correlation between notions of beauty and physical fitness, that most young athletes are more than passingly good looking. But none of them look like this. It’s an affront, that he’s so eager and willing to have his face plastered on this promotional material. Sport is serious; press coverage is an ugly necessity, nothing more. And yet he – Wei Ying – looks so at home. The screen shifts to show him talking to an interviewer in a stadium; he’s tall, lanky, wearing the Team China white and red jacket and pants. He smiles easily, gestures with complete confidence as he holds a recurve bow and points at different features of its long length. At the end of the footage he draws an arrow from a quiver on his hip, fingers passing over the fletching, and nocks it easily to the string with long narrow fingers. He turns, drawing the bow until the string is even with his cheek even as he swivels, and fires without pausing. The camera pans down to the target to show a hit in the gold.
Showy, thinks Lan Zhan. It’s no wonder he’s been selected to feature on the screen. It’s an enticing performance, marred by the way he smiles and waves gleefully at the end of the footage. As if this were a game to him, as if it were more important to win the hearts of China than Olympic gold.
And yet, when the screen flickers to show its next segment – a blinding Coca cola advertisement – Lan Zhan realizes he’s been pinned to his place on the flagstone street, neck craned upwards to the sky.
***
Lan Zhan doesn’t watch TV. He spends as little time on the internet as possible, preferring to consume podcasts when he does engage with any online content. Mostly he reads real, physical books, enjoying the stiff texture of the cover and the smoothness of the page beneath his fingertips.
Still, for once tonight as he sits in bed – white coverlet, white pillows, white sheets, his tank and shorts equally snow-pale – with the A/C humming gently overhead, he picks up his phone and pulls up Weibo. Runs a search for Wei Ying, Archer.
What comes back immediately is a slurry of press photos and blogs hyping China’s most handsome athletes! Among them, he sees, are pictures of the soccer star Jin Zixuan wearing goalie gold with his hair swept back, pictures of Nie Mingjue in his thigh-tight swim trunks on the edge of a diving block beaded with water, and of Wei Ying looking down the line of an arrow, the tip of the blood-red fletching kissing his chin. His bow is jet black, wicked in his hands. The picture and others similar to it have been posted and reposted, with netizens squealing over the sharpness of his gaze, the beauty of his face, the way he purses his lips just so while he holds the string.
Lan Zhan is aware that, for many athletes, such publicity is unwanted. But he also finds Wei Ying’s own site, littered with photos and poor-quality videos of him doing trick shots, making ridiculous blunders, laughing at the camera and himself. It’s irking, how easy he seems to take everything, how he makes a joke of his own sport. And yet, Lan Zhan keeps clicking on each new video, staring intently at the screen as outside the sun heads towards the horizon.
Archery isn’t a sport he’s ever followed. Unlike fencing, it is one that is dominated by Asian athletes, and so it’s unsurprising that Wei Ying is a popular face on social media. And given his milking of that platform, unsurprising that he’s catching attention. Lan Zhan supposes that, like many athletes, he’s supported through promotions and sponsorships, and is trying to edge out the crowd to secure more in the limited time window of Olympic fever. It’s understandable; it makes sense. Many athletes do the same. But still, he doesn’t care for how mercenary it feels.
***
“I have good news and bad news,” Lan Yi tells him, as he steps down off the piste and pulls his helmet off. The rush of cool air after the close clutch behind the mask is welcome, sweat flowing freely down his temples, over his cheeks to trickle down into his collar. She hands him a towel; he dries himself and walks over to the bench where his sabre’s case sits. His muscles are hot, not quite aching, but with the good press of a thorough workout.
I have good news and bad news are not words anyone wants to hear one month out from the Olympics. Lan Zhan pulls off his gloves and slots his blade into its case before he looks up at her, expression measured, waiting.
“The good news is that your Championship results are starting to get some attention among the Party’s Olympic committee. Also, there has been a positive reaction to the early release of some of your press stills.”
Lan Zhan inclines his head, feeling the heavy weight of his hair where it is pinned back, damp and mussed from his helmet. He is eager to get home, to shower and sluice off the sweat and smell. To wash his hair and sit in the coolness of his apartment while it dries, meditating on his performance today. “The bad news is that they want you to be more involved in the publicity leading up to the Games. Specifically a multi-part segment filmed for TV.”
“No,” replies Lan Zhan, immediately, with finality.
“This isn’t an offer you can refuse,” Lan Yi tells him, meeting his gaze head-on without flinching. She’s been a coach since before he was born; nothing he has ever done has phased her. “I’ve already accepted on your behalf.”
“It will interfere with training.”
“All efforts are being made to ensure the filming is as unobtrusive as possible. Some of it won’t be anything more than capturing your training and practice sessions.”
Lan Zhan’s hands are clenched in the softness of the towel. He forces his fingers to relax, folds it carefully between his hands into squares and sets it down on the bench. “I don’t understand. I’m not popular. There is hardly any domestic interest in me, or fencing.”
Lan Yi pulls out her phone and swipes through a few screens. She holds it up to him so he can see a page with pictures of him, dressed in a white open-necked cambric shirt and navy trousers on Nanjing Road, his gaze intense. The photos are high quality, the lighting and angles attractive. Lan Zhan’s eye skims them and then falls to the bottom of the page. It’s some Weibo user’s blog, the pictures re-posted with light commentary.
There are over ten thousand interactions with it.
“This was posted today,” says Lan Yi. And then, turning the phone and scrolling again: “One more.” She shows him the screen again.
It’s a picture of him again, but this time one he doesn’t remember being taken. It’s from the side and slightly behind, a low-to-the-ground shot looking up. It shows him standing in the centre of Nanjing Road, staring up at a brightly lit screen. The red hues from the screen are washed over his skin just slightly, a rose-pink blush. He looks… wistful. Pensive.
The face on the screen is, of course, Wei Ying’s.
As a single image, it’s evocative. Even Lan Zhan can feel that, the almost dreamy aspect of it. He still wishes he could haul the photographer up onto the piste, show him what it feels like to be on the business end of his blade.
“This was an unofficial photo, taken by the photographer after the photoshoot concluded. It’s been held back for now, but they intend to release it as press for the upcoming series.”
“I – what?” says Lan Zhan, drawing his attention back from the screen.
“The show is called ‘In Your Shoes’,” says Lan Yi. “They’re pairing up athletes who haven’t met and having them teach each other their sport, as a way to bring in attention for two athletes at once, increase public awareness and investment, and show some team building. Guess who they want you to work with?”
Lan Zhan looks down at the photo again. “Definitely not,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Unfortunately yes,” replies Lan Yi.
