Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first time that Mobei Jun ever hurt Shang Qinghua, he had been so surprised he didn’t even notice his own tears.

It had terrified him — shocked him into complete silence, during which he stared up with wide, startled eyes. As the silence stretched on, the king began to look increasingly emotive; a strange mid between befuddled sheepishness and faint annoyance. 

“Shang Qinghua—”

“You hurt me,” Shang Qinghua breathes out, staring at where Mobei Jun still has one hand wrapped tightly around his wrist. It twinges with sharp pain under the unrelenting grip, and he can feel his eyes stinging. 

He’s not sure when he’d gotten to the point where he’d stopped expecting something like this to happen. He’d grown complacent. His place in this world is one of canon fodder, how could he have managed to forget that?

He tugs uselessly at his arm. His breath hitches when it barely makes a difference beyond bringing his attention to the heavy bolts of pain that travel down the appendage in response. 

Mobei Jun frowns down at him, tightening his grip. The earlier cracking sound is repeated, less localized and more spread out like — like bubblewrap or something, and —

Shang Qinghua cries out, pressing his free hand over his mouth in a belated attempt to smother the sound. He’s too late, but thankfully Mobei Jun has already released his wrist and is now staring down at it with slightly widened eyes, as if he’s just realizing what’s happened. 

Gingerly, the cultivator draws his arm toward his chests and holds it, fingers wrapping around his forearm a few inches away from where his bone has clearly shattered. He tries not to look at it, knowing that if he does it will only increase his panic and make him act out of terror instead of think rationally (an important ability, when surrounded by demons within demonic territory). However, his eyes catch on the red swelling, the awkward way that his wrist is unnaturally twisted despite his best efforts, and Shang Qinghua can feel his lungs begin to tighten painfully. 

He jerks his eyes away from the injury and turns them on Mobei Jun, who has taken a step away from him now, but still stares, like he’s judging Shang Qinghua, and —

“You hurt me,” Shang Qinghua presses out, accusingly, and even to his ears it still sounds pitiful and shell shocked. He’s not even sure why he’s surprised, anymore. 

Seriously, what did he expect?

He has to admit, if only to himself, that he’d obviously gotten too comfortable. This, this is the price for that.

Shang Qinghua won’t make that mistake again. He swears it.

He’s… He’s suppose to be smarter than this. 

“Shang Qinghua,” Mobei Jun starts, standing a few feet away from him with his hands clenched into fists at his side? Is Shang Qinghua further delusional, or is that the color of regret in his king’s voice? 

No, he’s definitely delusional. He has to keep himself from hearing things that aren’t actually there. It’s what got him in this mess in the first place. 

“This one — I — ” Mobei Jun actually stumbles over his words, which is uncharacteristic of him. The prince’s eyebrows draw together in a rather severe look. 

He looks pissed. 

Shang Qinghua ducks his head down. His breaths are coming too quickly, and he’s started trembling all over. He must look truly pathetic. 

“I - I need to,” he licks his lips, nerves alight with reawakened fear, “I need to return to An Ding, my king, b-before someone, um, notices I am not where I’m suppose to be.”

No one ever would. No one ever does. Shang Qinghua and Mobei Jun are both aware of that. Thankfully, his king does not comment on it.

“... Yes.” He says, and holds out his arm, elbow cocked at an angle. He’s not even looking at him, gaze directed flatly away and to the side. “This one will return you to your sect.”

Shang Qinghua notices how he doesn’t exactly say peak. He hopes desperately that Mobei Jun isn’t going to drop him off in the middle of Bai Zhan instead, as another joke or whatever it was, and leave him to the tender mercies of the Cang Qiong jock squad again. 

Seriously, how had he let himself be so blind…

Shakily, Shang Qinghua inches forward, eyeing his king like a prey animal might a predator. Mobei Jun remains completely still, not looking in his direction at all. His arm is still held out in invitation, though, and he doesn’t look like he’s about to rescind the offer, so Shang Qinghua reaches forward with his uninjured hand and slips it hesitantly into the crook of the demon’s arm. He keeps his broken wrist tucked securely to his chest and angled away from the demon, just... just in case.

Mobei Jun pauses, gaze affixed to the ground. The line of his shoulders is tense, and Shang Qinghua can vaguely feel the muscles of his arm strain beneath his hand. He trembles, wanting to let go and stumble backwards, but then Mobei Jun is already stepping into the teleportation, and Shang Qinghua knows better than anyone how that goes if one doesn’t keep a good grip for the duration of the trip. 

His feet slam into the wooden floor of his leisure house, and Shang Qinghua nearly falls to his knees in relief. It’s not home — he hasn’t called a place home in years, and that doesn’t even account for this current life — but it’s also not the demon realm, full of unknown and unpredicted dangers.

No, the dangers in Cang Qiong are well known to Shang Qinghua, and he can navigate them if he needs to. That’s what’s important. 

But first, he needs to pay Qian Cao a visit. Hopefully they’ll take him seriously just this once, and Shang Qinghua’s wrist will not be sentenced to weeks of searing pain and rough, unprofessional DIY splints. His heart sinks a little at the very real possibility.

Then, it stutters. Because Mobei Jun still stands behind him when he turns around, and Shang Qinghua realizes he’d let himself relax far too soon.

He breathes carefully, in and out, through the fear. It’s almost like reuniting with an old acquaintance that you hadn’t realized you’d forgotten until seeing their face again. 

He doesn’t like it. 

Mobei Jun stands there, like an unmoving statue in the middle of Shang Qinghua’s Leisure House. It’s not an uncommon scene, really. But, for the first time in a long time, Mobei Jun’s presence here makes Shang Qinghua afraid.

He feels adrift, like he’s lost something important. Shang Qinghua is so stupid, for assuming anything in the first place. He should know better by now, shouldn't he?

But it’s been so long, and he’d let himself think….

He’s so fucking stupid.

“M… My king….”

The ice demon’s countenance seems to darken further, scowl becoming something fierce. He reaches a hand out toward Shang Qinghua’s face, and the cultivator flinches back in sheer reflex, eyes widening in the increasing panic that he’s desperately attempting to keep a lid on. Mobei Jun is making it so difficult to, however.

The demon’s hand pauses just before it touches him, in the wake of his reaction. Something sour twists at Mobei Jun’s expression, and he withdraws his hand, taking another step away.

“... Will return in a month for your report,” the demon prince murmurs, scowling across the room at the door of the house.

