Rating:

Teen

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

MDZS/CQL

Relationship:

Lan Wangji/Wei Wuxian

Tags:

angst, college radio, mxtx remix 2021, remix

Stats:

Posted on:

2021-03-14

Words:

10,080

Philadelphia is fine.

The sensibilities of Wei Ying’s California-warmed skin don’t quite fit in here, with the down jackets and snow boots and narrowed eyes peering out from under baseball caps, decorated with an eagle head or the vector of a black wing. It’s colder than Wei Ying’s ever had the good fortune to know, except when it’s the summer and gets as hot as it would in Sacramento, sweltering in his matchbox apartment. The displacement almost has him expecting fourth uncle to round the corner asking if he wants any leftover jiaozi, the eager padding of a-Yuan’s feet after preschool, or Jiang-shushu’s gentle inquiries after his grades or living situation or health.

Not all cities are the same—Philadelphia is different enough with its slanted semi-parallel streets and the low rumble of the Septa underground—and Wei Ying is alone enough here to know that. But sometimes he’ll hear a child’s laugh, the call of “坏孩子, 快回来!^{[ 1 ]}!” in Chinatown, the big colorful graffiti painted on the side of a granite building and he’ll forget where he is for a second.

He doesn’t miss home. How he ended up in Philly—why he chose Philly felt more like he had closed his eyes and pointed on a map, than trying to bus and hitchhike and get himself as far away from the west coast as possible. He doesn’t even know if Sacramento had ever been home, if he’d ever been any less alone in California. There were the aunties gossiping and the uncles smoking and the children finding the next playground to make their kingdom; there were Jiang Cheng’s puppies to hide from and Yu-ayi’s haranguing about how little he ate and Jiang-shushu’s extra thick hongbao during every holiday.

Now there’s a new apartment, new neighbors, a new city. New streets to learn and routes to take and schedules to follow. Now there’s a new home, but Wei Ying wonders if he’s ever known what it’s like to have a home at all.

###

No one listens to the radio in this day and age. It’s all Youtube and Spotify or your smartphone as a music player, the wonders of technology flashing by shiny and new whenever a year passes. Wei Ying has his own personal playlists for working out or taking the route to work which he puts on a chaotic shuffle and flips through until, by the end of his fifteen-minute commute, he’s listened to a total of two full three-minute songs.

He has a winding down playlist too, for late nights when the energy and residue of caffeine are still fizzling, jumping eagerly beneath his skin. Jiang Yanli had suggested it way back when, which—Wei Ying doesn’t think about that now. He doesn’t think about the Jiangs now, just the way the pervasive silence will never be enough. Not for him, not for his sleep, and even tonight his playlist isn’t doing the job, all soft piano covers and synth instrumentals that don’t cover up the sounds of him tossing and turning. He huffs and flips open his laptop, pausing the soft tinkling from his phone through the Spotify app on his computer, and clicks around, resigning himself a late night browsing the internet, either from wearing himself out from trying to find the right music his brain wants or getting sucked into a Youtube black hole.

No one listens to the radio in this day and age, but somehow from a bunch of left clicking and right clicking, through Facebook and Twitter and Youtube, Wei Ying finds himself on the WQHS homepage—the UPenn student radio station, promising eclectic tastes from a variety of hosts. Wei Ying can’t remember giving a shit about his old college’s student radio before he dropped out, but it’s eleven at night and he has nothing else better to do. He clicks on the button that says Listen Here! and waits to be impressed.

He hadn’t checked out the schedule before listening, so it’s a bit of a surprise to hear the croonings of an old Lena Lim song blaring through his laptop speakers. The whiplash is immediate—he’s back in Sacramento, the aunties insisting that he keep his door unlocked so they can sneak food into his refrigerator since he always declines it; it’s Lunar New Year, the uncles getting drunk while some kids are popping fireworks out on the streets.

Disoriented, he quickly turns the music down and opens the radio station site in a new tab. Finding the time slot for ten pm to midnight—the last slot of the night—he sees that the current host is someone named Lan Zhan, with Wangji Radio.

The song comes to a halt. Wei Ying expects Lan Zhan, at least, to speak in English. What he doesn’t expect is the low Mandarin baritone coming out over his speakers, too—like a secret, something Wei Ying shouldn’t be allowed to hear anymore. Shouldn’t be privy to. Wei Ying misses the consonants on his tongue and wants to reply when this Lan Zhan is merely introducing the next song. He relishes the sound, lays his head on his crossed arms and stares at the corner of his laptop keyboard as 老鼠愛大米 begins playing, bringing him back to summers when his parents would help him with his English homework and try to convince him that school in the States wouldn’t be as intimidating as he thought it would. But now his parents are dead and he’s spent more years of his life on American soil than the country he was born in and the Jiangs, the Jiangs might never forgive him—

He falls asleep at his laptop to Lan Zhan introducing a Wang Lee Hom song.

###

The next morning, Wei Ying checks the WQHS schedule—Wangji Radio is ten pm to midnight on Tuesdays, and one pm to three pm on Thursdays. It seems that Wangji Radio has two time slots because Lan Zhan is the president of the student radio club, and yet it’s not enough. Wei Ying wants to listen to his station at all hours of the day, like a real radio station. He makes a Spotify playlist of the songs he vaguely remembers from last night, songs from Wan Sha Lang and Yin Shia and Sarah Chen. But even when he plays it on his morning commute to work, it’s not the same. As the Septa stops at Penn Medicine Station, he gazes at it enviously—there are surely thousands of Chinese students who attend UPenn, but Wei Wuxian wants to find the student who made him miss home, think of home, reevaluate what home might mean for him—

No, that’s a step too far. Lan Zhan wouldn’t care. Besides, Wei Ying’s too broke to attend undergrad right now—much less UPenn, of all schools—so it’s probably a little weird that he, a complete stranger, had tuned into Wangji Radio. No one but college students listen to campus radio.

On Thursday, he tunes in for the afternoon program. Lan Zhan’s lovely baritone comes on again, though he speaks little—”Welcome to Wangji Radio, I am Lan Zhan, your host for the next two hours,” Lan Zhan says in Mandarin. “Today I will start off this program with 甜蜜蜜 by Teresa Teng. Please enjoy.”

The mic cuts out; the song cuts in. Wei Ying thinks of watching Kamen Rider on the shitty TV back in his parents’ old apartment and trying to understand the Rush Hour movies in broken English.

