Friday morning arrived with the kind of crisp autumn air that made Beijing beautiful—clear skies, golden light, and just enough chill to require a light jacket. Xiaoran walked to his Art History class with Zhou Mei, both of them clutching paper cups of coffee like lifelines after a late night of studying.
"I'm convinced Professor Huang assigns reading specifically designed to make our brains hurt," Zhou Mei complained. "Do you understand the difference between representational and presentational performance theories? Because I've read the chapter three times and I still don't."
"Representational is creating illusion of reality, presentational is acknowledging the performance itself," Xiaoran recited automatically. "Stanislavski versus Brecht, essentially."
"How do you just... know that?"
"I read it four times instead of three." Xiaoran grinned. "Also, I'm incredibly anxious about seeming unprepared, so I over-study everything."
They entered the Liberal Arts building and climbed to the second-floor lecture hall. Xiaoran had deliberately arrived fifteen minutes early, hoping to secure a good seat and settle in before class started. The room was still mostly empty—just a handful of students scattered throughout the tiered seating.
And Lin Yuze, of course. Already present, already seated in his usual spot three rows from the back, already bent over his notebook with the intense focus of someone who found other humans deeply inconvenient.
Xiaoran felt an irrational flash of irritation. Did the guy live in this classroom? Did he sleep here? Did he have any life outside of glaring at sheet music and avoiding basic social interaction?
"Ignore him," Zhou Mei muttered, clearly following Xiaoran's line of sight. "Unfriendly cactus, remember?"
They took seats in the middle section—Xiaoran's preferred location for optimal viewing without being too conspicuous. Chen Lili arrived moments later, sliding into the seat next to Xiaoran with her usual cheerful energy.
"Morning! Did either of you finish the reading on Song dynasty landscape painting? Because I definitely didn't, and I'm hoping Professor Huang doesn't do a pop quiz."
"She doesn't believe in pop quizzes," Zhou Mei said. "She believes in 'spontaneous knowledge assessments through class discussion,' which is somehow worse."
More students filtered in as the start time approached. Xiaoran pulled out his notebook and the essay he'd been working on, making a few final edits to his analysis of Tang dynasty art. He was pleased with how it was coming together—the connections between musical space and visual negative space felt intellectually solid.
"Alright, everyone," Professor Huang's voice rang out as she entered precisely at 3 PM. "Before we begin today's lecture, I want to discuss your upcoming essays. Many of you have chosen fascinating topics, but I'm concerned some of you are approaching this too academically and not practically enough."
She clicked to a slide showing a traditional Chinese painting alongside a musical score.
"Art History isn't just about analyzing what's already been created. It's about understanding how historical context and cross-disciplinary influence can inform your own creative work. So, I'm adding a collaborative component to your essays."
A collective groan rippled through the classroom. Professor Huang smiled knowingly.
"I know, I know. Group projects are universally despised. But hear me out. You're going to partner with someone from a different artistic discipline. Music students will partner with visual arts or theater students. Dance students with music students. And so on. Your essay will explore not just historical connections, but how those connections manifest in contemporary creative practice."
She pulled up a new slide listing partnership requirements.
"You'll meet with your partner at least three times over the next two weeks. You'll attend each other's classes or rehearsals to observe their discipline in action. You'll collaborate on a final presentation that demonstrates both analytical understanding and practical application. This is worth thirty percent of your grade, so choose your partners wisely."
Xiaoran exchanged glances with Zhou Mei and Chen Lili. Zhou Mei was theater, like him. Chen Lili was music history, which technically qualified as a different discipline but probably wasn't what Professor Huang had in mind.
"I'll give you the last twenty minutes of class to find partners and exchange contact information," Professor Huang continued. "But first, let me explain exactly what I'm looking for in these collaborative presentations."
The lecture that followed was fascinating despite the looming group project anxiety. Professor Huang discussed how Qing dynasty opera had influenced painting styles, how calligraphy had informed musical notation systems, how poetry and music had evolved in tandem throughout Chinese history. Xiaoran took furious notes, his mind already racing with potential angles for the collaborative essay.
When Professor Huang finally released them to find partners, the classroom erupted into controlled chaos. Students immediately clustered with friends, calling out their majors, trying to find compatible partnerships.
