fru's epic musical brainrot ft shen yuan and luo binghe

[rynleaf]

Okay so I know NOTHING about musical theater, and have only a passing knowledge with opera (thanks 10+ years of classical music education and the amount of highly dexterous dodging I needed to do to avoid it at music school at all costs) but now I'm rewatching super vocal with Mari, which--okay it was a mistake on MANY levels and only one of those is my sudden whiplashed yeetage into a certain rpf corner of the internet--

ANYWAY wow that is a sentence all right djkfhgkdf, so I'm writing wlw bingqiu musical theater au while consuming Mari's crash course on musical theater on spotify

i'm fully losing my mind

 

(excerpt)

“But bro,” Shang Qinghua exclaims, grabbing Shen Yuan’s arm like it’s a life vest, “you have to help me with the like, god, there are so many alterations to do and you have a nicer sewing machine and I--”

Shen Yuan kicks him. Shang Qinghua wails and topples over like a sack of rice. 

“Jiejie, please.” 

“Currying favour is underhanded and ungentlemanly,” Shen Yuan says coolly. “What’s in it for me?” 

(Shang Qinghua agrees to grade first year and second year essays the following semester. He cries like a baby, but Shen Yuan drives a hard bargain. 

She does have the better sewing machine.) 

Which is fine. It’s fine. It’s fine until Luo Binghe finds Shen Yuan spread out on the stage floor one afternoon with yards upon yards of printed “vintage pattern” fabric, a measuring tape and a self-healing mat; and offers to help. 

She brings Shen Yuan coffee. She passes her the rotary cutter. 

She ends up following Shen Yuan home weighed down by yet more fabric and two boxes of plastic rhinestones and a bag of takeout noodles, chattering about her classes and the latest gossip that floats around the department. 

“I don’t know,” Shen Yuan says absently when Luo Binghe asks her a question, barely audible over the clamor of the bus, “it’s not my field.” 

Luo Binghe pauses, her mouth hanging open. A strand of escapee hair curls around her cheekbone in a very, very distracting way. 

“Jiejie doesn’t know musical theater?” she asks.

Shen Yuan clears her throat. “Our stop is coming up,” she says, then begins elbowing her way past the other passengers towards the door. 

“I just figured,” Luo Binghe says--it’s half an hour later and they are sitting on Shen Yuan’s couch, containers thrown open and the curtains drawn--“because you’re there all the time with Shang-xuezhang…” 

“He owes me a favour,” replies Shen Yuan. 

Luo Binghe eyes the stacks of fabric stashed in a large cardboard box by the sewing table, then smiles toothily. “Must be a pretty big favour.” 

So: Luo Binghe at two in the morning, giggling over Shen Yuan’s first year undergrad essay best hits while handing her little clips from a jar. So: Luo Binghe, crawling into the cramped humanities postgrad office basically in tears and sitting down right on top of the paperwork Shen Yuan had stashed on the spare chair five minutes before, begging her to help her with a Chinese lit essay. 

(“My field is science fiction,” Shen Yuan had said, a little desperately. Luo Binghe blinked up at her with her eyes glistening and her bottom lip sucked between her teeth.

Shen Yuan folded like wet toilet paper.)