When the song finishes, he’s brought back to the present by Lan Zhan’s crystalline voice. “If you would like to request a song, our phone number is on the website,” he says, as if he were reading from a script. He dictates the phone number regardless, though, like he’s personally trying to entice Wei Ying—but Wei Ying won’t give in. He chooses to stay where he is, on the periphery—this isn’t his, as much as China isn’t his anymore, and California was never his in the first place. He is a ship passing through these places and lives, not able—not allowed to find a place to settle.

He doesn’t call, doesn’t request, doesn’t try to find Lan Zhan’s Facebook page to see if there’s more to him than this disembodied voice speaking comfortably familiar Mandarin for two-hour time slots twice a week. He goes about his days as usual, Spotify playlists and Youtube playlists and UPenn’s student radio, and listens.

###

Wangji Radio (WQHS)
How is your week? Wangji Radio will be live once more next Tuesday at 10:00PM-12:00AM and Thursday 1:00PM-3:00PM. Thank you.
Wen Pingru, Liu Quanmei, and 3 others liked this.
Tang Muya My grandson got a 98 on his last exam!!
Liu Quanmei 我的小丹丹得了百 ^{[ 2 ]}
Chen Yiting WE ARE SUPPOSED TO BE PRACTICING ENGLIHS
Chen Yiting RETURN MY BOWL ON SATURDAY THE NICE 1
Liu Quanmei ok
Guo Kaiyu 你们都很烦 ^{[ 3 ]}
Liu Quanmei english only!!!!

###

His life falls into a new routine, with Wangji Radio slotting into his life like a nudge on a dial to get the radio as clear as it can be. He listens to Tuesdays to get to sleep. He listens on Thursdays on his commute to work through the web browser on his iPhone 6 that might lose its compatibility with the flash player at any moment now. Every once in a while there are phone calls from an auntie or an uncle to put in a request, which Lan Zhan always abides by without comment. They always seem to want to follow up with Lan Zhan, ask him if he checked the Facebook page, but he cuts them off with a curt, “Thank you, a-yi. I’ll be playing Jay Chou’s 稻香 at your request,” which prompts them to hang up. Or Lan Zhan mutes them. Wei Ying can’t tell.

Lan Zhan is funny like that, though he doesn’t speak much, which is a pity because Wei Ying could listen to his voice forever. Even though he’s only heard his Mandarin, he’s sure Lan Zhan’s English would make him just as weak in the knees. Or any other language. Hell, if he spoke Pig Latin Wei Ying wouldn’t complain about the lovely, low, musical timbre of his voice.

But Lan Zhan keeps his sentences sparse and his responses to the aunties even sparser.

It is Lan Zhan’s voice that Wei Ying looks forward to, but the Spotify playlists that don’t do his station justice are still a comfort on the nights he can’t sleep. Not the same, not interspersed with Lan Zhan gently doing the outro from one song into the intro of another, but a reminder, like Wei Ying could hear it if he really tried, until he drifts into unconsciousness. It’s a good way too, to know that he can have this, even if he can’t have all of the things that the songs remind him of, that Lan Zhan reminds him of. What happens through the cord on his shitty headphones to the bushing and the housing up to the piece tucked in his ears is between him and his Spotify playlist.

But otherwise, he is just another Chinese man in Philadelphia. Buying his bok choy and roasted duck but never staying long enough in Chinatown to feel something. In a shitty apartment nearby—but not near enough for him to hear the mixed Mandarin and Cantonese inflections, sometimes interspersed with an auntie cursing in Shanghainese just to confuse the rest of them. Naked in the mirror and seeing who he’s always known himself to be—but at the same time, a stranger, like this body doesn’t quite belong to him. He doesn’t know how much of his life belongs to him, if there’s anything. Sometimes Jiang Yanli will text him, ask him how he’s doing. Even though he never responds, he doesn’t have the heart to block her. Back then, he’d blocked Jiang Cheng’s number at the first instance of, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?? Yu-ayi and Jiang-shushu haven’t reached out yet. But Wei Ying doesn’t check his Facebook.

He doesn’t need to, doesn’t need to know what is his, what he has rights to. He has the music coursing into his ears and Lan Zhan’s voice shooting into his veins and, for now, that is enough.

###

Wangji Radio (WQHS)
We welcome any requests each week. Please see the WQHS website for the phone number and call during the Wangji Radio time slot either on Tuesday at 10:00PM-12:00AM, or Thursday 1:00PM-3:00PM. Thank you.
Wen Pingru, Li Zilong, Lan Qiren, and 4 others liked this.
Lan Qiren I WILL CALL ON THURS
Wen Pingru 哎呀^{[ 4 ]} Qiren
Chen Yiting 湛湛^{[ 5 ]} why do you listen to music like yuor uncle?
Lan Qiren WHAT?
Tang Muya I do not think he will repsond on facebook
Meng Yifan zhanzhan only want to play chinese music before 1980.but he always play our request even 周杰倫^{[ 6 ]}
Liu Quanmei 周杰倫很帅 ^{[ 7 ]}
Li Zilong practise English!!!
Meng Yifan I practise English
Chen Yiting 你的老公呢?^{[ 8 ]}

###

From not missing any airtime of Wangji Radio, Wei Ying quickly notices that each Thursday session ends with the same song: Teresa Teng’s cover of 月亮代表我的心. And many times, several of the same songs are played over separate sessions—it makes sense, then, why Lan Zhan doesn’t speak much, if his listeners—whoever they may be, as he only ever gets phone calls from aunties and uncles and someone claiming to be his actual uncle—are used to such predictability. He wonders who Lan Zhan is, if Lan Zhan spends his free time not radio DJing hanging out with these Chinese aunties, listening to their opinions on Jay Chou and Zhang Qing Fang and the manufactured idol groups that are getting popular these days. Perhaps Lan Zhan’s days are so familiar to the point of boring despondency, only listening to the same songs, only playing the same songs during his time slot on the UPenn campus radio.

It’s several weeks later when he gathers the nerve, returns to the WQHS website as his clock hits ten. As usual, Lan Zhan introduces himself and his segment, begins with a Sandy Lam song that Wei Ying’s already heard countless times, knows where it is in his Spotify playlist. He taps the number into his phone as he waits, turning down the volume on his laptop so the echo doesn’t blare through. The waiting makes him self-conscious of his voice and his rusty Mandarin that he practices mouthing to himself, making sure that he has the intonations correct.