With barely a whisper, he turns on his heel and vanishes into a teleport.

Something unravels in Shang Qinghua shoulders and spine, and he falls into a crouch, staring unseeingly at his floor as he attempts to catch his breath. 

He spends a few minutes like this, focusing on his own breathing, and the way that his lungs still only allow entry for a very limited amount of oxygen. There’s an uncomfortable pressure in his chest, and he realizes that there are lines of burning warmth that cut down his face. Did he scratch himself?

Shakily, Shang Qinghua reaches up his uninjured hand. Oh. 

He’s crying.

Chapter Text

It isn’t until Shang Qinghua is halfway to his leisure house that he remembers he doesn’t actually have time to stop and treat himself, not today.

Today, there is a mandatory meeting between all the new head disciples of Cang Qiong’s peaks. A way for them to build the foundation of the close bonds and rapport that they will need to have going forward and into their eventual ascension to peak lords.

The meeting is scheduled after lunch, and Shang Qinghua has skipped lunch. He’d claimed he had some last minute paperwork he needed to get out of the way before the meeting.

His stomach twinges, and he presses his uninjured hand into it harshly, willing it to stop. He’d skipped lunch, but it wasn’t because of paperwork. He’d thought he’d have enough time to slip in a report to Mobei Jun.

Instead —

He pauses in the middle of the path, shaking. He takes his hand away from his stomach to wrap his fingers around the forearm of his injured limb to hold it still. The shattered bone is unrelenting with the pain signals that it ruthlessly shoots to his brain without pause. He feels almost lightheaded.

It’s stupid. He’s had worse than this, so why does he feel so unmoored? Why does he feel as if he’s about to pass out? It’s a broken wrist. 

Shang Qinghua slips to the edge of the path, shouldering himself against the bark of a tree, partially hidden in the foliage. Lunchtime is still ongoing, though it’s coming to a close, so he should have enough time to do this, at least. He won’t be late.

Reaching into the sleeve of his robes, he thumbs open the qiankun pocket and retrieves a roll of bandages from his emergency stash. It’s the thickly woven type, and not the flimsier gauze for injuries involving fragile broken skin. Hopefully it’s sturdy enough to provide some structure for his wrist. He’ll have to see to it more properly back in his house after the meeting.

Disappointment claws up the walls of his chest. Guess it’ll be the DIY splints after all. Just like always.

His eyes sting viciously, and Shang Qinghua finishes winding the bandages carefully around his wrist, tight enough to hold it in place but loose enough so it doesn’t choke his blood flow. Once he’s confident that he’s bound it as good as he can for now, he bites his teeth into the material and rips it free from the rest of the roll. 

Stashing the unused bandage back in his qiankun pocket, Shang Qinghua pins the end of the binding around his wrist in place and then draws the sleeve of his uninjured arm across his eyes to stem the flow of his tears.

He needs to stop by a stream on his way to Qiong Ding as well, it seems. It wouldn’t do, to show up at the head disciple meeting with the evidence of his crying all over his face. He’d be laughed right out of the sect. 

He tucks his wrist back against his chest and holds it still with his other hand. Even so, they still tremble, and no amount of deep breaths and on-the-go meditation techniques are helping. He squeezes his eyes shut and takes another breath, walking onward.

By the time he arrives at Qiong Ding, lunch has ended. The meeting should just be starting. So he isn’t late! He’s right on time. No one will look twice at the An Ding head disciple being a straggler. Honestly, it’s pretty much expected, given their workload.

However, as he approaches the doors to the hall where the meeting is to take place, he can faintly hear the quiet murmur of voices from just beyond the slightly ajar double doors, and his chest choses that moment to seize painfully.

Shang Qinghua stops in his tracks. It’s like his lungs have just ceased working. He can’t draw in a single breath. The trembling in his limbs, having grown small enough to be unnoticeable on his climb up the mountain, returns with a ferociousness that makes his head spin. Or maybe that’s the abrupt lack of oxygen? 

He staggers to the side, pressing his back flush against the stone wall between two columns. It should be hidden enough, and thankfully the area is pretty empty of any wandering Qiong Ding disciples. He should be able to take a few moments to calm down from this inconveniently timed anxiety attack. He slides down the wall into a crouch and bows his head, curling over his injury and struggling to inhale.

For a second, he’s almost certain he’s managed it. A crack appears in the wall surrounding his lungs and keeping out any breath. A tiny piece crumbles away. In a few moments, the rest of the barricade will follow and Shang Qinghua will be able to breathe again.

“What’s wrong with you, then?”

Or — Or not.

He jolts violently, absolutely despising how the action nearly sends him toppling over and onto the ground. He stays upright, thankfully, but that’s less due to himself and more thanks to the person who has come upon him. They make a quiet sound of surprise and reach out a hand to steady him.

“Asking again, what’s wrong with you? This isn’t the best place to have a breakdown, you know. The head disciples are meeting just beyond those doors. You will disrupt them.”

Shang Qinghua knows. He also knows that, by now, he’s definitely late to the meeting. His Shizun will be disappointed, but… but not surprised, and —

He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to breathe. He can’t. 

The person standing above him shifts closer. The hand on his shoulder is removed, only to replace itself around — around his wrist, and —

Shang Qinghua flinches, violently, and lets out a breathless whimper. He presses his other hand over his mouth to smother any cries that try to follow it, and opens his eyes, staring up at whoever it is and pleading without words for them to let go of his broken wrist, please, it hurts. 

The person stops — likely, it had been an attempt to pull him up to his feet. But now, they observe him with a sudden frosty silence, that Shang Qinghua feels more than sees. His vision is too blurry with his tears to really make out their face.

“Your wrist is —?” They begin, and then stop. The indifferent and slightly abrasive, yet uninterested tone from before is replaced by one of chilly steel. “... Let me see.”

Shang Qinghua is shaking so badly, feels so faint, that he’s not really able to fight them when they wrap their hand around his arm again. Further away from the wrist this time, thankfully. They draw it away from his chest. 

His sleeve is pushed back, pulled away from the catching material of the bandages. 

There’s a moment of silence, and then a sharp breath. 

“It’s broken.”

No fucking duh. He hadn’t noticed! Thanks so much for informing him!

Shang Qinghua presses his hand more firmly against his mouth. He still — he still can’t breathe, and this really isn’t helping, but he’s trembling all over and his vision is swimming and he can’t breathe.

He’s late for the meeting. 