"I'll partner with Zhang Wei," Zhou Mei said. "He's music production, I'm theater—perfect match. Chen Lili, what about you?"
"I'm already partnering with someone from my music history study group," Chen Lili said apologetically. "He's a contemporary dance major. Sorry, Xiaoran!"
"No worries, I'll find someone." Xiaoran scanned the room, noting that most people were already pairing off. He spotted a few music students who didn't seem to have partners yet and started making his way toward them.
"Excuse me," he said to a girl holding a violin case. "Are you still looking for a partner? I'm theater major, focusing on Tang dynasty connections for my essay—"
"Sorry, I just partnered with someone," she said, gesturing to a visual arts student beside her.
Xiaoran tried two more music students with similar results. The room was rapidly depleting as partnerships formed. He felt a flutter of panic—being the last person without a partner was a special kind of academic humiliation.
"Wen Xiaoran, correct?" Professor Huang appeared beside him. "Still looking for a partner?"
"Yes, Professor. It seems everyone's already paired up."
"Not everyone." Professor Huang's eyes scanned the room and landed on a figure still seated three rows back, making no effort to move or socialize. "Lin Yuze, are you partnered yet?"
Yuze looked up from his notebook, his expression suggesting he'd been hoping to avoid this exact scenario. "No, Professor."
"Excellent. You and Wen Xiaoran will partner together." Professor Huang smiled with the satisfaction of someone solving a problem. "You're both exceptionally strong students with different disciplinary focuses. This should be an interesting collaboration."
Xiaoran's stomach dropped. Of all the possible partners—of all the music students in this entire classroom—of course it had to be the cold, antisocial genius who'd already made it clear he found Xiaoran's existence inconvenient.
Yuze's expression remained carefully neutral, but Xiaoran could see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers tightened slightly on his pen. He was equally thrilled about this partnership, apparently.
"I'll leave you two to exchange information and plan your meeting schedule," Professor Huang said, already moving on to check on other partnerships. "Remember, first meeting should happen within the next few days. Don't procrastinate!"
An awkward silence descended as Xiaoran reluctantly approached Yuze's seat. Up close, he could see dark circles under Yuze's eyes, suggesting late nights and insufficient sleep. His notebook was filled with musical notation so dense and complex it looked more like abstract art than actual music.
"So," Xiaoran said, aiming for friendly professionalism. "Looks like we're partners."
"Apparently." Yuze's voice was flat, uninflected. He pulled out his phone. "Give me your contact information. We'll schedule meetings via text."
"Okay." Xiaoran rattled off his phone number and WeChat ID, watching Yuze input the information with mechanical efficiency. "I'm focusing on Tang dynasty art for my essay—connections between court music and landscape painting. What's your topic?"
"Song dynasty. Qin music and philosophical painting traditions."
"That's close to mine. We could probably find some interesting overlap—"
"We'll discuss it at our first meeting," Yuze interrupted, still not making eye contact. "I have practice scheduled now. I'll text you tomorrow with available times."
He stood, gathered his materials with precise movements, and left the classroom without another word. Xiaoran stared after him, frustration bubbling up.
"Well," Zhou Mei said, appearing at his elbow. "That looked painful. Please tell me you didn't get stuck with Lin Yuze."
"I got stuck with Lin Yuze."
"Fuck. I'm sorry." Zhou Mei made a sympathetic face. "Maybe he'll be better one-on-one? Sometimes people who are awkward in groups are fine in smaller settings."
"Or maybe he'll be exactly as cold and dismissive as he is everywhere else," Xiaoran muttered. "This is going to be a long two weeks."
Chen Lili joined them as they headed out of the classroom. "I overheard Professor Huang assigning you two as partners. That's... unfortunate."
"Why does everyone keep saying that? Is he really that bad?"
"He's not bad, exactly," Chen Lili said carefully. "He's just... very focused on his work. Very serious. Very uninterested in anything that doesn't directly relate to music composition. I've never seen him at any social events, never heard him talk about anything except music theory, never witnessed him display any emotion stronger than mild annoyance."
"So basically a robot," Zhou Mei summarized.
"A very talented robot," Chen Lili amended. "But yes, essentially."