As he waits, he imagines what it must be like on Lan Zhan’s end. He’s surely a student, possibly Wei Ying’s age as the president of the student radio club. Wei Ying knows little about his personality, aside from what he can garner from his speaking habits—or lack thereof—so he makes him up in his head. Lan Zhan is probably studious, does his homework while he streams his music of choice over the radio—Wei Ying’s never been in a radio station before, but he imagines the college ones must be in a small room somewhere on campus, cramped and stacked with records. Lan Zhan might be a fan of Western classical music too, Beethoven and Mozart mixed in with his Irene Yehs and Long Piaopiaos, perhaps low in the background as he touches the knobs on the sound panel. He never speaks too loud or quietly, likely the precise distance from microphones you’re supposed to be that they teach you in school, even though most people end up being too far or too close. Not Lan Zhan, though. Not the Lan Zhan in Wei Ying’s mind.

He gets drawn out of his thoughts as the Sandy Lam song ends. With the number already ready on his phone, he taps the bright green phone symbol and listens to the lowered volume on his laptop, of Lan Zhan’s interlude.

“You have listened to Sandy Lam’s 傷痕. Please remember that I am always taking radio requests for other Chinese songs, requested in Chinese,” says Lan Zhan’s flat, melodic voice. “It appears I am getting a call now.”

That’s all the introduction and fanfare Wei Ying’s given—then, the ringing on the other end of his phone stops, and he can hear the slight, staticky sounds of him breathing through his laptop speakers.

Breathless all of a sudden, he says in Mandarin, “Hi, I’m Wei Ying! I’m a—I would like to request a song please.” He’d thought about it the days leading up to this, before he looked for the phone number—what he would request, if he did, and why. They’re songs his parents were fans of, would warble at each other during karaoke back in China, happy and in love while Wei Ying would watch and clap between them.

It’s only the one artist he knows though, but the one that his parents loved to ballad to each other the most, a crowd-pleaser—”Faye Wong’s 容易受傷的女人,” Wei Ying finishes, enunciating each character clearly.

And then because he has nothing else to say—and because he hopes, perhaps, that Lan Zhan might appreciate his succinctness as well, he finishes with a rushed, “Thanks,” and hangs up.

There is a momentary pause, then Lan Zhan saying: “As requested by Wei Ying, the next song will be 容易受傷的女人 by Faye Wong. Please enjoy.” The tune starts.

Wei Ying’s stomach does a little flutter at the sound of his name coming from Lan Zhan’s mouth. It feels close and intimate but good, even though they don’t know each other—Wei Ying already wishes he could listen to Lan Zhan’s voice for days. Timeless and removed, a melody just for him. As the song plays, and as Wei Ying absently appreciates that Lan Zhan had gotten the 1994 Mandarin version—Wei Ying’s preferred version—he wonders if perhaps Lan Zhan will play all the songs he requests.

He’s already pondering the next one when, after the song ends, Lan Zhan announces another phoned-in request. His voice is as toneless as ever, but Wei Ying likes to believe he can hear an edge of confusion in it.

Over the radio, an auntie: “Ah, Lan Zhan, is Wei Ying a new friend? Whose child is he? Will you bring him over to—”

Wei Ying feels frozen. He forgot—the aunties and uncles who listen, they will have heard. They will have assumed that he is associated with Lan Zhan in some way, and he doesn’t want to do that to him. The aunties may not know him, but Wei Ying knows it’s inevitable that he’ll fuck up something in Lan Zhan’s life, sooner or later, no matter what he does.

Lan Zhan says, “Ayi.” His tone is not hard, but it’s enough. “Requests only, please.”

The auntie tsks. “Zhanzhan, we’ll talk about this later,” she says, before requesting a Michael Wong song.

But Wei Ying can’t listen—doesn’t want the reminder that he’d failed what he’d come to Philadelphia to do. Start over, start anew, keep his head down and away from all the people he loved before. He closes his laptop, heart thumping against his throat. It’s easy to forget that other people are listening when sometimes listening to Wangji Radio just feels like a silent conversation between him and Lan Zhan and Lan Zhan’s Spotify or Youtube playlist. But it’s not—Wei Ying shares this audience space with others. This isn’t his either. Lan Zhan isn’t his.

It was just a fluke, he tells himself. He’ll just have to not call in again, and he’ll be forgotten. He needs to set his limits.

But staring at his ceiling in the dark does not make things any easier. His laptop rests against his chest on top of his covers, clutched in his arms. He places it onto his nightstand, grabs his phone and queues up his Wangji Radio playlist. He tries to go to sleep.

###

Wangji Radio (WQHS)
Please keep in mind that phone calls during Wangji Radio are for song requests only. Thank you.
Tuesday: 10:00PM-12:00AM
Thursday: 1:00PM-3:00PM
Wen Pingru, Li Zilong, and 2 others liked this.
Chen Yiting dbq^[a] zhanzhan
Wen Pingru aiyah Chen Yiting u qswl^[b]
Lan Qiren WHO IS WEI YING?
Meng Yifan Wei ying also like lan zhan music. Maybe he is Lan zhan fan
Tang Muya Zhanzhan do you know Wei Ying?
Bai Yuqing Wei ying is classmate?
Lan Qiren HOW DO YOU KNOW WEI YING?
Liu Quanmei 蓝启仁今天不用来打麻将ok^{[ 9 ]}
Chen Yiting We practice english!!!!!!!

###

As much as he tries, Wei Ying finds himself wanting. He’s greedy, yearning for that taste of his name in Lan Zhan’s mouth again. To hear it in Lan Zhan’s husky, almost bored intonation, talking about him, talking to him. He can surely keep a low profile, low enough that his requests can be short, perhaps give Lan Zhan a sense of mystery about him as Lan Zhan does for Wei Ying.

He calls again during a song, breath hitching as he hears Lan Zhan pick up.

“Hi.” Self-conscious of his Mandarin and his own voice again, Wei Ying clears his throat. “It’s Wei Ying again. I wanted to request 胡思亂想 by Faye Wong today. Um, yeah. Thanks.”

Lan Zhan is silent for a moment; Wei Ying imagines him looking for the song on Spotify. “You’re welcome,” he says concisely.