All his peers are going to look down on him for this (as if they wouldn’t have before? He’s really just kidding himself).

Shizun is going to be mad.

“Why are you here, and not at Qian Cao? This should be seen by a healer.”

Because he’s late! 

Shang Qinghua shifts his legs underneath himself, falling out of his crouch and onto his knees. 

The person is still holding his arm. Their grip is strangely firm and yet somehow gentle at the same time. 

“Was this a training accident?” They ask.

Oh, a perfect excuse! Of course it was. Shang Qinghua opens his mouth to readily agree, relieved, but instead a wheezing, incredulous laugh bursts free from his mouth, sardonic and bitter and completely without permission.

“I see,” the person says, flatly, and panic rises up in Shang Qinghua’s chest. 

No, wait — ! 

He’s actually fine! 

With renewed strength — though barely — he tries to tug his wrist free from the person’s grip. It’s almost just as useless as when he’d tried getting Mobei Jun to release him earlier. Their grips are similarly unrelenting, and something about it makes Shang Qinghua’s tears renew themselves. He reaches out with his other hand to try and pry the person’s hand off of him. Their touch is suddenly incredibly uncomfortable, sending fissions of terror through Shang Qinghua’s nervous system. 

He’s too weak, however. He’s shaking, and faint, and it’s as if he has barely any muscle at this moment. The person’s fingers do not budge at all.

Shang Qinghua draws in a watery breath, too small in the way that it squeezes itself down his throat and attempts to press past the barricade and into his lungs. He brings back his hand and presses it over his eyes instead, closing them. The next breath is even more shaky.

“Who did this to you?”

No. No, absolutely not. Shang Qinghua desperately shakes his head, mind whirring uselessly in search of an appropriate excuse. He’d already failed in agreeing with the training accident, dammit, so he can’t use that, so… what else…?

He can’t —

He can’t let anyone know about Mobei Jun.

No one is ever suppose to know.

He’ll be killed for treason. 

Shang Qinghua shudders, another whimper escaping him.

The person holding his arm gentles their grip. Not enough for Shang Qinghua to break free — he’s about as strong as a newborn, right now, he feels — but the fingers readjust their placement and his arm is maneuvered until it’s raised slightly above his chest. The insistent throbbing dies down just barely, at that.

A finger taps against the back of the hand that he has over his eyes. 

“Answer me. Who did this? Was it those Bai Zhan brutes?”

Hopelessly, Shang Qinghua shakes his head. He can’t even think. There’s no thought in his head that actually sticks. Everything is going by too fast for him to grasp at it.

“Your robes are blue, so you must be An Ding. Are you sure it wasn’t Bai Zhan?”

Shang Qinghua just shakes his head.

“... Wait. That uniform….”

No, no, no. Shang Qinghua repeats the word like a chant in his head, because he can’t focus on anything else. Yet, it’s useless to stop this person from the realization of his identity. 

“That’s the An Ding head disciples uniform,” the person says almost accusingly. “You are Shang Qinghua? Don’t you think you’re a little beyond bullying now? For heaven’s sake.”

Shang Qinghua curls into himself, trembling. He knows, okay? He knows how pathetic he is. He doesn’t need them to point it out!

There’s a sigh. “Shang-shidi, this one can’t do anything to help you if you do not answer.”

Shidi…?

With a jerk, Shang Qinghua rips his hand away from his eyes and sits up. The person, hovering slightly above him, moves away a little with another murmur of surprise. His vision is blurry, but Shang Qinghua can still make out the colors of the person’s robes — a light green, some white.

Oh, no.

“Sh-Shixiong,” he presses out, desperately, reaching forward to again try and pry his hand off of his arm. “Please, please don’t tell anyone, I — you — I can’t —!”

Shen Jiu stares down at him imperiously, grip still absolutely immovable. 

“This shixiong will ask once more,” the Qing Jing head disciple says, expression entirely neutral. “Who did this? If it wasn’t Bai Zhan, this shixiong is unable to think of any other culprit, and…”

With movement like lightning, Shen Jiu strikes forward with his other hand. Something glints between his fingers and, in mere moments, the bandages fall away from Shang Qinghua’s wrist to reveal the mottled red skin, severe swelling, and unnatural angle of the joint. 

Against the redness, the dark black bruises in the shape of a hand could not be starker.

Shen Jiu’s face darkens. 

“Clearly,” he continues, stashing his knife away in the front of his robes, “it was no accident. Shang Qinghua.”

Shang Qinghua ducks his head down, shame rising up to mingle nauseatingly with the panic and the fear that consumes his heart and lungs. 

Nobody is suppose to know. Especially not Shen Jiu.

Shang Qinghua is so fucking useless.

“Sorry,” he manages to squeak out, lungs so tight and burning that he feels they will burst at any moment. 

“No,” Shen Jiu reaches out and flicks his forehead sharply. “Do not apologize. Tell me who it was.”

Shang Qinghua’s face scrunches up against the flow of his tears. He tries to breathe in again, fails, and then shakes his head. 

“— can’t.” He grinds out, helpless.

“Shang Qinghua,” Shen Jiu growls, voice flat and unamused, sounding so terrifyingly like Mobei Jun’s for a moment that Shang Qinghua can’t help the way his entire body flinches back.

Shen Jiu goes quiet. There’s a long moment that stretches into the silence. Like a rubber band, pulled apart further and further until something audibly snaps, and the band comes whipping back to strike at both ends.

Shen Jiu gets to his feet from where he’d been kneeling. He doesn’t let go of Shang Qinghua’s wrist, and instead stoops down to wind his arm around Shang Qinghua’s back and pull him forcefully to his feet. 

“Come,” the cruel man says. “We are both late for the meeting.”

Shang Qinghua whimpers in horror.

No! No one can know.

And now it looks like everyone will. Shang Qinghua is dead.

Chapter Text

As he is dragged forcibly into the meeting hall, Shang Qinghua feels himself fall away from his body. 

He is still very much aware of what’s going on around him, of course, but now it feels less like things are happening to him, and more like he’s only an observer watching those things happen to someone else. He watches himself suck in a breath and hold it until his cheeks tinge pink, and stumble up a step as Shen Qingqiu tugs him along remorselessly, but Shang Qinghua feels nothing but calm.

Or, maybe calm isn’t the right word. Detached. Submerged in a strange apathy from which Shang Qinghua is unable to pull himself out of. He has to wait it out, and it will end whenever it decides to. 