They walked to the campus canteen for an early dinner, discussing their respective partnership plans. Zhou Mei and Zhang Wei were already excited about their project, planning to explore connections between contemporary Chinese opera and multimedia performance art. Chen Lili and her partner were focusing on the relationship between traditional dance and musical structure.
Xiaoran tried to muster enthusiasm for his own project but kept getting stuck on the prospect of working closely with someone who clearly wished he didn't exist.
His phone buzzed during dinner. A text from an unknown number: *This is Lin Yuze. Available meeting times: Saturday 2-4 PM, Sunday 10 AM-12 PM, Monday 7-9 PM. Confirm which works for you. We need to establish project parameters and division of labor.*
The message was exactly what Xiaoran expected—efficient, impersonal, treating their collaboration like a business transaction rather than a creative partnership.
He typed back: *Saturday 2 PM works. Where should we meet?*
The response came within seconds: *Library, fourth floor study rooms. I'll reserve room 4C. Bring your essay draft and research materials.*
*Okay. See you then.*
No "sounds good," no "looking forward to it," no basic pleasantries. Just pure information exchange. Xiaoran set his phone down with more force than necessary.
"Let me guess," Zhou Mei said. "Ice prince already scheduled your meeting with maximum efficiency and minimum human warmth?"
"Exactly that. We're meeting tomorrow at 2 PM. Library study room. He probably has a PowerPoint prepared on optimal collaboration strategies."
"At least he's organized?" Chen Lili offered weakly. "Some partners are flaky. You won't have that problem."
"True. I'll have different problems. Like frostbite from prolonged exposure to his personality."
Despite his complaints, Xiaoran spent that evening preparing for their meeting with more care than strictly necessary. He printed out his essay draft, organized his research notes into a clean folder, created an outline of his main arguments, and even rehearsed potential talking points in front of his mirror.
His roommate, a quiet music technology major named Wei Chen, looked up from his laptop. "Are you preparing for a meeting or a dissertation defense?"
"Meeting. With a partner who probably thinks I'm an idiot who accidentally wandered into his practice room that one time and is now cursed to endure my presence for two weeks."
"That's... specific."
"Long story." Xiaoran shuffled his papers for the third time. "I just want to prove I'm taking this seriously. That I'm not some flaky theater student who doesn't understand academic rigor."
"Why do you care what this person thinks?"
It was a good question. Xiaoran paused, considering. Why did he care? Lin Yuze was just some guy in his Art History class. After this project, they'd likely never interact again beyond nodding acknowledgment in the hallway.
But something about Yuze's cold dismissal had gotten under his skin. Maybe because it felt like judgment—like Yuze had looked at Xiaoran and decided he wasn't worth basic courtesy. Or maybe because despite that coldness, Xiaoran kept remembering the music he'd heard that first night, the way Yuze's playing had been full of emotion his face never showed.
There was something there beneath the ice. Xiaoran was sure of it. And perversely, he wanted to find it, to prove that the cold genius was actually human underneath all those defensive layers.
"I don't know," Xiaoran finally answered. "I just do."
Wei Chen shrugged and returned to his work, leaving Xiaoran to his excessive preparation. By the time he went to bed, he had his materials organized with color-coded tabs and his main points memorized. If Lin Yuze wanted to judge him, at least it wouldn't be for lack of preparation.
Saturday morning arrived with overcast skies threatening rain. Xiaoran dressed carefully—not trying too hard, but not looking like he'd rolled out of bed either. Dark jeans, a comfortable sweater, his favorite sneakers. He grabbed his folder of materials and his laptop, double-checked that he had his student ID for library access, and headed out.
The library was one of the most beautiful buildings on campus—traditional architecture combined with modern facilities, four floors of books and study spaces with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the central quad. The fourth floor was designated for quiet study and group collaboration rooms, which required reservation.
Xiaoran found room 4C exactly at 2 PM. Through the glass door, he could see Lin Yuze already inside, laptop open, materials spread across the table with geometric precision. Of course he'd arrived early.
Xiaoran took a breath, pasted on a friendly but professional expression, and knocked before entering.
"Hi. Hope I'm not late."
"You're exactly on time." Yuze gestured to the chair across from him. "I've created an agenda for today's meeting. First, we'll share our essay topics and research directions. Second, we'll identify areas of overlap or potential collaboration. Third, we'll establish a meeting schedule and divide responsibilities. The entire meeting should take approximately ninety minutes."