Wei Ying hangs up, unable to bear it in case he might say or do something to embarrass himself. But it’s nice enough having this sort of conversation with Lan Zhan where nobody else can hear, even if Lan Zhan announces his name over the radio again.

But today, Lan Zhan doesn’t. Today he queues up the song and, as the instrumentals fade in, says, “For our Faye Wong fan.” The guitars strum in and Wei Ying does a small happy jiggle in his seat. The nice thing about the Septa is that no one looks at him strange when he does. The memories of his parents turning up their small radio in China at the sound of a Faye Wong song does not fade; it gets accompanied by this, knowing that Lan Zhan is playing it at his request in tinny sounds over his headphones. Whoever doesn’t listen to college radio is surely missing out, because then they don’t get to make men with hot voices say their names and play songs from their childhood for them. And calling in feels like a secret, something that only he and Lan Zhan share.

And then the next time he tunes in, the following Tuesday evening, Wei Ying barely has a moment to wonder if he wants to call in today, too, when a familiar song starts playing—容易受傷的女人, the first one he’d requested, without prompt or fanfare. Just Lan Zhan saying shortly, “Next I have 容易受傷的女人 by Faye Wong,” and then the guitar, then Faye Wong’s soothing soprano. And two songs afterward is the request Wei Ying had from last week, just Thursday, from the Septa.

Wei Ying doesn’t know what it means. But it makes him dive across his laptop where he has SublimeText open, towards his nightstand for his phone, and go to his recent calls. There’s another missed phone call from Jiang Yanli—he ignores how his heart clenches, and taps on the unnamed one in the second slot, the radio station. The phone gives him the pop-up asking him if he wants to call.

Wei Ying glances at his laptop screen covered with the green Python text on the black window, the radio browser shrunken in the top right corner. He presses Call.

The phone gets picked up after two rings. “It’s Wei Ying again,” Wei YIng blurts immediately, in Mandarin. Then for some sense of proprietary: “If you remember.”

There is no answer on the other end. If Wei Ying strains his ears, he can hear faint clicking and the running of some old machines like an overzealous motorboat in the background.

“I have another request,” Wei Ying continues. “Um.” He tabs to Wikipedia, hastily types in Faye Wong discography, because beyond the previous two, his knowledge is severely lacking. “Can you put on 你在我心中? By, uh, Faye Wong.”

There’s faint clicking noises. Wei Ying strains his ears to hear them.

Then Lan Zhan’s voice comes as a surprise. “You do not want the Teresa Teng version?”

Delightful goosebumps crawl over Wei Ying’s skin at the crispness of his voice. “No, it’s fine, it’s—” he laughs self-consciously. “It’s like what you said last time! I’m your Faye Wong fan, aren’t I?”

It takes a moment for Lan Zhan to say, “Indeed.” Last week’s request is still playing. Despite the lateness, despite that Wei Ying has been listening on Tuesday evenings to get to sleep, he feels wide awake. He doesn’t know Lan Zhan at all, but this—whatever this is, if there’s anything between them, even if Wei Ying’s imagining it—feels safe. It feels like Wei Ying could tip over, and Lan Zhan and his voice and his willingness to play Faye Wong after Faye Wong song at Wei Ying’s behest will catch him. If he was on the radio all the time, Wei Ying would be done for. Even now, he feels like he could stay up, falling and falling until four in the morning for Lan Zhan and his clear, husky Mandarin.

And so it’s easy to fall into this. Fall into this habit of calling in, even though on Thursday Wei Ying doesn’t call until the tail end of the show, because he wants to see if Lan Zhan will play his old requests again. And Lan Zhan does, the last three ones, plus two other Faye Wong songs that Wei Ying didn’t know the name of but that Lan Zhan introduces cooly, almost with a tone of intention. Or maybe Wei Ying’s imagining it, but he doesn’t care—the point is, he got Faye Wong into Lan Zhan’s rotation. He got Lan Zhan’s attention, which makes something shiver under his skin with excitement.

But he doesn’t stop calling in, because with each one, Lan Zhan does say his name. “Next up is a request from Wei Ying,” he says—never long-suffering, never another, just announces it like it’s his pleasure to play each new song from Wei Ying. Whether it’s new artists he discovered himself, like Jacky Cheung and Sky Wu, or just Faye Wong after Faye Wong—which makes Wei Ying feel closer to the memory of his parents, even though he has no right to learn her discography (not this late, not now)—Wei Ying keeps calling. He doesn’t think about it too much, doesn’t want to think about it, but sometimes in the nights and early mornings and afternoons of bringing up the college radio webpage on his shitty iPhone again, he wonders and hopes that this is something he can keep.

###

Wangji Radio (WQHS)
If you would like to contact Wangji Radio for any additional information, you may send an email to wangjilan23@upenn.edu. Thank you.
Tuesday: 10:00PM-12:00AM
Thursday: 1:00PM-3:00PM
Wen Pingru, Bai Yuqing, and 7 others liked this.
Lan Qiren BE CARFUL HANDING OUT YOU EMAIL
Chen Yiting radio email?
Liu Quanmei My 丹丹^{[ 10 ]} block 2 shots on target 今天^{[ 11 ]}!!
Tang Muya Good job dandan!!!
Lan Qiren WHAT IS RADIO EMAIL
Wen Pingru go 丹丹^{[ 10 ]}

###

He doesn’t know Lan Zhan. Whatever their relationship constitutes as—radio host and listener—is nothing to get excited about, nothing to write home about. (If Wei Ying had a home to write to. If Wei Ying had a home in the first place.) But it fills him with glee as he calls in a request once a session for the next three weeks, and one time he calls twice because he fixed a bug in his function that he was looking for the past two days and was feeling proud of himself. Saying, “Hey, it’s Wei Ying again, I know I already requested something tonight but can I request another song?” and hearing Lan Zhan pause for a moment, then go, “It is fine,” had been his small reward, but a reward nonetheless.

And he quickly loses all his attempts at being serious and reserved, with the way he starts saying things like, “I think we should bring back Huangmei Opera,” and, “Everything is a Teresa Teng cover nowadays,” and, “Okay, but Cui Jian songs are the best for Chinese karaoke.” Lan Zhan never replies with anything substantial, just small noises that Wei Ying likes to think are of agreement. But he always says his name, always plays Wei Ying’s requests.