He knows this, because this isn’t the first time something like this has happened to him. Many times over the years he has felt this same sense of detachment, and in fact he used to experience it often enough back in his last life to convince him that he likely had needed a therapist. Not that he’d ever been able to afford one, but at least he was self aware enough to acknowledge the issue?

Sometimes it’s a blessing in disguise, honestly. He will sit down to towering stacks of paperwork, requisition forms and night hunt reports and financial statements, and suddenly come to find it all already finished. It’s mostly routine, sign this form, stamp an approval for that, reject these. Simple rotary actions that are pure muscle memory by now. 

Sometimes he will get something wrong, and Shizun will be disappointed (but never surprised, why did the man choose him again? Was it the system’s doing?), but more often than not Shang Qinghua comes away finished but exhausted and not quite remembering any of it. 

In hindsight, actually, that seems a little bad. 

Maybe there is something wrong with him, he thinks absently as Shen Qingqiu shoves the doors open with a tiny burst of qi-enhances strength — those things are heavier than a mountain, in fact — and pulls both of them into the hall, but that’s something Shang Qinghua had always known. 

He turns his attention to what’s going on around him, and watches dully as Shen Qingqiu pulls him over to the large, circular table and carefully but firmly sits him down in his own seat, which is right next to Mu Qingfang’s.

The head disciple of Qian Cao lifts an eyebrow, but his eyes are already examining both he and Shen Qingqiu with the look of a professional healer, cataloguing anything that even hints at being wrong. 

Shang Qinghua wonders what he looks like right now, seeing the way his very presence makes the older disciple frown. 

“Shixiong,” Mu Qingfang greets into the silence of the hall, brought no doubt by their abrupt entrance. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Cut that out, Mu-shidi,” Shen Qingqiu says near scathingly, and the doctor’s apprentice blinks in surprise. “We’ve known each other long enough, spare me the pleasantries and just check him over.”

Another blink, and then Mu Qingfang turns his attention fully onto Shang Qinghua. He stands from his chair, takes a step closer, and leans down to pin him with a narrow look. 

“An Ding,” he says, tilting his head. “Shang Qinghua?”

Despite being disciples of the same sect, circumstance had never really worked out in favor of Shang Qinghua and Mu Qingfang personally meeting, so this would be the first time they’ve truly come face to face. This is also true for most of the other head disciples in the room — of all of them, Yue Qingyuan is the only one whom Shang Qinghua can actually recall ever making acquaintance with, and even that had been brief and solitary in its occurrence. 

What a great first impression he must be making, then. 

Shizun is going to be disappointed. 

But, not surprised. 

The man never is. Exasperated, long-suffering, occasionally annoyed by Shang Qinghua’s antics. Sometimes he’ll look him over with a fond eye, half a second away from ruffling his disciple’s hair, but then he’ll walk away without a second glance. 

Shang Qinghua wonders if the man ever really saw him as an actual person, instead of just the idea that he represents to him.

He tunes back in, realizing that he’d become lost in his thoughts and hadn’t replied to Mu Qingfang’s question, hadn’t even introduced himself.

(Shizun is going to look at him Like That again, when he finds out how badly Shang Qinghua dropped the ball at the first head disciple meeting). 

He finds Mu Qingfang crouched in front of him and already pursuing his meridians. There is a deep frown on the healer’s face, and despite his disconnection with his own body, Shang Qinghua can feel his qi just fine. He can feel how Mu Qingfang’s intertangles with it, and how Mu Qingfang cycles through the same rudimentary diagnostic test again and again, as if he’s double and triple and quadruple checking. Like he isn’t sure what he’s seeing is correct, so he must check again. 

“His qi,” Mu Qingfang says, voice light enough to cause some worry. “It’s….”

“What?” Somebody snaps, and who else is it but Shen Qingqiu’s bright and sunny disposition? “Are you daft? Stop holding his wrist like that, it’s broken! What kind of doctor are you suppose to be?”

Shang Qinghua watches Mu Qingfang startle, glancing down at the wrist that he holds in between his fingers. He quickly readjusts his grip on the limb, holding it far more gingerly and pushing the sleeve back to get a better look. He lets out a sharp hiss, and there’s a few exclamations of surprise from the crowd of head disciples that Shang Qinghua hadn’t noticed they’d acquired. 

“Who the hell did that?” Someone else demands, sounding furious. “That’s a handprint!”

“Your ability to state the obvious has not dwindled in the past months, I see,” Shen Qingqiu snipes from behind his shoulder, and Shang Qinghua slides his gaze to the side in time to watch another disciple dressed in white push to the front of the group and kneel next to the seeing doctor. 

“Shut up!” Liu Qingge — Shang Qinghua would recognize that face anywhere, even if this is the first time he’s seen it up close — barks, before leaning in to peer over Mu Qingfang’s shoulder. His characteristic scowl deepens into a glare. “Did he tell you—?”

“He hasn’t been all that responsive, as you can see.” Shen Qingqiu snaps. He turns back to their shidi. “Qingfang, what was that about his qi?”

Mu Qingfang hesitates, uncertainty warring across his face with incredulity, before he says, “It’s... unbalanced.”

A brief bout of silence overtakes them all, before someone chokes. 

“He’s deviating?”

“Right now??”

“Someone needs to go and — Shui-shidi, run out and have someone go fetch Yaozhi-shibo—!”

“All of you,” Mu Qingfang says forcefully, still channeling qi into Shang Qinghua’s wrist. He can feel it circle his own, and knows already that it’s not doing much more than temporarily calm it. “Everyone, be quiet! Shui-shidi, yes, go find my Shizun. Be quick!”

Another burst of qi, and the sound of the doors opening and closing behind them all with a loud, echoing, final-sounding bang, and Shang Qinghua abruptly startles back inside his own body with a gasp. 

Mu Qingfang is right there in his face immediately, fingers pressing firmly into both his temples, and his voice is level. “Shang-shixiong?”

The blessed apathy is completely absent. Shang Qinghua feels the panic and terror and anxiety from earlier all come rushing back to the forefront, and he suddenly remembers why him being here, being checked over like this, is bad, actually. 

So he jerks back, struggling. He reaches up to grab Mu Qingang’s wrist and tries to rip them away from his head, but he in the moment completely disregards his shattered bone, which takes its cue to viciously remind him of its presence right then. 

He flinches, and curls inward, drawing his wrist into the protective circle of his chest and good arm, and chokes on the breathless sound of pain that tears itself from his throat. 