***
The one mercy, if such a term could be said to apply, is that the Party Olympic Committee’s number one focus is on the medal count – with positive citizen engagement a close but distinct second. Which means that, as Lan Yi said, the filming of In Your Shoes truly is designed to reduce invasiveness. Lan Zhan is introduced to the small film crew in the Fencing Team’s small office, the windowless space smelling of herbal balms, milk tea and floor wax. Lan Yi walks them through his fitness and training schedule, as well as his broader personal schedule. Sessions in the gym are booked, and more time for what the film team calls unscripted time. And, of course, meetings with Wei Ying at the archery range.
“I don’t follow archery,” Lan Zhan tells them, when they finish taking apart his timetable.
“Good,” says the director, an older man surnamed Liu who wears a ballcap despite the fact that they’re indoors. “We want this to be a genuine experience. There will be a lot of hype. Wei-qiuyuan is a popular athlete.”
“I’m not,” replies Lan Zhan.
“Yet,” says Director Liu, smiling to reveal tea-stained teeth. Lan Zhan sighs. “First meeting tomorrow. We need to move fast – we don’t have a lot of time to push this through production. You were a late addition. But a wise one, I think,” he says, looking up at Lan Zhan’s face. At a look from Lan Yi, Lan Zhan keeps his teeth clicked firmly shut. “Not too talkative? That’s alright – Wei-qiuyuan can handle it.”
Ominous words.
***
They’re filming the archery segments first.
Apparently, it doesn’t make sense from a timing perspective to alternate the filming schedule between the archery range and the gym, so they’re doing the entire archery piece first. Lan Zhan is instructed to wear form-fitting clothes without flaps or buttons. He shows up, consequently, in a long-sleeved white shirt with a whorl of blue clouds over the left shoulder, and light-weight track pants in heather grey. His hair is in a long braid down his back; he has bobby pins with him in case he needs to put it up more securely.
He’s been instructed to come to the club room for the initial meeting and pre-brief, before they get started. It’s a long, single-story building flying a red flag with gold lines that’s presumably the archery club’s logo. There are a few cars parked nearby, but most traffic is on foot, pedestrians coming and going from a nearby bus stop – the same one Lan Zhan arrived by.
Inside the club room is a long lounge with seats and chairs and flatscreen TVs mounted to the ceiling showing taped international archery competitions. Several fans are blowing, moving the hot, humid air around listlessly. There’s a small trundle table with a tea urn and some Styrofoam cups. A few people are gathered – Lan Yi, Director Liu. And, wearing his Team China uniform, Wei Ying.
In person Wei Ying is… bright. Vibrant, the colour of his clothes, the flash of a silver necklace at his throat, the glint of his eyes and his lips. His hair is cut long around his face, feathered over his ears and at the back of his neck, strands of auburn and cinnamon shining amidst the black in the sunlight streaming in through the front windows.
He turns as Lan Zhan slips in through the glass-panel door, and smiles. The same smile Lan Zhan has seen in photos and videos – wide, toothy, excited. It feels almost like an insult. Surely no one can truly be so eager to see a stranger. Surely this is nothing more than a ploy for attention, the mask of someone who is always ‘on’, prepared to sell themselves to the camera. At least for the moment, they aren’t being filmed.
“Lan-qiuyuan,” says Wei Ying, waving – a glib little flash of his hand. “You look even more imposing in person. Truly, a frown that could sink a thousand ships!”
“Wei-qiuyuan.” He comes over and looks at him. Tall, lanky, long slim shoulders and thin delicate ankles exposed by his trousers. A pale throat; bright eyes.
Introductions are completed briskly – Wei Ying’s coach Baoshan Sanren, and a rapid-fire re-intro to the film team. “We’ll film out in the shooting area today,” says Director Liu. “Wei Ying will be there practicing; you will arrive, meet him, and take a brief lesson.”
“Any archery experience?” asks Wei Ying, canting his weight to one side, sloppy in his stance. Lan Zhan shakes his head. “No problem. You look like strength won’t be an issue. How’s your eyesight?”
“20/20,” replies Lan Zhan. Wei Ying grins.
“Of course such a beauty would have perfect vision. But actually, in archery long sight can come in handy. Still – I’m sure we’ll muddle through. I’ll go out and get set up, and we’ll see you in a minute, okay?”
“Mn.”
Wei Ying breezes out towards the doors opposite the building’s front door – the ones leading out into the range. The film crew follows him, minus one staff member who stays to direct Lan Zhan.
“He’ll make you look good,” says Lan Yi, her dark eyes thoughtful.
“He has no shame.”
“I’ve yet to hear that’s a requirement for medalling,” replies Lan Yi.
***
As directed, Lan Zhan enters the range while Wei Ying is shooting.
At this point he’s seen enough from promotional videos and the reels showing in the lobby to know what to expect. A large, deep space with a floor covered in springy blue rubber. Round targets at the end, a long line of them, so far that he can see the colours – gold in the centre, then red, then blue and finally a ring of black – but not the lines that delineate each of the ten rings. There are a few folding chairs lined up against the wall behind them; there are overhead speakers wired above.
Wei Ying is standing in the archer’s place, about midway down the lanes. On his right side his hair has been tucked back behind his ear; it spreads out softly there, a fan of silken points. The cameras are on his far side; Lan Zhan walks up to him as he’s drawing an arrow. He nocks it cleanly and pulls the string back, his elbow high, a black clip on his forefinger. The string whispers past his cheek, the back tip of the arrow at the base of his chin. And then he releases it. It hits the target with a thock. There’s a camera there, too, to record the strike – it’s far enough that Lan Zhan can’t see exactly how close to the centre it is. “Nine,” says a voice via the speakers.
Wei Ying lowers the bow; it rolls easily in his grip, the base brushing the bright blue floor. He turns to face Lan Zhan, camera spinning around to catch his broad, bright smile as Lan Zhan walks up. “Lan-qiuyuan, I presume,” he quips. He spreads an arm in a grand gesture. “Welcome to my turf.”
“Thank you,” intones Lan Zhan, gravely.
“So I guess you’re here to learn to be an Olympic pro at archery,” continues Wei Ying, smile smaller now, sharp, eyes keen. “You’ve come to the right place. Tell me, have you ever held a bow before?”
“No,” says Lan Zhan, speaking for the camera, repeating the story they both already know. And then, when Lan Yi makes a keep going gesture, “First time.”
For a moment he sees Wei Ying’s eyes dance and he fears he’s going to make some off-colour joke; fortunately, he reins himself in. “Well, no time like the present to learn. You’re too late to make it into the roster for 2024, but hey – there’s always 2028! First thing’s first, let me show you a bit about the equipment. Step up.”
Lan Zhan steps closer, so that he can see the intricate work of Wei Ying’s bow, the tiny print on some of the pieces. A shallow quiver hangs at his belt with five arrows in it, each fletched with crimson feathers.
