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32 + sangcheng!

32. “Keep your eyes on me.”

Jiang Cheng has a secret.

It isn’t a very cool secret. He doesn’t bite his nails or lose sleep over it; he doesn’t lock it away in a box. It’s the kind of secret held in plain sight—a secret of nonadmission, made in the simple absence of telling.

Jiang Cheng has a secret and it is this: he can sing.

The Jiang’s aren’t the most artistically-inclined family on the block. Wei Ying’s paintings look like splattered tea; A-Jie’s dancing is just satisfactory. Jiang Cheng can’t bake to save his life.

But there’s one thing they all share: the voice. A familial art passed from elder to younger, cultivated in lullabies, poetry, and spoken tales, until each carried a separate piece of a full choir. Jiang Fengmian and Yu Ziyuan bookend their quintet, while the three Jiang children fill the middle: Jiang Yanli in mezzo soprano, Wei Wuxian in tenor, and Jiang Cheng in baritone.

Jiang Cheng isn’t sure if he’s good. He’ s not showy like Wei Wuxian, who always gets the leads in school musicals, or carefree like A-Jie, who sings wherever she goes. Jiang Cheng’s music is a skill he’s never bothered to share. There are few reasons to sing beyond family lessons. So he doesn’t.

Until Nie Huaisang.

“There’s a new karaoke place,” he says over lunch one day. “Over next to the bowling alley. Do you want to go?”

Jiang Cheng shrugs. “It’s up to you.” He pauses, glancing. “Are you going to finish those?”

Nie Huaisang sighs and shoves the tray across the table.

Now Nie Huaisang—he’s artistic. In fact, Jiang Cheng is positive there isn’t a single unimaginative bone in Nie Huaisang’s body. He breathes art from the way he moves—elegant and graceful, a dancer’s body—to the way he laughs—musical and bright, like a glass struck gently.

The very sight of him makes Jiang Cheng want to simultaneously hide and bask in his presence. It’s maddening.

One wouldn’t think them to be friends. At a glance, one certainly wouldn’t think them to be boyfriends. Where Nie Huaisang is crafty and sweet, Jiang Cheng is blunt and sour. He doesn’t play word games or listen to gossip. He just is.

Jiang Cheng, the expert at being an expert of nothing.

But he loves Nie Huaisang. Really, he does—a terrifying kind of love in its greatness and newness, like discovering the universe’s vast landscape. He loves the way Nie Huaisang wrinkles his nose in thought, or the way he secretly snorts when he laughs too hard. He loves everything about him.

Which is why, when Nie Huaisang pushes to go to karaoke, he agrees.

Jiang Cheng does his best not to quail under Nie Mingjue’s heavy gaze as he picks up Nie Huaisang from his house. They may be about to have their five month anniversary, but the elder Nie brother terrifies him no less than when he first discovered Jiang Cheng leaving a love letter in the mailbox.

An unfortunate memory, that one.

“You look good,” he tells Nie Huaisang. He’s dressed for the occasion in green pants and a cream sweater big enough to hang over his palms. Jiang Cheng wants to squeeze him. “Cute.”

Nie Huaisang flushes gently. He’s a perfect match for the sunset like this: pink-tinged, soft and pale. Jiang Cheng aches to kiss him, so he does. And then again. And again.

“Stop,” Nie Huaisang mumbles against his lips. He’s laughing already, bright and sweet. “Karaoke, remember? We have to make it there first.”

Jiang Cheng sighs, but acquiesces. “I didn’t know you were big on singing,” he says. “I thought you preferred oil paints. And ballet. And cake decorating.”

“I do.” Nie Huaisang jabs at a crosswalk button. “But I also like to sing.” He slides a sideways glance. “What about you?”

What about him? Jiang Cheng looks back, steadfast. “What?”

“What do you prefer?”

A loaded question. Jiang Cheng is getting better at answering those.

“I like,” he decides, following Nie Huaisang’s lead across the street, “to watch others perform.”

“But you don’t perform yourself.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Jiang Cheng snorts. “Why do you think?” He gestures at himself with his free hand, ignoring the sudden bitterness in his throat. “Who would want to see this?”

Nie Huaisang gazes back at him. “I could think of a few,” he murmurs softly. “But only if you want to.”

An open invitation—a way out. But will Jiang Cheng take it? Will he hide this secret away for another that may never come?