It’s kind of—Well, it might be weird. Wei Ying doesn’t know. He’s thinking about the weirdness during a Thursday show on the Septa to the diner and decides to test it.

The rumbling outside is low enough that the background noise won’t sound the same as when he’d called earlier. “Hi,” he says in a high squeaky voice when Lan Zhan picks up. “I would like to put in a request for—” it should be a song that he got played before, in case it’s one Lan Zhan wouldn’t have played otherwise “—擁有 by Jacky Cheung. Okay, bye!”

He hangs up so he can burst into a fit of giggles. The guy sitting next to him doesn’t quite not give him a weird look. He turns up the volume on his phone so he can hear the radio better again.

The song currently playing shortly comes to an end. There’s a moment of silence from Lan Zhan. Maybe he’s debating whether to put on the song from the squeaky-voiced stranger. Maybe he’s thinking about how Wei Ying’s voice is as nice as Wei Ying thinks Lan Zhan’s voice is.

But then Lan Zhan says, “Our next song is Jacky Cheung’s 擁有, as requested by an anonymous listener. Please enjoy.”

Wei Ying deflates in his seat. Of course it’s good that Lan Zhan is nice to all his listeners. All his requesters, even the ones who aren’t Wei Ying or the regular aunties and uncles. It’s ethical and righteous and Wei Ying should appreciate it. He definitely appreciates it, appreciates most things about Lan Zhan.

There’s other things he can try, though. On the Tuesday broadcast while he’s eating his late night dinner, he listens sedately as the usual slew of Faye Wong songs come on, mixed with both Jay Chou and Cai Shaoxu (which Wei Ying figures out from Shazam.) Then when he gets started on his dessert, a small Jell-O cup, he calls in.

As usual, Lan Zhan says nothing when he picks up; all Wei Ying hears is the click of the phone. “Hey, it’s Wei Ying again,” Wei Ying says casually in Mandarin. He takes a small slurp of his Jell-O; he can save the packaged spoon for his next meal. “What’s up, Lan Zhan? How’s your week been?”

It’s all extraneous; Lan Zhan never answers, and Wei Ying is sure that if he did, he’d expire on the spot. “Anyway,” Wei Ying continues. “I have another request this week. I think it’s on Spotify too, but I’d understand if you didn’t want to play it. It’s kind of a politically contentious one.”

He pauses for dramatic effect.

Still, Lan Zhan says nothing.

“Called Garbage Dump.” Wei Ying dumps the dregs of his Jell-O into his mouth. “By 何勇. But again, I’d get it if you don’t wanna play it.”

Lan Zhan is silent but doesn’t hang up.

Then:

“It should be no problem.”

Wei Ying coughs, nearly choking on his Jell-O. “Re—I mean, that’s great! That’s cool, Lan Zhan, that you’re so open-minded.”

Lan Zhan does not respond to this; there’s a click of the receiver on the other end of Wei Ying’s phone. Wei Ying laughs, and then laughs louder when Lan Zhan says, “Next is Garbage Dump by He Yong, as it is accessible on Spotify. This track was requested by Wei Ying.”

Wei Ying thinks he hears, wants to hear, Wei Ying, you are very ridiculous and I am fond of you. He knows he’s imagining it, the tone and all. But he wants.

###

If Lan Zhan is the closest Wei Ying can feel to having a home, to belonging somewhere, he will take it. Lan Zhan is no Jiang-shushu or Jiang Yanli or Jiang Cheng or Yu-ayi, but he is the Lan Zhan who plays Wei Ying’s requests of songs from the 90s, Youtubes the most obscure things Wei Ying can request, and doesn’t comment when Wei Ying makes the more tame Kit Chan requests.

Every so often, Wei Ying considers calling Yanli back, picking up or even listening to the voicemails she leaves. He deletes them all without question, without answering, to perhaps ease her worries, make her think that he listens to them. But Wangji Radio is easier.

On another Tuesday, he’s lying in bed contemplating an algorithm while Lan Zhan introducing another song fills his speakers when an idea comes to him. Grabbing for his phone, he goes to his recent calls—and they’re all the same, all Wangji Radio. He taps the topmost entry and waits.

The receiver clicks. “Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying says. “It’s late, are you tired? I feel like you’re the kind of guy who goes to sleep early, so doing the late show must tire you out. I like to stay up though; if WQHS had later time slots for you to stay on, I’d totally listen all night.”

Lan Zhan says nothing. As expected.

“Anyway, I have a request. As you do, you know me,” Wei Ying laughs, then cringes to himself. “How about we get some Tang Dynasty up in here? They were my mom’s favorite, but my dad always told her to stop playing it around me ’cause he thought it’d be too noisy.” He laughs again.

After a noticeable moment, Lan Zhan says, “Tang Dynasty is heavy metal.”

“Yeah, it is,” Wei Ying enthuses. “Can you play 九拍? That’s a good one.”

He imagines Lan Zhan might purse his lips now. He’s never seen Lan Zhan, but that doesn’t matter—he can practically feel the pursed lips through his speaker. “Are you doing a task that requires you to listen to heavy metal?”

“What—No, Lan Zhan.” Wei Ying’s cheeks hurt from grinning so hard. He’s thrown Lan Zhan off, and he didn’t expect it to feel so great. “Can’t a guy just listen to some Chinese heavy metal on a Tuesday evening?”

“I must admit,” Lan Zhan says as the Sky Wu song keeps playing, “that I cannot fathom anyone wanting to listen to such things at such a time.”

“Hey, you’ve never commented on my other requests before,” says Wei Ying, though he keeps his tone light. “Look, sometimes a guy just wants to listen to some Tang Dynasty before he goes to sleep or Faye Wong on the way to work. And if I’m singing along to 与魔鬼同行 under my breath on the Septa, that’s nobody’s business but my own. Like, you’re not gonna believe this, but just last week there was a guy from the Med Station who gave me a dirty look when I was humming Yaksa. And who does that! Yaksa is hardcore, maybe I should get off at the Med Station and show you some Chinese metal. Maybe I could co-host. Wangji Radio needs my spice, anyway.” Given, Wei Ying is kind of a fake fan because he started branching out into Chinese music since he started listening to Wangji Radio, but it still counts. He can pretend that music doesn’t belong to anybody, least of all him. Music is for those who crack open the box to listen, those who wind it back to play it forward.