“Carefully, there,” Mu Qingfang belatedly warns him, his voice gentle, careful in the way that one might address a wounded animal. It’s almost belittling, Shang Qinghua thinks, because he’s fine. 

Sure, it hurts in a frankly breathtaking way, but Shang Qinghua has had worse, and he’d dealt with it all on his own. He can take care of this himself. 

“No.” He stammers, trying fruitlessly to pull away. “No! I — I can… I’m fine!”

“Stop lying!” Shen Qingqiu replies, sounding furious and looking even more so, as if he is seconds away from ripping Shang Qinghua’s hands off his body himself. 

It makes him cringe away, redundantly, stupidly, his heart battering at his ribs like the running feet of a rabbit, and he sees Shen Qingqiu’s face go flat. 

“You’re not fine,” he then says, the fury coating his words from before tightly contained. In a way, it’s almost more cutting than if he’d fully unleashed it. “You’re hurt and your qi is clearly in great distress. Take it from me, you’re going to want Qingfang to help you. You should know by now how efficient he is—”

“No,” Mu Qingfang interrupts, brows furrowed as he wraps hands coated in a layer of glistening qi around Shang Qinghua’s injury. “I’ve never seen him in Qian Cao before.”

Shang Qinghua looks up from beneath his lashes, watching how these words cause a strange, foreboding expression to fall across Shen Qingqiu’s face. 

“Is that so,” is all he says, after a long and stifling pause. 

“Xia — Qingqiu-shidi?” A new voice that’s vaguely familiar asks, and that’s Yue Qingyuan stepping hesitantly into the fray. His intense gaze travels, from his childhood friend to Mu Qingfang, and then lingering for a few long, stretching moments on Shang Qinghua before returning to Shen Qingqiu. 

The Qing Hing head disciple regards him with a brief look of scorn, which causes Yue Qingyuan to close his eyes in the face of it, but then his cold eyes are back to boring a hole into the side of Shang Qinghua’s head, and Shang Qinghua feels ice crawling up his spine in a way so reminiscent of the chilly North realm that for a moment he cannot recall where exactly he is, again. 

He clenches his jaw shut, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears that sting them. Choked up, he doesn’t even trust himself to breathe for fear of accidentally letting out any of the stressed or injured or pathetic sounds that are currently fighting each other to climb up and out of his throat. 

“Stop that,” Mu Qingfang’s voice. 

A warm palm fits itself lightly against Shang Qinghua’s throat, a thimbleful of qi gathered in its center and ready to be deployed, and Shang Qinghua throws himself wildly away from the threat to his life before he can even wonder at what he’s doing. 

The motion causes him to fall off the chair — which actually belongs to Shen Qingqiu, why is he sitting in it?! — and two strong arms catch him around the torso, pinning both his arms to his sides. Shang Qinghua freezes. 

“Stop fighting,” Liu Qingge’s voice. “You’re safe.”

“No.” Shang Qinghua hysterically responds before he can stop himself. This sect and all its cruel disciple siblings and masters who only pretend to care. The demon realm and all of its dire consequences for the slightest thing. This world . The system, in the face of even breathing wrong . “I’m never safe.”

Nobody seems to have a response to that. 

He’s lifted back up into the chair, and Liu Qingge releases him, but doesn’t step away. Instead he stays, hovering beside the chair, looming over him, and Shang Qinghua curls inward, swallowing thickly the sour taste that’s invaded his mouth. 

“Yue-shixiong,” Shen Qingqiu says, levelly. It sounds like a demand. 

“... Qingqiu-shidi,” is the reply, and it sounds like an agreement, slow and arduous.

Shang Qinghua almost wants to laugh. He’s never met either of these two for more than five minutes in his life until now, but he already knows more about them than they know about each other. 

How is it, then, that despite being at such drastic odds, having been torn apart and separated by fate itself, misunderstanding one another in such a painfully complete way, they still can so easily communicate without the need for words? When Shang Qinghua knows almost everything about everyone here, and still cannot speak how he wants to?

It’s not fair. 

The doors open, then, and Shang Qinghua suddenly remembers Mu Qingfang’s order to fetch his Shizun. His lungs fill with ice. No. 

“I’m fine,” he desperately reiterates, not wanting to look but turning to send a wide glance over his shoulder. 

What he sees there makes him, for a second that feels like a minute, lose his mind. 

It’s not just Yaozhi-shishu. Shui Qingyu had only been sent to get Yaozhi-shishu. But now he scrambles back into the hall, with more than just Yaozhi-shishu on his tail. 

No, that’s Yaozhi-shishu alright, whose arrival makes Mu Qingfang immediately relax. Shang Qinghua could never even imagine being able to relax like that. How can he?!  

Because behind Yaozhi-shishu, are the other peak lords — is his Shizun, whose face is already twisting into a mix of exasperation, disappointment, and irritation the very moment he takes in the scene of the room. 

The ice in Shang Qinghua’s lungs abruptly drops, coating the inside of his stomach with something acidic and sharp. Bile tickles the very back of his throat. 

No. 

No, no, no. 

“A-Fang, what is this?” Yaozhi-shishu asks sternly. 

He’d entered the room with an expression of focus, ready for whatever could have caused such commotion at the first meeting amongst the Sect’s head disciples. Now that he’s taken in the scene, just as Shang Qinghua’s Shizun has, his face is set into a neutral frown. Distant. Already intent on leaving, because obviously there’s nothing wrong here and he was called on a fluke. 

Shang Qinghua curls around his stupid broken wrist. He should have just skipped the meeting. Shizun would have been furious, sure, but anything was better than this clusterfuck. He should have hidden in his leisure house and tended to his wrist himself. In a few days it would be fine, if not healed then sufficient enough not to completely hinder him. He should have run away. 

He didn’t mean to cause problems again. 

He presses the palm of his good hand over his mouth, staring down at his knees. He’s freezing, which doesn’t make sense as it’s the middle of summer and they’re nowhere near the North. 

They’re nowhere near the North, but Shang Qinghua might as well die today anyway. 

The system is nowhere to be heard, and it’s lack of warning messages is making Shang Qinghua tremble, sick to his stomach. He feels like there is an invisible blade held against his neck, pressing into the skin just enough to draw blood. What kind of punishment would he be given, to accidentally deviate the prequel plot so badly? 

The underside of his arms are slick with sweat, clammy, and Shang Qinghua would rather be anywhere but here. 