“We’ll see,” he tells him. “We’ll see.”

The karaoke place is shiny and bright. Gaggles of girls cluster around the front sign, their laughter echoing into the establishment. There are neon road signs hanging and black and white tiles; there’s a food bar, formica and chrome, with a glowing sign above. Jiang Cheng’s never been into a retro joint before, but he’d like to think this place exactly fits the bill. It’s visually loud.

“Wow,” Nie Huaisang breathes. “We should take Wei Ying and Lan Zhan here next time.”

The idea of going anywhere where Wei Ying can show off gives Jiang Cheng a premature migraine. “Or not,” he mutters, and steps up to the counter.

The place is pay-by-the-hour. Jiang Cheng pays for two (“my treat,” he tells Nie Huaisang, “since you paid last time,”) and a whole order of fried chicken to take in with them.

“Room Six,” the attendant girl says. She smiles, passing the key. “Enjoy!”

The room is small. Cozy. There’s a squeaky plastic booth, a table for their food, and a giant TV with eight microphones that can be turned on and off at will.

Jiang Cheng gulps.

They start off slow. Nie Huaisang turns on some slow ballads to croon while Jiang Cheng digs into the fried chicken. It’s pleasant like this: gentle piano keys, Nie Huaisang’s sweet tenor, the disco lamp’s slow spin at the center of the room.

And then Nie Huaisang has an idea.

“Do they have pop music in here?” He scrolls with the remote. “Jiang Cheng, get a microphone. I want to sing a duet.”

“Huh?” He squints up from his chicken. “But..”

Nie Huaisang’s eyes go big, his bottom lip jutting out. “You.. don’t want to sing with me?”

Jiang Cheng hesitates. Sets down his chicken. Stands.

“Fine,” he mutters, shuffling forward to take the proffered mic. Nie Huaisang beams. “I’ll do it.”

He doesn’t look when Nie Huaisang picks a song. There’s a strange bubbling rising in his stomach; his palms, tingling, begin to sweat.

It’s not a big deal. Really. It’s just..

The lights dim. The disco lamp begins to spin steadily again—faster this time, with bright spots of lemon and rose. Heady bass thrums between them into the room.

Nie Huaisang turns, smile playing at his lips.

Keep your eyes on me..

It’s one of Nie Huaisang’s favorites. Jiang Cheng isn’t one for indie pop himself, but he’s heard it enough to know the lyrics. He watches Nie Huaisang sing for a moment, voice wrapping like a caress in the dark, and finally—pushing past his nerves—sucks in a breath to join.

You make me focus

When you love someone the rest just falls away..

Nie Huaisang’s eyes widen. His lips part, eyelashes fluttering, but he rallies surprisingly quick. Before Jiang Cheng can stop—does he really sound that bad?—Nie Huaisang joins in again, layering over his baritone in dulcet tones.

It all just falls away..

Jiang Cheng’s heart thrums in his chest. It’s.. strange. Letting go feels like stepping forward off of a railing or letting go of a tire swing: a freefall, weightless and exhilarating, that makes his bones sing with an unspoken voice. He can’t stop looking at Nie Huaisang, who can’t stop looking at him, and they sound so good together—

More, his heart whispers. I want to sing with you more.

When the song finally comes to an end, Nie Huaisang is close enough to kiss. So he does.

Nie Huaisang sighs against his lips. “You should have told me.”

Jiang Cheng’s blood pumps through his veins. “What?” he breathes.

“You..” Nie Huaisang’s blushing again, golden eyes bright like faraway stars. “Jiang Cheng, you sing beautifully.”

And it shouldn’t mean much. He’s no performer—not like Wei Wuxian, flashy and bright, or A-Jie, solemn and open. He’s just Jiang Cheng.

But the way Nie Huaisang glows through the darkness, excitement all over his beautiful face, makes Jiang Cheng want to sing for him again. And again. And again, until all the notes in the world have been given new life through Nie Huaisang’s ears.

So he does. He chooses another song—a solo, one of Nie Huaisang’s favorites again—and cradles his head close, rasping into the mic, until they’re kissing instead of singing and the backtrack trails away, leaving them lost in the darkness together.

#mdzs #mo dao zu shi #sangcheng #jiang cheng #nie huaisang #YES IT'S AN ALLIE X SONG AGAIN.. I DO WHAT I WANT #Anonymous

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