Lan Zhan says nothing for a good few seconds when Wei Ying is done. Then says, “I will play your request,” and hangs up.

The song doesn’t come on right away. Wei Ying listens, but mostly smirks and wonders if Lan Zhan just said that to get him to shut up. But in the last five minutes of the broadcast, after the previous song, there’s an unusual pause—Wei Ying leans forward, perks his ears up.

Lan Zhan says, “The last song is a request from a regular listener, Wei Ying.” Wei Ying covers his smile with his hand. “However, it is a bit unusual to what is regularly played.”

Will he—?

“Please be cautious and turn your volumes down,” Lan Zhan says. “This is 九拍 by Tang Dynasty. Enjoy.”

The song starts slow, but pushes into a blast. Wei Ying snickers, though what he said to Lan Zhan before is on playback in his head. He doesn’t know why he said half those things—he can’t meet Lan Zhan, least of all co-host with him. Right now, Lan Zhan is safe. A voice and a habit. And it’s not like Lan Zhan would take his offer seriously, anyway. He definitely knows by now that Wei Ying is full of shit.

When the last song—Wei Ying’s request—is over, Lan Zhan says, “Thank you for listening with me this evening. Next week is the Lunar New Year, so I will not be streaming during my time slots. All other student stations will be live.”

The reminder is a shock to Wei Ying’s system. He’d forgotten—he’d nearly forgotten—his apartment building is so quiet, his phone—

“Additionally,” Lan Zhan continues, “if any listeners have issues with how the station is run, they may message the Facebook page. Thank you.”

The stream comes to an end. Wei Ying stares at his laptop window, only dead air now over the speakers. He is not going to message Wangji Radio, and he will not hear from Lan Zhan for a week. Lan Zhan has a family and surely friends and others to celebrate with. His new year will be lively and fun and he will not think of Wei Ying. He is a persona that Wei Ying has never met.

And Wei Ying will not message him because he barely uses his Facebook, anyway.

###

Wangji Radio (WQHS)
We hope you have enjoyed this week’s stream. Wangji Radio will be taking a short break for the Lunar New Year. Thank you all for listening.
Liu Quanmei, Guo Kaiyu, and 6 others liked this.
Liu Quanmei 新年快乐^{[ 12 ]}!!
Chen Yiting 新年快乐^{[ 12 ]} zhanzhan!!
Lan Qiren HAPPY NEW YEAR
Bai Yuqing 恭喜發財^{[ 13 ]}
Tang Muya Happy new yaer Zhanzhan

###

This, the weeklong hiatus, the reminder that Lan Zhan could only be so accessible if Wei Ying tried, doesn’t put him into a depressed coma, really. So what if he drinks more coffee than usual, and takes more shifts at the diner and the cafe? It’s to keep himself afloat. Maybe one day he’ll have enough money to go to UPenn, get his bachelor of science and maybe meet this Lan Zhan who he only knows from behind his phone and computer screen instead of talking to him through Facebook. Maybe.

But UPenn is as unreachable as Lan Zhan, right now. Lan Zhan is unreachable, because Wei Ying doesn’t know him, doesn’t want to. That’s getting too close, and Wei Ying is to become just another face in a sea of faces. He tries to ignore the lump his throat, missing the hongbao he’d get from Jiang-shushu and Yu-ayi, the extra food all the aunties in his old apartment building would cook for him and, once he relents and accepts their offers, them saying that he really is from Hubei when he drenches the dishes in extra spice.

But on Lunar New Year’s Eve, Wei Ying deliberates before caving into the superstitions first his father, then Yu-ayi, instilled in him. He takes the Septa to Chinatown for lunch and orders jiaozi and fish and noodles. The families around him are hard to ignore; the memory of his mother telling him that eating a lot of noodles will give him a long life are hard to ignore. He hasn’t been eating a lot of noodles lately. Maybe that’s a good thing.

He puts on his Spotify playlists again, on the Septa ride back, around his apartment, at his work when he can get away with having his headphones in, like it can quell the anxiety of separation roiling in his belly. When the week finally comes to an end, and starts anew, he tunes on early on Tuesday. And then the station starts and hearing Lan Zhan feels like a breath of stale Hubei air.

“Welcome back to Wangji Radio,” says Lan Zhan’s deep voice in Mandarin. The nice thing about his voice is that he never sounds like a radio DJ faking it—just Lan Zhan, saying his Lan Zhan things. “I hope you have had an enjoyable week, and happy new year.”

“Happy New Year, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying mumbles to his laptop in the dark, because that’s the point he’s reached now. He won’t message Lan Zhan and he won’t offer to meet up with him and he’ll request less, if anything at all—he can’t get too close, and that he said so much, that Lan Zhan said so much for his Tang Dynasty request had been enough. It’s all Wei Ying will ever need. And what he’s allowed to want.

Lan Zhan continues, because it’s not like he heard Wei Ying: “Today’s broadcast will begin with Yaksa’s 与魔鬼同行. Please enjoy.”

Wei Ying nearly falls out of his bed. He sits up and stares at his laptop—but it is the heavy metal, the song he mentioned last time, playing on Lan Zhan’s station over his speakers. Wei Ying feels out of body and out of breath—it’s too much, like the upper half of his body had been dunked in cold soap water and promptly heaved back out. He can only stare, frozen, as the song he had mentioned only in passing to Lan Zhan plays, loud and brash and definitely not up to standards for the aunties and uncles surely listening in.

He can’t—doesn’t want to call in. There’s a moment of radio silence after the song, then—”Apologies for the delay,” Lan Zhan says. “As a reminder, please redirect all commentary and complaints to the station Facebook page, under the name Wangji Radio at WQHS, UPenn.” He says the name of the station in English. “Thank you. Next is…”

Wei Ying’s hands practically move automatically as he opens a new tab on his internet browser. Outside the apartment window that he can’t afford curtains for, the night sky is slate and empty with the Philly air cold and hanging like a late night tide. The moon is not too bright for Wei Ying to sleep, but right now the glow from his laptop has him wide awake. Both white, bright lights shine on his face as he gets to the Facebook page, types in Wangji Radio and clicks on the only result, and scrolls down.