Xiaoran blinked. "You really did prepare an agenda."
"Efficiency is important. We both have limited time and multiple academic commitments. Structure prevents wasted effort." Yuze pushed a printed document across the table. "I've outlined my research focus: Song dynasty qin music and its relationship to literati painting traditions, specifically how both art forms embodied philosophical concepts of simplicity, space, and restraint."
The outline was impressively detailed, with clear thesis statements, supporting arguments, and a bibliography of sources. Xiaoran felt simultaneously impressed and inadequate.
"That's... very thorough." Xiaoran pulled out his own materials. "My focus is Tang dynasty court music and landscape painting—looking at how both used space and silence as active elements rather than passive absence. How negative space in painting relates to rests and pauses in music composition."
He handed over his essay draft, aware that it wasn't as polished as Yuze's outline. Yuze scanned it quickly, his expression unreadable.
"Your central thesis is interesting," Yuze said finally. "The parallel between visual negative space and musical silence is conceptually sound. Your supporting arguments need more development, but the foundation is solid."
It was probably the closest thing to a compliment Yuze was capable of giving, and Xiaoran felt absurdly pleased despite himself.
"Thanks. I've been struggling with the transition between historical analysis and contemporary application. Professor Huang wants us to show how these historical connections inform current creative practice, but I'm not sure how to make that leap convincingly."
"That's where our collaboration becomes relevant." Yuze pulled up a document on his laptop. "I've been composing a piece that explores similar themes—the use of silence as a structural element rather than absence of sound. If your essay analyzes historical precedent for this approach, and my composition demonstrates its contemporary application, we have a complete argument."
Xiaoran leaned forward, interested despite his reservations about his partner. "You're writing music about silence?"
"Music is as much about what you don't play as what you do play. Western music often treats silence as negative space to be filled. Traditional Chinese music understands silence as having its own presence and meaning." Yuze's voice had gained a slight animation, the first emotion Xiaoran had heard from him. "The spaces between notes create tension, expectation, room for contemplation. Remove the silence and you remove half the music's meaning."
"Like how negative space in painting defines the positive space," Xiaoran said, making the connection. "The empty areas aren't actually empty—they're active participants in the composition."
"Exactly." For a brief moment, Yuze's expression shifted—still not quite a smile, but a softening around his eyes that suggested approval. Then it vanished, replaced by his usual controlled neutrality. "This is the connection Professor Huang wants us to explore. Historical philosophy manifesting in contemporary practice across different artistic disciplines."
They spent the next hour diving deep into their respective research, finding unexpected areas of overlap. Yuze's knowledge of music history was encyclopedic, and despite his cold demeanor, he proved to be a surprisingly effective collaborator when discussing actual content. He listened carefully to Xiaoran's ideas, asked probing questions that strengthened arguments, and offered suggestions that improved rather than criticized.
"Your analysis of Tang dynasty landscape aesthetics is strong," Yuze said, making notes on his laptop. "But you're missing the connection to Buddhist philosophy—the concept of emptiness as fullness, absence as presence. That's the underlying principle connecting both visual and musical traditions."
"I hadn't thought of that angle." Xiaoran scribbled notes frantically. "That actually ties everything together much better. The philosophical framework gives historical context for the artistic choices."
"Exactly. Art doesn't exist in vacuum. It emerges from cultural and philosophical contexts." Yuze pulled up several academic articles on his laptop. "I'll send you these sources. They explore Buddhist influence on Tang and Song dynasty aesthetics. They'll strengthen your theoretical foundation."
"That would be really helpful, thank you."
They continued working through their respective essays, finding synergies and building toward a collaborative framework. Despite his initial dread, Xiaoran found himself actually enjoying the intellectual exchange. When Yuze focused on ideas rather than social interaction, he was sharp, insightful, and surprisingly generous with his knowledge.
It was only when conversation drifted toward anything personal that the walls slammed back into place.
"So," Xiaoran ventured during a brief pause, "Professor Huang mentioned you're composing a piece related to our project topic. Are you working on it for a specific performance or commission?"
"The Winter Composition Showcase. It's a competitive event for composition students. Faculty recommendation required." Yuze's answers were clipped, factual, offering no additional information.
"That sounds prestigious. Is it your first time participating?"