“So, first,” says Wei Ying, hefting his bow. “There are several different kinds of bows. In Olympic archery, everyone uses recurve bows. This one is made from fibreglass over a wooden base. The first question I get asked is, what’s up with those weird sticks?” He indicates the three short black rods protruding from the body of the bow. “These are called stabilizers; they’re used in competitions where a high degree of accuracy is required, like competitive shooting. In the Olympics the target is 70m from the archer, and the centre ring is 12.2cm across. I know that sounds big, but trust me, from 70m away it’s like trying to shoot a coin off a fence. The stabilizers give me really minute control of the bow’s balance.”
Lan Zhan nods. Wei Ying, despite his easy smile and his jokes, has a plain way of speaking that is pleasant to listen to. He makes the subject interesting, and doesn’t dig in too deeply. “This, obviously, is the bowstring. Different archers have different weights of draw, depending on their experience and body types. Mine is just over 21kg. We’ll start you on a lower one – not that I would dare to insult Lan-qiuyuan by suggesting he couldn’t bench press a horse, but as a beginner it’s important not to overestimate yourself. But here, you can try to draw it. Stand to the side.” He puts a hand on Lan Zhan’s shoulder to move him. Lan Zhan freezes, heart clenching, then takes a breath and allows Wei Ying to swivel him to the side. His hand is light where it touches Lan Zhan, but he maneuvers him with easy confidence, spinning him around like a dance partner so that his left shoulder is facing the targets.
Wei Ying shows him how to hold the bow in his left hand, giving it up to him when he tucks it firmly in his palm, conscious of the fact that this may be one of the most important things Wei Ying owns. Lan Zhan wouldn’t let a stranger hold his sabre, not even at the Party Committee’s request. It’s personal, deeply so.
Wei Ying doesn’t seem to mind, though, adjusting his grip with little nudges from his long graceful fingers. Lan Zhan shuffles his thumb down, rolls his palm which is already growing moist. He’s uncomfortably aware of the fact that the cameras are rolling away as Wei Ying hovers over him so close he can smell his shampoo – something citrusy with a hint of sweetness. When Lan Zhan is finally holding it right he comes around to show him where to draw the string with his fingers. “Raise the bow to be parallel to your body. Keep your elbow up, and pull straight back. Steady grip, go slow. Don’t let go.”
Wei Ying was right that Lan Zhan can and does bench press considerably more than 21kg. It’s not exactly difficult to draw the bow – he can do it without faltering, bringing the string all the way back to his cheek, his arm raised high and his eyes focused down the field at the brightly coloured target. But he can’t imagine doing it repeatedly under immense stress to maintain perfect accuracy.
Wei Ying is standing beside him, his fingertips light against Lan Zhan’s forearm, talking to him quietly and calmly as if guiding a leery animal. “Good, that’s good. Yes, see, you feel the weight. Okay, I’m going to get you to ease up. Don’t let the bowstring go, just relax your grip so it goes slack.”
Lan Zhan does, his hand jerked forward by the bow’s strength. “It’s strong,” he says, a little surprised despite himself. Wei Ying grins.
“Sure is. It can kick like a mule if you’re not careful. You can seriously hurt yourself letting go of the string in the wrong way, or at the wrong time.”
“Has that happened to you?” asks Lan Zhan, curious despite himself. Wei Ying takes the bow back from him, handling it with the ease of long familiarity. Without even looking he lowers it at just the right angle to keep the base from scraping against the floor.
“When I was starting out, absolutely. I had some killer bruises, so bad my jie wanted to take me to the doctor! Even for professionals, sometimes they make mistakes, or things just go wrong. There are definitely injuries on the field occasionally. Probably not as often as in fencing though,” he says with a shit-eating smile. Lan Zhan raises an eyebrow. “Kidding, kidding. Lan-qiuyuan is so serious; he must forgive me. For today, I thought we could get you trying some bows to determine your draw strength, and practice lifting and drawing.”
Lan Zhan blinks. “Not shooting?”
The look Wei Ying gives him is surprisingly serious, despite the smile still present on his lips. “Nope. Archery’s a dangerous sport – you can hurt yourself, you can hurt other people, potentially very seriously. Like fencing, it was originally designed to kill people; people across the world still hunt with bows. It’s important to go slow, be respectful, and learn at a measured pace. We’ll get to the arrows next time.”
Lan Zhan nods, surprised at the wisdom of that message, and the restraint it demonstrates. But then presumably Wei Ying has been in the sport since he was a child; like all professional athletes he must be to some degree familiar with training new ones.
“C’mon, I’ve got some equipment all ready for you. Follow me on over!”
He leads the way to a narrow locker-room like space, but without benches or the smell of sweat and old socks. Like the shooting area itself it’s pristine, the floor spotless. The lockers, instead of being vertical and narrow, are shallow and horizontal. Some of them have names; one is Wei Ying’s written in messy characters. He opens it and puts away his bow and quiver, hanging the bow string-up from two hooks. “There’s some debate in the community about the best way to store bows. When I’m shooting often, I don’t unstring them. For travel or if it’s going to be a while between uses, I would unstring them and store them that way.” He shuts the locker and goes down to the end of the room to open a wide one that has several bows hanging in it, these ones unstrung. They have the scratched, worn look of shared equipment. He takes down two and grabs a couple of piles of what looks like loose twine, and nods at Lan Zhan. “Let’s go outside.”
Outside Lan Zhan stands by and watches Wei Ying string the bows one after another. He does it fast, efficiently, and Lan Zhan can’t help but be impressed by the way he maneuvers the bows seamlessly from a flat shape to take their strings. Lan Zhan has seen people string bows in movies; they did it with their hands, bending the bow from end to end. Wei Ying holds it horizontally though, and uses a string tool that he stands on to stretch the bow into the flexed position so that he can secure the string on either end. He does it in less than a minute, explaining the steps as he works. Lan Zhan can’t help but notice the way his arms flex as he draws the bows up, biceps straining tight beneath the press of his red uniform and tendons standing up in the long column of his neck.
Wei Ying’s eyes flicker up to him, just for a moment, and he grins. Lan Zhan feels unaccountably seen, caught enjoying something not for his enjoyment. He feels heat flush beneath his skin, burn at the tips of his ears.
Then Wei Ying is standing; he hands one of the bows off to an assistant and puts his hand back on Lan Zhan’s shoulder, guiding him out to a lane. He lines him up in his place, tucking him into the correct pose like a tailor adjusting the drape of a suit, so easy with his touches. Lan Zhan can’t do anything but accept it, moving as he’s asked to, swallowing when Wei Ying’s fingers accidentally brush against his midriff. His touch burns along Lan Zhan’s skin, a heated white arc. Lan Zhan looks into his face, bent close as he settles Lan Zhan, and sees only concentration on his task. His eyes are cast downwards, his lip caught just slightly between his white teeth.