It appears that Lan Zhan—or someone—makes a post after every broadcast. Wei Ying’s stomach turns when he sees the one before the New Year’s post, where someone named Lan Qiren comments on the tasteless noise that he played that day—it must’ve been when Wei Ying requested Tang Dynasty, Wei Ying realizes. No one’s replied, but then there’s the post where all the comments are asking who he is, who Wei Ying is, and—

Why did Wei Ying do this? Why did Wei Ying think he could just come into Lan Zhan’s life and make requests almost every broadcast and think it wouldn’t affect anything? He’s stupid; he should’ve known he would’ve ruined everything, would’ve turned something that wasn’t meant to be his, and dirty it up with his fingers. With his mouth, with his voice. Philly feels too small, suddenly, and Wei Ying’s apartment feels too big. He buries himself under his comforter, pressing his face into the blanket as the soft and loud Mandarin sings over his speakers, as Lan Zhan’s voice intermits so smoothly and curtly that Wei Ying wants to claim it for himself, anyway.

But he can’t, has to stay away, even though it’s so fucking hard with Lan Zhan and the internet and the Facebook page just—there. Before he knows it, Lan Zhan is saying, “Goodnight, everyone,” and Wei Ying doesn’t let himself read into how there might be a somber edge to what he says because it’s the first time Wei Ying hasn’t called in. Doesn’t let himself think about it too much, except when he crawls to his laptop again where the Facebook page is still open, watches in real time as it prompts him to refresh, because there’s an update, and Wei Ying does.

Wangji Radio (WQHS)
If you have any questions, suggestions, or concerns, you may message this account. Wangji Radio hours are Tuesdays from 10:00PM-12:00AM, and Thursdays from 1:00PM-3:00PM. Thank you.
Wen Pingru, and Tang Muya liked this.
Tang Muya goodshow today lan zhan
Lan Qiren LAN ZHAN WHY DO YOU PLAY 那个垃圾^{[ 14 ]} AGAIN?

Wei Ying’s stomach falls. He hates that he can still read so easily after so many years.

Chen Yiting 哎呀^{[ 4 ]}LanQiren安静一点^{[ 15 ]}
Lan Qiren THERE ARE NO REAL INSTRUMENT 特别麻烦^{[ 16 ]}
Meng Yifan thank you lanzhan! your 叔叔^{[ 17 ]} is rihgt, music not good as before
Liu Quanmei 大家说的对^{[ 18 ]}

The tightness in Wei Ying’s throat increases. He feels raw behind his teeth.

Wen Pingru Lan zhan you can get musician to come on radio? May be better
Lan Qiren NO, IS TOO LOUD

Wei Ying’s fingers itch to comment, if at least to defend Tang Dynasty. Obviously he knows it wouldn’t have flown with every Chinese auntie and uncle, but this Lan Qiren—whoever he is—is wrong, because it’s all natural. And he can just turn down his phone or computer or whatever when it gets too loud, can’t he? He hadn’t even called it in this time, why won’t Lan Zhan—

Wangji Radio (WQHS) Uncle, please refrain from delivering such vitriol on this Facebook page.

It throws Wei Ying for a loop that the comment is in English. After all the Chinese-speaking he and Wei Ying have done, Wei Ying nearly—he doesn’t know. Expected Lan Zhan’s Mandarin to translate to his textspeak. But his English typing sounds like the way he speaks in Chinese, too, proper and capitalized and grammatical, even with a period at the end.

And also—Lan Qiren is his uncle? His uncle? How does someone as nice as Lan Zhan have someone so angry as an uncle?

Lan Qiren YOU DONOT ALLOW THIS FILTH
Wen Pingru 对不起LanZhan, 我要用中文写。 我觉得这音乐很好听，听起来又现代又带劲！Lan Qiren你别骂他了！是因为你脾气那么臭大家都不想跟你打麻将了！！^{[ 19 ]}

It’s been too long for Wei Ying to understand everything Wen Pingru writes that he pops a bit of it into Google Translate—but he gets it, gets that Wen Pingru is disagreeing with Lan Qiren, saying that she likes the new music, that she thinks Lan Qiren is being too harsh, that this is why no one wants to play mahjong with him. Lan Qiren, Lan Zhan’s uncle. God.

Fuck.

It’s his uncle. Wei Ying caused this, and he can’t—can’t do this. Like everything else, he’s spoiled it with his selfishness, made the conversation escalate, made all these adults who hadn’t argued on any of Lan Zhan’s Facebook posts here come to a head. Wei Ying can see it in front of his eyes, and he wants to throw up.

His fingers move to the keyboard almost by instinct. His fingers drag to the comment box.

Wei Ying These songs were my requests. I will take responsibility. I won’t cause any more trouble.

He stares at the text in the box for a moment, before deciding, fuck it, and hits post. It shows up and he stares at it and his eyes burn.

Seconds later, he gets a private message request—from the Wangji Radio page. The message says:

Wei Ying?

He could’ve easily ignored it, but it’s the friend request he gets a half second later that breaks him.

He shuts off his laptop, trudges to his router, and drags it all out, the modem and the box and the wires. He doesn’t even bother to unplug them properly from the wall, peeling them messily from the sockets, gathering them into his arms. Putting his phone into the pile too, he opens his window; the freezing air hits him. He drops it all onto the concrete.

Wei Ying realizes a moment later, through the thickness in his throat, that he’s laughing. How crazy he must look with his open window, cackling as the cold pierces him straight to the bone like he doesn’t care. He’s only in his tank top and jeans, yet he goes out in just this, barefoot, down the empty stairs of his building, into the empty lot. Cleans up his mess like he does this every day, like he tosses shit out from his window all the time, then in the winter air picks all the broken pieces up and puts them into the building dumpster.Back in his apartment in Sacramento the aunties would’ve never let him do this, would’ve made him put on shoes and a jacket, and at least three layers of clothes and long-johns. They would’ve asked him why he was going outside, why he threw his entire wireless network out, anyway. Would’ve asked him about Lan Zhan, how they know each other, if they should meet.

But there’s no one here now, no one but Wei Ying and his cold toes and his shattered phone along with everything else in his hands. He chucks everything into the dumpster and shivers his way back up.

###

Without his wifi, Wei Ying works on the aspects of his program that require an internet connection at the library in between shifts at the diner and the cafe. It’s admittedly harder, but at least that temptation isn’t there. At the library, Wei Ying can’t stream college radio, go to the radio website, stare forlornly at the Wangji Radio timeslot on the schedule. At the library, Wei Ying can’t go to Facebook and see messages and friend requests he may be ignoring, because the library closes at nine and he has his program to work on.