"Second. I was selected last year as well."
"Oh, that's impressive! What piece did you perform?"
"A piano sonata exploring mathematical relationships in harmonic progression." Yuze checked his watch. "We're at ninety minutes. We should establish our next meeting schedule."
The conversational door slammed shut so abruptly that Xiaoran almost got whiplash. Right. Back to business. No personal questions. No friendly small talk. Just efficient collaboration and nothing more.
They scheduled two more meetings—one for the following Wednesday to review progress, one the week after to finalize their presentation. Yuze created a shared document for their research and assigned specific responsibilities with the precision of a military operation planning committee.
"I'll work on the historical analysis of Song dynasty musical theory. You focus on Tang dynasty visual arts analysis. We'll both contribute to the philosophical framework connecting them. For the presentation, I'll provide musical demonstration, you can incorporate visual examples from your theater training." Yuze closed his laptop with finality. "Any questions?"
"Just one," Xiaoran said, unable to help himself. "Do you ever relax? Like, ever? Or is everything in your life scheduled and optimized?"
Yuze's expression went completely blank. "Discipline and structure lead to excellence. Relaxation is what people do when they don't care enough about their work to prioritize it properly."
"That's... a bleak worldview."
"It's a successful worldview. I have clear goals and I achieve them through consistent effort and focus." Yuze stood, gathering his materials. "I'll send you those research articles tonight. Review them before Wednesday's meeting."
He was at the door before Xiaoran could formulate a response, leaving with the same abrupt efficiency he brought to everything else.
Xiaoran sat alone in the study room, staring at the neat stack of notes Yuze had left behind—color-coded, perfectly organized, completely devoid of any personality or warmth. It was good work, objectively. Collaborative, even generous in its thoroughness.
But it was also kind of sad. Did Lin Yuze actually enjoy music, or was it just another metric for achievement? Did he have friends? Hobbies? Any life outside of practice rooms and academic excellence?
Xiaoran's phone buzzed with a text from Zhou Mei: *Survival check. Did the ice prince freeze you solid or are you still functioning?*
*Still functioning. He was actually helpful once we got past the personality vacuum. But wow, this guy needs to learn about work-life balance.*
*At least he's competent. Better than getting stuck with someone who doesn't pull their weight.*
*True. Meeting went fine. He's sending me research articles tonight and we're meeting again Wednesday.*
*Look at you, surviving forced proximity with Beijing's least friendly genius. I'm proud.*
Xiaoran smiled despite himself. He packed up his materials and headed out of the library into the overcast afternoon. The threatened rain had started to fall—light and misty, the kind that soaked through clothes gradually rather than immediately.
Students hurried across the quad with umbrellas or textbooks held over their heads. Xiaoran had forgotten his umbrella, naturally, so he pulled his hood up and started toward the dorm at a jog.
Halfway across the quad, he glanced back toward the library and saw Lin Yuze standing under the entrance overhang, staring at the rain with an expression Xiaoran couldn't quite read. Not quite frustrated, not quite contemplative. Almost... lost, somehow. Like someone who'd optimized every variable in life except weather and didn't know how to handle the disruption.
Xiaoran had an absurd impulse to go back, to offer to share his hood for the walk to wherever Yuze was going, to make some joke about the rain that might crack that impenetrable exterior.
But before he could act on the impulse, Yuze pulled out his phone, made a call, and disappeared back into the library. Problem solved through efficient communication, probably calling someone to bring an umbrella. Of course.
Xiaoran continued toward his dorm, rain soaking through his hood, thinking about silence in music and negative space in painting and people who built such careful walls around themselves that even kindness couldn't find a way in.
Two weeks of collaboration. He could survive two weeks with anyone, even cold geniuses who treated human interaction like an optimization problem.
But as he reached his dorm and shook water from his hair, Xiaoran couldn't shake the image of Yuze standing alone in the rain, looking just for a moment like someone who didn't have everything perfectly figured out after all.
Maybe there was a person under all that ice. Maybe.
Or maybe Xiaoran was just projecting, seeing depth where there was only discipline, mistaking control for mystery.
Time would tell. They had two weeks to figure out if they could work together, or if this partnership would be fourteen days of efficient misery.
Xiaoran was betting on the latter, but hoping—just a little—for something more.