“I need help,” Mu Qingfang says, sending a brief confused glance toward the other peak lords, who hadn’t been called but had come anyway, before focusing back on his teacher. “I’m not yet at the level to deal with this on my own.”

“And what is this?” Yaozhi-shishu asks, sounding tired.

Mu Qingfang opens his mouth, and pauses. He looks bewildered at his teacher’s uncharacteristic response. He looks like he’s beginning to realize something else is going on. 

Of course it is. Shang Qinghua is causing problems again, messing up the plot, and annoying their teachers with his inability to take care of himself. His inability to stay out of trouble. 

He’s sorry, okay? He’s sorry. He wants to go home. He’s sorry. 

“Ah,” Mu Qingfang gestures toward him. Shang Qinghua curls inward, trying to make himself as small as possible as if that’ll stop them from seeing him. 

Off to the side, Shen Qingqiu looks near apoplectic. 

“Shang Qinghua’s qi is experiencing an imbalance.”

“Did he say that?” Yaozhi-shishu asks, exasperatedly, and Mu Qingfang takes a small step back, eyes widening. “Why did he not bring this to Qian Cao, then? He will find help there.”

There’s a long moment of silence where nobody speaks. None of the peak lords look happy to be there, and each of the head disciples present seem to be experiencing some level of revelation as they take in the various expressions of annoyance, indifference, and boredom on their teachers’ faces. 

Shang Qinghua feels cold. He’s going to be sick. He swallows, and swallows again, but the thick lump of panic that sits at the top of his throat refuses to budge. He might just cry. 

“If A-Hua is feeling unwell once again,” his own Shizun finally says, an exasperated smile at the edge of his mouth, like it’s some big inside joke, and the fond term of address makes Shang Qinghua’s skin crawl. “Then, he should have told us, hm?”

Shang Qinghua closes his eyes and bows his head. 

He wishes that Mobei Jun had broken his neck, instead of his wrist. 

Chapter Text

Shang Qinghua is shaking underneath his hand, and Mu Qingfang has to force himself to breathe a few moments through the all-consuming fury that is suddenly coursing through him. Because, the peak lord can’t mean — surely he doesn’t — that… that….

He tightens his grip, fingers curling into his shixiong’s shoulder. 

“He did, though,” he says, quietly, realizing, and Shang Qinghua’s entire body goes tense beside in his chair. At his shoulder, Liu Qingge is alert, watching their teachers like he would watch a threat. 

My Qingfang swallows down the truly animalistic growl that wants to climb up his throat and lunge out at his own masters.

“Qingfang?” His Shizun asks, a light frown on his face. “What was that?”

Absolutely none of the quiet concern that usually hides behind his professional expression, whenever one of their sect members are harmed, is anywhere to be seen. In fact, the man seems entirely exasperated and done with the conversation. It makes — It makes Mu Qingfang’s blood boil.

“He did t—” Abruptly, the head disciple of Qian Cao closes his eyes and decides that a different tactic is necessary, because words are clearly not enough for their teachers.

It’s disappointing. So viciously disappointing that Mu Qingfang wants to throw up.

Beside him, Shang Qinghua is near vibrating with a very palpable sort of terror. It’s astonishing — no, downright incredulous that none of the peak lords seems to catch on to it. He presses down with his hand and his shixiong — his trembling shixiong, who according to what little he knows of him is the youngest in the room — goes as still as a statue.

He opens his eyes again to find everyone looking at him curiously, but Mu Qingfang just narrows a severe stare upon his own shizun. 

“Scan him.” He says.

His shizun sighs. “A-Fang—”

Mu Qingfang snarls, and the room goes still. His mentor’s eyes widen slightly, but Mu Qingfang can’t find it in himself to care because —

Because how dare he use such a fond and familiar address with him after he has disappointed Mu Qingfang in such a massive and devastating way.

He pushes Shang Qinghua into the seat that the boy is attempting to subtly vacate, and stands up to step away. 

“Scan. Him.” Mu Qingfang says through his teeth, and just barely remembers to add on the “Shizun.”

Shizun stares at him, and for a long, desperate, helpless — enraging moment, Mu Qingfang breathlessly thinks his teacher is going to refuse , and the notion makes him want to laugh in hysteria.

How dare he.

“Very well,” his Shizun finally acquises, and Yaomei-shibo — if he even deserves the title — immediately gives the man a tired look.

“Yaozhi-shidi, don’t tell me you’re actually humouring this!” The man says, exasperation thick on his tone, and every head disciple in the room bristles at it.

Except Shang Qinghua, who is frozen in whatever level of horror he’s experiencing now, and Mu Qingfang, who is —

The rage in his throat is so thick he can’t even speak.

“You know how my boy gets—!”

“Oh,” Shen Qingqiu says, voice coated in such a saccharine layer of false sweetness that it makes Mu Qingfang’s teeth ache. “Your boy? And how, pray tell, does your boy get?”

Shang Qinghua curls in on himself and buries his face into his hands, entire body wracked with minute tremors, and the edges of Mu Qingfang’s vision starts bleeding the faintest of reds when all the boy’s shizun does is sigh with a touch of theatrics.

“My head disciple has always been a little bit of an attention seeker, Shen-shizhi,” Mo Yaomei says, voice a jovial tone that doesn’t fit the current situation at all. “I’m sure you’ll notice soon enough, but I suppose it’s a good idea to let you all know ahead of time so he doesn’t catch any of you in one of his games. We wouldn’t want anyone to be made to feel foolish, isn’t that right, A-Hua?”

At the address, Shang Qinghua flinches and curls in on himself in a way that has to make his very spine smart. It makes Yaomei-shibo shake his head in a long suffering way. It makes horror well up within Mu Qingfang’s stomach. 

“Ah, A-Hua, I think it’s time to stop now. You don’t have any of us fooled, you see? Silly boy, all your martial uncles and aunts already know how your stories get.”

“Shut up,” Shen Qingqiu barks, and Mu Qingfang is relieved when he turns and sees that the abrasive and cold boy’s hackles seem to be raised up in full effect. 

He swallows down the saliva that is pooling in his mouth. Mu Qingfang is struck by the sudden urge to walk over to his shishu and rip Mo Yaomei’s trachea out with his own fingers. His hands shake with the effort he is expending to keep them down at his sides. 

He’s never in his life felt such a desire for violence. 

“A-Jiu!” The Qing Jing lord admonishes, voice gentle yet stern.