“Okay,” says Wei Ying when he straightens, as if he hadn’t just been manhandling a near-total stranger around in front of a camera like he were a recalcitrant pet. “So first, we’re going to try this one.” He puts the bow into Lan Zhan’s hand, bending his head with a soft whisper of dark hair over his temples to adjust Lan Zhan’s grip. “This one is 11kg.”
He guides Lan Zhan to lift it, catch the drawstring in his fingers and pull it. This time the draw is easy, hardly a stretch for his arm. “Whoa, okay, that’s too light,” says Wei Ying, immediately, and lifts the bow out of his hands almost before he’s released the bowstring. He trades it for the other and this time lets Lan Zhan grip it himself. Already he’s coming to be used to the feeling of the bow tucked against his palm, the heft and smoothness of it. “Try this one.”
Lan Zhan draws it while Wei Ying watches him, eyes sharply observing his form. He can feel the difference immediately; it’s a harder draw, but a comfortable strain. “This feels better,” he says, releasing the tension on the string. Wei Ying smiles – not a teasing smile but a genuine one of pleasure. Lan Zhan feels something warm curl low in his stomach, an answering satisfaction.
“Good. It’s 15kg, on the high end for a beginner. But of course Lan-qiuyuan would be impressive at anything he tried.”
They spend fifteen minutes with Wei Ying showing him how to lift the bow, how to stand, how to draw it and finally, how to release it. Not all the footage will be used, he knows, they’re filming more than needed so it can be cut down into short clips. By the time they’re done he can reliably lift the bow into a proper grip and pull and release it. The feeling of the string snapping past his cheek is alarming, especially in light of Wei Ying’s earlier comments about massive bruising. But Wei Ying guides him through everything, and he doesn’t once injure himself.
At the end the bow is handed off to a staffer and Wei Ying smiles at him. “That’s it for day one. You’re already coming along. Did you have fun?”
Fun? Lan Zhan considers. “It was… enlightening. You were a good coach,” he admits. Wei Ying blinks at him before grinning.
“Lan-qiuyuan, what a compliment! I will treasure it always. And I’ll thank you now for your kind cooperation – given that our roles will be reversed soon enough.”
“Mn,” agrees Lan Zhan, who had almost forgotten that. He will be teaching Wei Ying how to lunge, to dodge, to parry. How to come at him with a blade; how to deflect his own attacks.
He has a sudden yearning to see Wei Ying beneath the bright lights of the piste swathed in white, hair plastered to his skull with sweat, grinning with a mesh-covered helmet beneath his arm. “Thank you,” he says, and hopes none of that sudden mad hunger shows through in his tone.
Wei Ying’s eyes crinkle, his smile broad. “You’re welcome.”
***
At home that night, the A/C rumbling quietly overhead and muted lights flashing by on the darkened wall as cars drive past on the street below, Lan Zhan looks at his schedule. There are only three more filming segments, each one hour. One more for Wei Ying to teach him archery; two for him to teach Wei Ying fencing.
He had been pleased before at the relatively minor invasion into his schedule. Four hours altogether was not heinous, even in the lead-up to one of the biggest competitions of his career. Now, he finds himself thinking how insufficient that time is. How quickly they’ll be done and he’ll have no more reason to stand in the warmth of Wei Ying’s smile or feel the petal-light touch of his hands as he corrects Lan Zhan’s stance. He finds himself wondering how Wei Ying will look with a sabre in his hand, how he’ll move. Whether he’ll be as confident, as smooth-stepping as he is in his own natural environment. Whether he’ll be a natural; whether he’ll be a disaster. Lan Zhan can imagine bending over him, lying tumbled off-balance on the edge of the piste, can imagine offering him a hand.
Can imagine Wei Ying pulling the helmet off in one long draw from the neck and smiling up at him, eyes dancing.
Enough.
He stands, tossing his phone on the bed. Just because Wei Ying has an inappropriate sense of personal space he should know better than to let his imagination run wild. Wei Ying is bright, joyous, charismatic. With everyone – the camera crew, Director Liu, his coach. There’s nothing special between them; they’re simply colleagues thrown together by fate and the Party’s fickle hunger for good publicity. And after all, Wei Ying represents so many things he finds distasteful. Coy flirtation. Playing to the sponsors, not the sport. But.
But Wei Ying had been serious, when needed. He had been methodical, and careful. And he had been a good teacher, despite his smiles and jokes and teasing flirtatiousness. Charisma is not, Lan Zhan reminds himself, a sin. Nor is a sense of humour.
He goes out into the kitchenette and pulls a bottle of water from its place in the small refrigerator, twisting the cap off and drinking long thirsty swallows. He wonders whether Wei Ying has promoted soft drinks, or perhaps Chinese beer – whether he’s been in advertisements cracking open a cool, sweaty bottle and showing off the long line of his neck as he drinks deeply.
Lan Zhan closes his eyes and leans his head against the wall. This is becoming too much. He closes the bottle, puts it back in the fridge, and goes to bed.
***
The next time he sees Wei Ying, it’s in the middle of a summer storm.
Rain is hammering down on the metal roof of their car as he and Lan Yi are driven to the archery range. The sky is deep, dark slate in colour, the wind unfurling billowing clouds like rolls of silk. Although it’s only two in the afternoon the car has its headlights on, shining yellow in the dimness as they splash up water that flashes as high as the windows.
When they arrive at the archery building they wait until the car has pulled up right at the curb, then run hurriedly across the pavement to duck inside. The air is humid, coolly clinging; thunderstorms are predicted for later this evening.
Inside the air is hot and close with the moist clutch of a space without air conditioning, but unlike the world outside it is at least dry and brightly-lit. Baoshan Sanren is there to greet them; she explains that Wei Ying is doing some extra filming for additional footage. She speaks more to Lan Yi than to him, which is a coach’s prerogative, but more interesting is the fact that Lan Yi attends carefully to her every word with interest – not just bland politeness. They are offered tea, snacks. One of the screens overhead shows a livestream of the shooting area today, and Lan Zhan can see Wei Ying firing rapidly at the target while the film crew captures the scene.
Still, it’s not long before they have what they need, and Lan Zhan is called in. He’s once again dressed in a form-fitting long-sleeved cotton shirt and track pants; Wei Ying is still in his Olympic uniform of red and white. He looks good in red, vibrant; his eyes brighten as he spots Lan Zhan crossing the floor.
“Lan-qiuyuan! So you came back after all. I’m pleased I didn’t frighten you off.” He’s smiling at Lan Zhan but the cameras are rolling, and Lan Zhan knows better than to think this bright breeziness is for him.