He worries about worrying Jiang Yanli, though; his destroyed phone is now surely at a garbage dump somewhere. He gets a secondhand flip phone that no one in his generation would have, puts in her number and texts her, It’s Wei Ying. I got a new phone. Then he puts his phone on silent and doesn’t respond to her following, Wei Ying-ah? It’s so good to hear from you! How are you doing?

But he needs to move again. He needs to leave, to—to finish this program, maybe peek around UPenn campus once, and then go. He needs to give up—Philly isn’t his city either, anyway. Maybe nowhere is. Maybe Wei Ying will keep moving from place to place until he’s old and exhausted and doesn’t have anywhere else to go. Maybe—

The Septa comes to a halt. It’s late in the evening, a Thursday when Wei Ying would typically be listening to his Chinese pop playlist, and now only listens to the humming of the train and muttering of people in the frenetic silence on his way back from work. The carriage is spare enough that Wei Ying glances at the door on occasion when someone new comes in, and so he sees an Asian guy walk in—tall, good looking. Wei Ying glances over at him once, then goes back to staring into space.

What he doesn’t expect, though, is the guy coming over to him. He’s hesitant in his steps, and his face looks unsure. It’s kind of weird. Wei Ying folds his arms over his bag preemptively, until—

“Wei Ying?”

The voice startles him. The familiarity of the voice. Wei Ying feels like his spine is unraveling as he uncrosses his arms and stares up. The guy’s face is unreadable, and Wei Ying doesn’t know it, but he still says—

“Lan Zhan.”

“You did not respond to my message,” Lan Zhan says. God, just hearing these normal words from his mouth is so surreal. These English words, as perfect as his intonation in Mandarin. Here, in person, paired with this face and body. Wei Ying feels like his eyes are going to fall out of his head.

“I didn’t think,” Wei Ying swallows, stuffs his hands under his thighs. “I didn’t think your listeners wanted to hear from me.”

Lan Zhan grips onto the back seat with a large hand, steadying himself as the train rattles. “You had not commented on a Facebook post before either.”

“What?” Wei Ying thinks back to all the ones he backread. The one that had Lan Zhan’s email, and Wei Ying wonders. “But—that’s Facebook, and—how did you know I’d be here? What were the chances of—”

“I guessed,” Lan Zhan confesses. His ears are a lovely shade of pink. Wei Ying supposes it’s a good enough reason for him not to speak as much. “And I hoped. Your shift on Thursdays start in the afternoon, you said, so—”

“How long have you been waiting?” Wei Ying asks in wonder, and Lan Zhan turns his face to the side and does not respond.

Wei Ying shifts. He hopes it’s an invitation enough for Lan Zhan to join him. After a moment, Lan Zhan does, delicately placing himself on the seat next to Wei Ying, straightbacked and perfect posture and all. He folds his hands in his lap and Wei Ying can hardly believe he’s here, can hardly connect the voice to the real person, except it looks like him and sounds like him and is him and suddenly Wei Ying feels very small. Like he wants to run away.

But Lan Zhan puts his hand on his wrist. His palm is warm and his fingers are slightly calloused like he must play a string instrument of some sort.

“I do not think you were causing trouble,” he says quietly. “I apologize for the words from my uncle.”

Wei Ying waves him off—but not with the hand attached to the arm Lan Zhan is gripping. “No, it’s fine,” he says. “I wouldn’t want to come between you and your uncle anyway. I didn’t even mean to start listening to your station. I don’t even go to UPenn.”

Imperceptibly, Lan Zhan’s eyes get big. But they do, shining and stunned and Wei Ying has to look away so he doesn’t stare into them like a freak.

“How did you find my station then?” Lan Zhan asks. “Why have you been listening?”

Oh, that’s unfair. He’s gonna make Wei Ying say it. But his palm slides down Wei Ying’s hand, to the back of his knuckles. Cupping him there, safe and warm.

“I mean, I found it by accident,” Wei Ying says, using his free hand to fiddle with a hoodie string. HIs skin still itches to leave, but—he already left Lan Zhan hanging once. He can’t do that again. “And I just wanted to keep listening. I liked hearing your voice. Especially whenever I requested a song. I liked hearing you say my name.”

Lan Zhan’s palm tightens around his knuckles. “I enjoyed it when you called in,” he says. “I also like it when you,” he pauses; his ears get redder, “say my name.”

Wei Ying exhales shakily. He can’t have this, he thought—but maybe he’s wrong, maybe he can. Maybe one day he will answer the low buzzing on his phone once a week. Maybe one day he will figure out what home is supposed to feel like.

“Lan Zhan,” he says.

Lan Zhan’s lips part, but he doesn’t say anything. The Septa comes to a halt, but it’s not his stop yet. Outside, people are trudging home from work, sleepy and mumbling. Here, Wei Ying can’t imagine a world more richer than the centimeters between him and Lan Zhan.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, and then he blinks and he and Lan Zhan are kissing. Lan Zhan is soft and steady against him. Wei Ying wants to get to know him better.

He pulls away. “We hardly know each other,” he whispers.

Lan Zhan’s hand is still wrapped around his knuckles. “I like to think I know you enough,” he says, and god, he’s right. “I like you^{[ 20 ]},” he says in Mandarin, and Wei Ying’s knees would be buckling if he weren’t already sitting down. He tips his forehead towards Lan Zhan’s.

He responds in Mandarin, “I like you too^{[ 21 ]}” and Lan Zhan’s lips quirk up. Wei Ying thinks he knows Lan Zhan as well as Lan Zhan knows him and angles his mouth better. Comfortable and damp against Lan Zhan’s lips.

Warm, Wei Ying thinks, like home.

###

Wei Ying Everyone tune into my boyfriend’s radio station at wqhs.com on Tuesday at 10pm for a little surprise! ;)
Lan Zhan, Jiang Fengmian, and 7 others liked this.
Jiang Cheng wow, imagine you using fb
Wei Ying i WILL block u jiang cheng this is not an empty threat
Nie Huaisang is it really a surprise if you use the winky face tho
Jiang Cheng ^
Wei Ying shhh
Wei Ying 闭嘴^{[ 22 ]}!!!!
Jiang Yanli congratulations a-ying!
Lan Zhan I am looking forward to Tuesday.