But Shen Qingqiu is having absolutely none of it. He takes measured, unhurried steps forward, gait smooth yet with a deadly grace. Despite the fact that they all have at least a head over Shen Qingqiu’s height, the peak lords take a collective step back, and Mu Qingfang wants to laugh.

Instead, he sits back down beside his shixiong, hand grasping firmly the boy’s shoulder, and presses their legs together. Warmth seeps into his thigh, emanating off of Shang Qinghua like a hot summer day when the sun is at its peak in a cloudless and unprotected sky. It’s altogether concerning, and Mu Qingfang wishes he’d thought to bring his medical kit with him. He hadn’t considered that he’d be using it at something as routine as a head disciple meeting, but he could do with a few fever reducer pills right about now. 

“You’re trying to tell me that you think he’s lying.” Shen Qingqiu is saying, and his voice is so full of scorn and dark, mocking amusement that it takes their teachers a moment to gather their words for a reply. 

“Shen-shizhi, you’ll come to know your martial brother in time, and realize for yourself how he can be.” Su Yaobing, Ju Qingsong’s shizun, says placatingly, a bemused smile on her face. “For now, we only thought a warning might be in good conscience—”

“Conscience?” Liu Qingge loudly asks, practically choking with incredulousness. “What conscience?”

The Bai Zhan head disciple hasn’t moved and inch from his vigil beside their silent, hurt shixiong, and he reaches forward now to grab Shang Qinghua by the shoulders and haul him up against him, pressing the shivering boy to his chest while he directs a scowl at their teachers. Shang Qinghua lets out a breathless, wheezing sound of shock, and Mu Qingfang is just able to make out the expression of helpless shock and bewilderment and fear on his face before he turns to hide it against Liu Qingge’s shoulder.

“Liu-shizhi—”

“Fuck you!” Liu Qingge growls out, his free hand flying to the hilt of his sword. At the back of the gathered peak lords, Mu Qingfang can see his martial brother’s Shizun close his eyes as if in pain. “How can you stand there and say that to our faces when he’s sitting here having a goddamn qi deviation as we speak?”

Yaomei-shibo’s face falls. For a moment, Mu Qingfang feels vindicated, thinking that perhaps the man is finally listening, but then he opens his mouth, and—

“Again, Qinghua? Haven’t I told you that this one is in poor taste?”

Mu Qingfang’s vision flashes white hot. He surges to his feet, and now the one who is trembling is him. 

“Again?” He whispers. He clenches his hands into fists tightly enough that he can feel his nails drawing blood “ Again ? This—This has happened before ?!”

His Shizun waves a hand at him, as if it’s supposed to placate him, but all it is is dismissive. And Mu Qingfang really does feel like he’s about to be sick.

“Shang-shizhi has claimed qi deviation a few times before this, A-Fang. He used to do it more often when he was younger, but over time he’s begun to cotton on to the realization that it is not something that one should joke about.”

“It’s been a while since this one cropped up,” Yaomei-shibo says, thoughtfully frowning at his head disciple, who is tightly wound and hiding in Liu Qingge’s arms. 

The Bai Zhan disciple wears an expression of horror that is echoed in the faces of all their martial siblings, as they all watch as this conversation — confrontation proceeds.

Shen Qingqiu is white and looking as close to apoplectic as his graceful and cold facade will allow him to, but Mu Qingfang steps forward.

“Shizun.” He says, again. “Scan him.”

His teacher sighs, and begins to walk forward. Slowly, as if he’s dragging his feet — as if, if it were not Mu Qingfang demanding it, he wouldn’t agree to do so at all. As if he’s only doing it now because he wants to prove a point to them.

Mu Qingfang’s scowl deepens into a vicious glare, because if he doesn’t then he knows that he will cry. 

“Shizun,” he says, choked, as his mentor — the man who had raised him, who had taught Mu Qingfang how precious life was, who had drilled into him that no case should ever go untreated for any reason — sidles up beside them.

The man glances down at him, eyebrow raised with his hand half held out but not yet touching Shang Qinghua, and Mu Qingfang doesn’t recognize him .

“A-Fang?”

He swallows down bile, and says, “Please, do it seriously.”

His Shizun blinks, taken aback. “As if I would ever not—!”

“ Shizun ,” Mu Qingfang begs, and a glint enters his teacher's eye. As if something is dawning upon the man, finally, just slightly. It’s enough. It has to be enough. “ Please , take it seriously.”

With reluctance lining his shoulders — he can see Yaomei-shibo back with the rest of their peak lords, who all look a second away from rolling their eyes like the An Ding lord actually does , amused half smiles on all their faces— his teacher nods. 

“Alright, A-Fang. I promise that I will.”

Mu Qingfang trembles, and then steps back.

—

Liu Qingge is seconds away from commiting his first actual murder. 

For a moment, he is convinced that his shishu lied to Mu Qingfang about taking the scan seriously. The man sits himself down, tells Liu Qingge to hold his shixiong still. Shang Qinghua is shaking in plain terror , and Liu Qingge is at a loss as to why their teachers seem to be blind to it. 

Yaozhi-shibo opens his eyes. He sits back and stares down at Shang Qinghua. His face is entirely blank, and Liu Qingge can’t tell what he’s thinking. It’s almost as if he isn’t, like there isn’t a single thought going through his mind. The other peak lords seem to agree, because they frown at their martial brother.

“Yaozhi-shidi?”

The Qian Cao lord doesn’t answer. He removes his hand from Shang Qinghua’s wrist. He leans forward, reaches up with both hands to press his fingers into Shang Qinghua’s temples, and closes his eyes again.

Liu Qingge might just vibrate out of his own skin. How bad is it? Mu Qingfang had reacted with horror, and Mu Qingfang has admittedly seen a lot — but not as much as his own Shizun. 

He glances at his martial brother, only to find Mu Qingfang staring at the proceedings with a dark look. Part of his expression seems almost pleased, as if he’s acquired a small sort of victory, but behind that all is an absolutely wretched look made up of the same grief and rage and sour disappointment that Liu Qingge is feeling in regard to his own teacher right now.

They have failed them. One of their teachers has made an egregious error, over and over again, and hurt one of his own students, over and over again , and all of the other peak lords had helped him to do so, out of willful ignorance or just plain negligence, over and over again.

Liu Qingge tastes blood on his tongue. 

Yaozhi-shibo stands up without a word. He stares down at Shang Qinghua with shadowed eyes, face blank but an ocean of emotions rolling behind them, and Liu Qingge knows that he’s finally realized the severity of what has happened. 