“So it seems,” he agrees in a low tone. And then, stiffer: “Thank you, for your tutelage.”
“Aiya, so formal. What next, will you offer me a bow? Never mind that, let’s get started. As you can see, I’ve got a target set up for you.” He gestures to one of the lanes closer to the side of the wide-open gallery, and Lan Zhan sees that indeed a target has been mounted on a tripod about halfway down the lane. At this distance Lan Zhan can clearly make out each of the ten rings that stretch outwards from the golden centre. The target is pristine, unmarred.
Wei Ying hands off his own bow to a staffer, and lifts the one that Lan Zhan tried a few days ago. He passes it to Lan Zhan, watching critically as he takes it. “Let’s see how much you remember, Lan-qiuyuan.”
He does a passable job of striking the correct pose and lifting the bow, drawing the string to his cheek. Wei Ying steps in and adjusts his stance with light touches that cause little ripples of heat across Lan Zhan’s skin; he keeps his face blank and accepts the corrections. Wei Ying reminds him how to release the bowstring so as not to hurt himself and he practices that a few times.
“Alright,” says Wei Ying. “Arrows!”
Lan Zhan sees that he’s kept on his quiver, a shallow black cloth bag hanging from his hip. He lifts an arrow from it and holds it out; it’s red-fletched, one of his own personal ones. “So, although we’re indoors today, Olympic archery takes place outside. Arrows are super lightweight and made of carbon – which makes it really tough on windy days!” He holds out the arrow and Lan Zhan takes it, lifting to feel how light it is.
“Very light,” he says for the camera, holding the arrow balanced on his palm.
“Yep. Now that we’ve got you working with a bow and an arrow, the first rule you need to know is: never point your bow at anyone. When you’re not aiming at the target, keep it lowered. Even if it’s not drawn, even if you don’t have an arrow nocked.” His voice is serious, eyes sharp as flint. Lan Zhan nods.
“The second thing you need to know is that this can be a little scary. The bow is strong, and you might feel like it’s shooting you. But I’m here, and I promise I’m not going to let you do something that could hurt you.” It should feel like a platitude. No sport is entirely without risk, especially for a no-nothing beginner. But Wei Ying’s words bring a sense of safety, of security. He sees Lan Zhan taking them in and smiles.
“Okay. Then I’m going to show you how to nock the arrow. It’s important you do this right, because if it’s not set on the bowstring correctly its path will be very erratic. Hold the bow and keep it pointed downwards. Now take the arrow…” He steps up again, and shows Lan Zhan how to hold the arrow between his first and second fingers, careful to not crush the fletching. His fingers rest lightly over Lan Zhan’s as he guides him to set the end of the arrow against the string and clicks it into place. “It should feel sturdy, when it’s on correctly. If you drop it, it will fall, but if you shift your grip or adjust the arrow it will stay locked on the string.”
Lan Zhan nods, incredibly aware of the heat of Wei Ying’s fingers against his, the gentleness of his touch.
“Okay, now aim towards the target, and rest the tip of the arrow above the top finger holding the bow. The arrow goes on the left of the bow, not the right – a lot of movies get this wrong. At any point if you feel nervous, just relax the tension of the bowstring. Alright?”
Lan Zhan nods, and lets Wei Ying guide him to position the arrow and draw back the string slowly. “When you’re ready, use the sight to guide you where the arrow will hit. Try to aim so that the sight is over the centre of the gold ring. Breathe in, and let go.”
Lan Zhan stands, holding the string back, the bow pulling at him. Although the draw didn’t feel so heavy before now that he’s trying to hold it completely steady he feels how difficult it is. He takes aim, inhales, and lets go.
The arrow snaps out; in an instant it’s hit the target, landing in one of the outer rings. “Three,” says Wei Ying, excitement in his voice. “That’s a great first try! Most people don’t even hit the target.”
Lan Zhan stares at the target, at the black arrow protruding from it. The sense of satisfaction, of pride, that wells up in him is unlooked for. He feels strong, skilled, the way he does after particularly fierce fencing rallies when the buzzer goes and he’s the victor. It’s a primitive feeling, of a warrior capable of protecting his own. Which in this day and age is ridiculous, but it’s how he feels all the same, flushed with it.
He realises after a moment that he’s not entirely sure how much is his own approval, and how much is Wei Ying’s praise.
“Think you can do it again?” asks Wei Ying.
Lan Zhan looks at him and almost smiles. “Let’s find out,” he says.
***
He shoots the entire contents of Wei Ying’s quiver at the target that’s been brought close for him. The closest he comes to the centre – ten – is five. But Wei Ying says it’s impressive, and Wei Ying is the expert here.
For the sake of the cameras they move Lan Zhan into the next lane, where the target is at a full 70m distance. More arrows are brought; he lines up and shoots another round of five.
Not a single one hits the target.
“For those of you at home who are thinking I could do better,” says Wei Ying, smiling at the camera, “I can promise you you wouldn’t. One of the reasons we all enjoy watching the Olympics so much is because athletes make their sports look easy. The reality is, they only look that easy because we’ve been training our whole lives. Next time you see me, I’ll be training to fence with Lan-qiuyuan. I’m absolutely looking forward to it – even knowing that he’s gonna cream me.”
“Lan Zhan,” says Lan Zhan, suddenly, surprising himself. He can almost hear the camera focusing in on him, feels heat sting his ears. “There is no need for such formality with me.”
In truth, he’s both surprised and appreciative of Wei Ying’s immediate act to defend him from criticism. It doesn’t feel necessary – he truly doesn’t care if netizens insult him for missing the target – but it’s a kind gesture all the same.
The easy smile has slipped from Wei Ying’s face. For an instant he is wide-eyed, taken aback. Then he ducks his head, laughs, his bangs falling thickly over his forehead. “Lan Zhan, then. How could I refuse? Shall we take one final shot?”
Lan Zhan, surprised, shrugs. Wei Ying grabs an arrow off a staffer and passes it to Lan Zhan. This time, instead of watching him from the side, he moves to stand behind Lan Zhan. He’s so close Lan Zhan can feel the light touch of his shirt against his back. He rests a hand, just lightly, touch soft as a sunbeam, over Lan Zhan’s right hand. He guides him to draw the bow, his face almost cheek-to-cheek with Lan Zhan. “A little higher,” he says, his voice gentle in Lan Zhan’s ear; he can feel the puff of warmth from his breath. It breaks over his skin in a soft wave, delicate, sensual. With his left hand he guides Lan Zhan to raise the bow so that the tip of the arrow is just a hair’s breadth higher. “Good. Now look with both eyes. Focus on the target, not the arrow. The arrow knows where to go. You’re just here to nudge it in the right direction. Twist your fingers. Draw a breath. Now: let go.”
Lan Zhan lets go. The arrow shoots cleanly, bowstring leaping forward. It hits the target with an audible thock. “There you go,” says Wei Ying, stepping back. Without knowing how he knows, Lan Zhan is perfectly sure that the words are just for him.
“Six,” announces the overhead voice, tone crisp.
Lan Zhan lowers the bow, staring at the distant target, at his arrow stuck in the blue ring. He feels both elated and exhausted. Like he’s been put through a wringer, his body pushed to its limits and then suddenly released. He’s a little dizzy; he can still feel the warmth of Wei Ying’s touch on the back of his hands, the moist heat of his breath over his ear.
He turns to Wei Ying to say – he doesn’t know what. His mind is empty, wiped clean.
Overhead, thunder booms suddenly – loud, prolonged. Behind the camera, Director Liu signs to wrap it up.
“Well, that sounds like a great reason to break for today. Next time I see you we’ll be on your turf – I hope you’ll treat me kindly!” Wei Ying’s smile is back – bright, effortless.
“I’m sure Wei Ying will impress me,” says Lan Zhan. And then, his heart thrumming tightly in his chest, “I’m looking forward to it.”
***
“Director Liu is very pleased,” Lan Yi tells him on the ride back to the gym. He still has some weight training on the docket for this afternoon before it’s time for the team meeting and then home. He won’t have the luxury of a chartered vehicle to take him home – this is strictly on the film crew’s dime because of the filthy weather.
Lan Zhan looks at her, a question in his eyes.
“Your chemistry with Wei Ying is reading well.”
“I – my chemistry?”
“The way you light up like a qixi lantern when he drapes himself across you,” says Lan Yi, dryly.
Lan Zhan glowers. “I do not – he does not – that’s –”
Lan Yi rolls her eyes. “Relax. You’re subtle enough. It’s reading as a genuine connection, nothing more. At least, nothing overt. I hope I don’t have to tell you to keep it that way.”
“There is nothing to keep hidden,” replies Lan Zhan, stiffly. “I hardly know him. He is – loud. A joker. Interested in garnering attention.”
The car bumps over a pot hole. Lan Yi shrugs. “Opposites attract,” she says. “But they absolutely cannot right now, when you’re both about to ship out to one of the most scrutinized events in the country.”
“There is nothing between us,” repeats Lan Zhan. Lan Yi sighs and takes out her phone, unlocking the screen.
“Alright then.”
The car splashes along. Overhead in the dark roiling clouds above Chongming Island, lightning splits the sky.
***
It rains all night.
Lan Zhan usually finds the rain cleansing, feels a sense of brisk freshness as it falls sluicing over windows and chuckles in gutters and alongside street curbs. After the rain the city is cooler, feels not quite new but younger, verdant and clean as a fresh spring leaf.
Now, though, he can’t forget Lan Yi’s words. Your chemistry with Wei Ying is reading well.
In another circumstance – in any other circumstance – it might not be so bad. Lan Zhan isn’t a monk, and he’s not a prude either. He’s had relationships, quiet ones, brief and polite. But the idea of revealing himself – of having even one viewer see him staring at Wei Ying the way he must have and drawing the conclusion that Lan Zhan can fall, would fall, for a man – is disastrous. He isn’t an idol; it probably wouldn’t end his career. But it could end any chance at sponsorship or paid support.
Unfortunately, each time he tries to replay their interactions with a jaundiced eye, to judge exactly what he might have shown on his face, all he can remember is Wei Ying’s touches. The kitten-soft press of his fingers, the light little nudges of his palms and elbows. The touch of his shirt against Lan Zhan’s, the heat of his breath. They leave him flushed with heat once more, the warmth like sun-heated honey, a slow languorous sensation.
He lies in bed and listens to the rain washing down in a river outside and wonders. If Wei Ying noticed. If the camera will show it. If he was truly as transparent as Lan Yi seems to think. Surely he can’t have been. Surely she only noticed because of her long association with him.
But that doesn’t explain Director Liu’s comments.
Lan Zhan rolls over and buries his face in his pillow.
***
Time is ticking. It isn’t long before the final briefings, and then the day that the planes fly out.
Today is the first of the two days they’re filming on, as Wei Ying had said, his turf. The gym is large, featuring three pistes, each with full equipment. Most of the team has been given the hour off to reduce the amount of background noise and activity present while filming. Lan Huan, his brother and primarily a competitor in the Epée class, has agreed to act as his foil for some footage.
They mask up and take their places, saluting to each other. The referee – Wen Yuan for today – makes the calls: “En garde. Prêts? Allez!”
He has been fencing against Lan Huan since he was a boy; they know each other’s moves as they know their own heartbeats, their own breathing. The bouts are fast, wicked, called by the buzzer when a sabre makes contact with the lamé jacket in a scant few seconds. They go over and over: advancing, retreating, lunging and parrying. The sabres snik and snak as they cross; their feet beat a rapid tattoo on the piste.
Finally, after ten rounds – which Lan Zhan, the sabre expert, wins handedly – they salute and remove their masks. Only then does Lan Zhan hear the applause – singular, quiet but forceful. He turns and sees Wei Ying standing in fencing white, his hair swept back with sleek gel and his eyes dancing. Lan Zhan swallows and steps down off the piste; Lan Huan evaporates politely, a smile on his lips.
“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying steps over, a little clumsy under the bulky form of the lamé, wires rustling at his back. “That was amazing! I could hardly even tell what was happening.”
“Mn. Sabre is the fastest-moving sport in the Olympics. The replays are often slowed for the viewer.”
“They’re not slowed for you, though.”
Lan Zhan shakes his head minutely. “Quick reflexes are the most important skill in sabre. Along with footwork and concentration.”
“It’s pretty amazing. I’m excited to try – but not so excited to mess up in front of everyone.”
Lan Zhan shifts his helmet, runs a thumb over the grip of his sabre. “What was it you said? The reason people enjoy the Olympics is because we make it look easy? Our jobs here is to help show just how skillful our sports are.”
“That sounds like a nice way of saying, Oh Wei-qiuyuan, please embarrass yourself for the cameras,” grumbles Wei Ying. Lan Zhan raises his eyebrows slightly; Wei Ying laughs.
Lan Zhan’s plan for ensuring there was nothing suggestive about their interactions was to remain firmly in his own bubble. There’s no need, in sabre, to engage with the kind of closeness and touching Wei Ying chose. He can demonstrate techniques from any distance, and can correct from there too.
He hadn’t been ready for the way Wei Ying draws him out of his shell, engages him in his jokes, his words, as naturally as he draws breath. But then, surely that’s a normal level of interaction for most people. Surely Lan Yi read more into it only because she knows him, knows how disengaged he typically is from new people.
“Thank you for your sacrifice,” he says, gravely. And then, motioning to Wei Ying, he brings him over to the large empty part of the fencing gym used for warm-ups and meetings. He hands his blade and mask off to Lan Yi. “The first thing to learn is how to stand. The second is how to move.”
“No sword?” asks Wei Ying.
“Not yet. Like archery, fencing is a dangerous sport. We start with the basics.” He waits for Wei Ying’s nod, then continues. “In fencing – in sabre – you only move forward and backwards. There’s no space for turning, or dodging. In everything you are either advancing, or retreating. You will always be faced with your dominant arm forward, body turned to the side.” He demonstrates the proper stance, his right hand forward, his left raised behind him. “You will see this stance at the beginning of every bout; during the match opponents will maintain some form of it. You try.”
Wei Ying obliges. Lan Zhan circles around him and corrects him – verbally. “Your left hand higher. Legs further apart – you need to keep your balance light, ready to move in an instant. It should feel uncomfortable. Tilt your shoulders more; the more forward-facing your chest is, the bigger target you make.”
Wei Ying adjusts himself as instructed; he faces forward, listening seriously and taking direction well. Once he’s in the En Garde pose, Lan Zhan has him practice coming in and out of it a few times, so that his body remembers the shape, the draw of his muscles and the weight of the lamé in the stance. They practice together, Lan Zhan beside him, demonstrating.
He’s been fencing since he was a young boy; all of the stances are effortless to him. He adopts them with easy grace, a twist of his wrist, a lift of his shoulders so that his pose isn’t only correct but beautiful. It’s… charming, to see Wei Ying try to copy that too, the little flourishes familiar to professionals.
When Wei Ying is able to passably adopt En Garde without Lan Zhan correcting him, they move on to lunges. “Sabre has many particular rules regarding footwork, timing, and direction – we won’t get into them today. All your movements are either for attack or defense. First we’ll practice footwork so you can get a sense of how to move forward and backward. One rule which is unique to sabre is that the feet may not cross when you move – it adds a degree of difficulty and a requirement for constant attention.”
Standing beside Wei Ying, he demonstrates a lunge, his hand raised as if holding a sabre. He darts forward, moving fast, keeping his posture upright and his left hand behind his back. Then he has Wei Ying do it.
Wei Ying is certainly not an uncoordinated person from what he’s observed, but there’s an art to these movements and this is his first time. He looks like a colt trying to canter beside a horse, his steps badly timed and his weight wrong. Lan Zhan corrects him gently, has him do it again more slowly and moves along beside him.
Although some members of the fencing team are involved in mentoring and training youth, Lan Zhan is not. By the time they come to the gym, the fencers he works with are at the height of their careers. He has little experience with having to go slow, to break his actions down into pieces and explain them. It’s difficult, to have to thoughtfully show a move in five seconds that he’s used to making without thought in one.
Still. They go slow. They practice the lunge and the basic parry movements. Their uniforms are stuffy and the gym is too large to be cooled; there are only some fans turning lazily in the ceiling above. They’re both sweating, Wei Ying’s face shiny, damp beads at his hairline. Lan Zhan sees them trickle down over his chin, watches the way they run down his throat and into his shirt. But he doesn’t once complain; each time Lan Zhan corrects him he nods, face serious, and tries again.
Finally, when he’s moving well and with ease, Lan Zhan nods at Wen Yuan. The younger man brings out their sabres, handing them both to Lan Zhan.
“This,” says Lan Zhan, “is your sabre. Unlike the weapons used in foil and epée, it is completely flat. The end of competition blades is blunt, but can still be dangerous. This blade here is further blunted with a buttoned end, which is what we use for training and beginners. In sabre, the target is anything above the waist. That includes the neck and head, but not the hands.”
Wei Ying nods, and accepts the sabre Lan Zhan hands him. He shows him how to hold it, the correct grip and way of raising it. “We won’t cross swords today – that’s for next week. For the rest of today, we will practice lunges and parries. Helmet on, please.”
For the remaining twenty minutes they practice. Lan Zhan teaches Wei Ying the first three parries, as well as the lunge – with his blade, this time. He is surprisingly unhesitant, following direction easily and taking correction well. Lan Zhan wonders whether professional athletes inherently make better students, or whether Wei Ying just happens to be particularly adept. He keeps his praise careful, concise, but tries to let Wei Ying – and the cameras – know that he’s doing well.
The session is over before long. Director Liu makes the signal and Lan Zhan stops after the final lunge. He raises his sword in salute, then pulls off his helmet, welcoming the rush of cooler and fresher air. Wei Ying does so as well, slower to find the seam. When the helmet comes off his cheeks are flushed, his hair messy with sweat. He looks mussed, hot and red and somehow debauched. Lan Zhan’s heart, formerly steady, lurches into a rapid thundering pace against the curve of his ribs.
Wei Ying looks at him, eyes gleaming. His lips are red, a little swollen, as if he’s been chewing on them throughout their practice. As if he’s been rolling them beneath his teeth and holding them there, tight, secret. Lan Zhan swallows.
“Wow – that was a rush!”
“Next time, you will try duelling me,” he says, forcing himself to keep his voice even.
Wei Ying’s smile is bright as the sun. “I can’t wait.”
***
The next time he sees Wei Ying is at the final filming for In Your Shoes.
Because of their intense schedules and the constant presence of the camera crew trying to capture any interactions of interest, they’ve had basically no time to actually speak to each other casually. Lan Zhan has, over the course of filming, become attracted to the person Wei Ying plays for the cameras. The problem is he has no idea how genuine this person is, or whether his smiles, his jokes and flirtatious lines are nothing but a mask.
“I hope you’ll take good care of me,” Wei Ying says with a polite smile when they meet again, dressed in their fencing whites. His dark eyes glitter up at Lan Zhan; Lan Zhan stares back repressively.
“We’ll start with a refresher of last time, then move into matches,” replies Lan Zhan. His eyes trace the outline of Wei Ying’s face, framed by his dark hair swept back once more and shining like jet beneath the gym’s lights. As good as he looks in red he might look better still in black – draped in it, hung with silk or perhaps crisp unlined linen, the narrow contours of his body hinted at by the fall of the fabric. As it is, his slenderness is entirely hidden beneath the bulk of the lamé; it shows only in his bare ankles, the flash of his thin wrist when he pulls on his glove.
They practice first on the flat gym floor, their light shoes squeaking on the polished honey-coloured floorboards. Overhead there are coloured pendants mounted on the walls, trophies from matches around the world. The film crew glide around them, capturing their lunges, their parries from several angles.
After about fifteen minutes, Lan Zhan moves them up onto the piste. “We’ll practice at opposite ends here first, stopping before we meet,” he says, “so that you can get a feel for the flooring and the narrowness of the lane. Any step outside the white lines is a disqualification. Helmet on, please.”
They both mask up and proceed to the opposite ends of the piste. From here Lan Zhan calls the moves and charges towards Wei Ying as he flicks his blade in a lunge, and in the first three parry moves: prime, seconde, tierce. He stops between sets and gives advice, corrections. Wei Ying seems to be listening keenly; he’s quick to adjust his stance, his movements in line with Lan Zhan’s suggestions.
When the film crew has positioned itself facing the centre of the piste and Wen Yuan is there to referee, they start the first match. Lan Zhan, out of fairness, will only use the moves he has taught Wei Ying; it’s still nothing like a fair fight.
Wen Yuan calls the standard introduction: “En garde. Prêts? Allez!”
Lan Zhan, by force of training, leaps as soon as he finishes speaking. Wei Ying freezes, then darts forward too fast, forgetting most of his training. Lan Zhan dodges easily, even keeping his movements deliberate and paced, and scores a touch on his arm; the buzzer sounds.
“My apologies,” he says. “I will go slower.”
Wei Ying shakes his head. “No – that was amazing. Terrifying – and exhilarating! You’re like a sprinter, you go as soon as the gun fires. I need to learn that.”
Lan Zhan takes a breath, then nods. “Then – when you charge, focus on your footing first. Everything else will fall apart if you get that wrong. You can’t outpace your feet. If you forget what to do with the sword, just keep it pointed forwards. Not too high, not too low.”
Wei Ying nods. They back up and go again.
This time although Lan Zhan moves as soon as he’s able, he goes slower. He projects his movements, allowing Wei Ying the time to react and try to parry him. Their blades cross once, twice, before he scores a hit and the buzzer sounds.
“Lan Zhan! Again!”
Lan Zhan, behind the safety of his mask, smiles.
They go again, over and over, until Wei Ying is panting and beginning to make obvious mistakes. He scores two hits on Lan Zhan, admittedly because Lan Zhan is moving at a quarter of his usual speed.
“Let’s finish off with a good one,” says Wei Ying, straightening even as his shoulders strain with his breathing. “I want you to go at full speed. Just once.”
Lan Zhan pauses. “That’s not…”
“Not for me. For the viewers at home. So they can see what it’s like for a newbie to fight an Olympic athlete.”
It’s a good point. Like all of Wei Ying’s points, it’s well-considered and thoughtful. Of the point of this program, of their opportunity to show off not just their sports but the results of training across a lifetime. Finally, Lan Zhan nods.
They return to the starting lines; Wen Yuan calls the introduction. At allez Lan Zhan leaps forward, sabre a silver line in front of him. Before Wei Ying has even entirely cleared his first two steps, he’s slashed a long score over the front of his shirt. The buzzer goes.
Wei Ying steps back, pulls off his helmet, and drops down to sit on his rear with his long legs spread out in front of him. He looks up, dazed, grinning. “Wow. Wow. I’m not sure what could top that, honestly. You’re so fast.”
Lan Zhan lifts his helmet off. He doesn’t usually spend this long in it; his skin is hot and moist, his hair stuck to his skull. He shakes his head and feels his braid come unpinned, spilling down his back. Even with the helmet off he feels flushed, heat gathered under his skin. Part of it – a large part of it, he thinks – is Wei Ying. The way he’s sitting, sprawled and breathless on the piste. The way he’s looking up at Lan Zhan like he hung the moon.
It is, Lan Zhan thinks, just a little like the way he first saw Wei Ying, splashed high above him on the billboard in Nanjing Road. His heart is beating fast, thin, the sound of it a low throb in his ears.
“For someone with two hours of experience, you did very well,” says Lan Zhan, forcing himself to speak, to be normal. He bends to hand his helmet and sabre to Wen Yuan, then leans down and offers Wei Ying his hand. Wei Ying blinks up at him, his dark eyes glinting beneath the bright lights, his cheeks brushed a pretty pink. He takes Lan Zhan’s hand, and lets himself be hauled up to his feet. He’s a heavy weight, his body slim but strong, all muscle. Lan Zhan holds his hand for a moment longer than necessary, some part of himself trying to remember its size, its weight, the feel of him putting his trust in Lan Zhan.
Wei Ying glances at him for an instant, eyes bright, thoughtful. Then he turns, ducking his head, and lets out a laugh. “Whoof! That was a serious workout. Thanks. For teaching me.”
Lan Zhan nods. “You’re welcome.”
Wei Ying takes a step towards the angled side of the piste and twists his foot, just slightly, beneath his weight. Lan Zhan is there immediately, catching his elbow and steadying him. “Careful,” he says. “You pushed yourself hard. Go slow.” He escorts him down off the piste onto the flat floor of the gym, and only when he’s on firm ground does he release Wei Ying’s arm.
“Lan Zhan is such a gentleman,” he murmurs, so low the cameras might not catch it, but Lan Zhan absolutely does. His ears burn, hot as a griddle.
Then Director Liu is calling them over to do the wrap-up.
***
They do a few final shots, afterwards. Each of them wishing the other luck at the Olympics. Encouraging viewers to watch the Olympics, and cheer on Team China. Taking a few promotional pictures – Wei Ying and Lan Zhan in the fencing whites, the two of them in the Team China archery uniform, a spare having been produced for Lan Zhan.
It passes in a blur, the film crew thanking them, the final handshakes. As soon as they finish Wei Ying is being hurried away by Baoshan Sanren before Lan Zhan can say a proper goodbye. He looks back over his shoulder as he’s led down the hall, a duffel over his shoulder and his dark hair feathered against the nape of his neck. For once there’s no smile on his face – he looks like he’s straining to see something, or maybe to say something.
And then he turns a corner, and is gone.
The camera crew leave soon after taking their bags of equipment with them, Director Liu voluble in his thanks. “Your segments are going to be the highlight of the show,” he says with a smile. Lan Zhan has no way to know whether this is flattery or earnest truth. He wonders which he would prefer.
After they leave the gym is quiet. Lan Zhan stands under the bright lights and looks at the piste, the long stretch of it, his natural territory.
Next time I see you we’ll be on your turf – I hope you’ll treat me kindly!
But there won’t be a next time now. Wei Ying won’t return to the piste, just as he won’t return to the archery range. They have no reason to see each other again – and with the biggest event of their lives coming up in very few days, it would be foolish to try. They both need to focus themselves on competing, not … not whatever felt like it was sparking between them.
“Lan Zhan. Round robin tournament in ten,” Lan Yi tells him. The rest of the fencing team are trickling back in – Lan Huan looking thoughtful; Wen Yuan now in his whites, Ouyang Zizhen making some joke to their PT Lan Jingyi.
Lan Zhan goes to get a drink of water, and get ready for practice.
END CHAPTER