Unfortunately for Yaomei-shibo, the An Ding Lord has not, and neither have the rest of the peak lords, who all frown at their healer brother as if they’re just now sensing that something is wrong. 

Liu Qingge glances at his own martial siblings, finding that they all wear expressions of pain — pursed lips and closed eyes, bared teeth in some cases and furrowed brows of varying degrees. Shen Qingqiu in particular is staring at Yaozhi-shibo with a darkly amused expression that does nothing to hide his persisting rage. 

“... Yaozhi?”

The doctor raises his head. He turns away from Shang Qinghua — who has yet to come out of hiding in Liu Qingge’s shoulder, and he tightens his arms around him just to be sure — and begins to walk back to the gathered peak lords. 

He comes to a stop before Mo Yaomei, who is finally beginning to look correctly anxious, and stares with an unchanging neutral expression. 

Yaomei-shibo purses his lips. “Yaozhi—”

“You told me,” Feng Yaozhi begins calmly, “that it was nothing.”

The room is silent. 

“You told me it was nothing . Every single time Shang-shizhi came in with a claim to an injury.”

For the first time since walking in, Yaomei-shibo wears a serious expression. “... What is it, shidi? You found something?”

Yaozhi-shibo takes a moment to pause. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. Liu Qingge can feel anxiety making his bones vibrate like the vocal cords of a Banshee Phoenix. 

“Every single time, it was made out to be some convoluted story.” Yaozhi-shibo’s voice cracks, and Liu Qingge sees Mu Qingfang flinch. 

The doctor lets out a sharp sounding laugh, like broken glass. He lowers his head to cradle his face in his hands. “And every single time , I believed you.”

The An Ding peak lord steps forward, eyes wide and one hand reached out toward his martial brother. There’s a look of deep apprehension as he glances over to look at where his head disciple is crumpled, still and unmoving in Liu Qingge’s arms.

Liu Qingge, for his part, frowns as he suddenly realizes that Shang Qinghua had stopped shaking a number of minutes ago. Had Yaozhi-shibo done something to help calm him during the scan?

“Shidi,” Yaomei-shibo says, voice tight with something Liu Qingge can’t identify. “Are you saying there’s actually something wrong with him, this time?”

“ This time?” Yaozhi-shibo lets out a laugh, and it’s an ugly sound. All his martial siblings reel back from him, their faces all wearing the same expression of dawning horror. “I found the fractures in his ribs from when he said he'd been crushed underneath a cart.”

Yaomei-shibo’s jaw drops. “Wh—?”

“That was seven years ago?” Liu Qingge’s own Shizun finally pushes his way forward, a fierce glower on his face. His teeth are bared. “That was seven years ago!”

“They’re healed now, but,” Yaozhi-shibo shakes his head with a half smile that holds absolutely no humor in it, “they... could have healed better. They press down on his lungs in a way that constructs his breathing, so I find it unsurprising that he’d often complain of being short of breath… before he stopped coming to Qian Cao at all.”

Mu Qingfang stirs. His expression is a blank surface of fury. 

“Ah? He stopped.” It’s not a question but a demand for an explanation, and everyone can hear it.

The medic’s teacher closes his eyes. “Shang Qinghua hasn’t been in to visit my peak in… I don’t know. Years, probably. I can’t believe it never struck me as odd. He likely figured it was useless, after….” The man swallows. “After being turned away so many times before. After not being believed, when he — Gods. Heavens forgive me.”

Mo Yaomei’s face is white. “Th-Then… All the other times….”

Yaozhi-shibo’s eyes snap open. He regards all of his martial siblings, but keeps a close look toward the pale An Ding lord. “Broken bones that healed adequately but not perfectly. I suspect they were all self-tended to. There’s scar tissue on the inside of his throat and lungs, and I haven’t looked close enough to tell from what, but it was obviously agonizing and happened years ago, yet still during his time as a disciple. His left leg is weakened due to a tear in the knee joint that looks like it was due to some sort of impalement, which will take extensive surgery to fix. I’d say that one looks perhaps five years old — just around the time he returned from that failed mission with the merchant cartel. The one he was punished solely for, because he was the only one who came back unscathed, and we had assumed he’d run off to leave his disciple siblings to face the attack alone?”

“And none of his fellow disciples said shit in his defence?” Ju Qingsong demands loudly, inserting himself in with a look of outrage on his face, and suddenly all the other head disciples have stepped forward and are unleashing their own displeasure. 

Yelling voices bounce off the curved, cavernous walls and ceiling of the meeting hall, making a great cacophony as the disciples advance furiously upon their pale and horrified masters. 

Liu Qingge tunes out the horrified and guilt-ridden reactions of his martial family around him. It’s not that he isn’t enraged, and it’s not that he isn’t viciously vindicated on behalf of his shixiong for things finally being brought to light, it’s just —

Shang Qinghua hasn’t moved a muscle in a good few minutes now. 

Time is breathing onward in the slowest of increments, and yet Liu Qingge can barely feel the way that the boy’s chest moves up and down as he breathes — irregularly, and there’s no wonder about the cause of that with what Yaozhi had just revealed, is there? He’s gotten heavier as this confrontation continued, until Liu Qingge feels like he’s holding all of Shang Qinghua’s weight for him. 

He puts a hand into his shixiong’s shoulder and carefully lifts him up just a little, enough to see. Liu Qingge ducks his head down to get a look at his shixiong’s face, and feels a icy spear of cold lance straight down into his core. Shang Qinghua’s eyes are closed, and there’s a trail of red smeared against the skin just under his nose. Liu Qingge can feel it’s tackiness on his own neck, where the other boy had hidden his face. 

“There are several scars from multiple different instances of resistance against confinement,” Yaozhi-shibo-shibo continues to lay it all out for everyone’s increasing horror. “His wrist is indeed broken, that happened just today , and his meridians— !”

The doctor cuts himself off with a croak, and turns to once again bury his face into his hands.

Liu Qingge stares down at the martial brother he holds — protectively now, he realizes — in his arms. He quickly grabs for the younger cultivator’s hand, sliding their palms flat together, and begins channeling in a steady but careful stream of his own qi to nudge quietly and insistently at Shang Qinghua’s — which, he quickly finds, is a roiling, silently screaming mess. 

Shang Qinghua reminds him of one of his cousins. Weak and pitiful, not because they have no drive to better themselves or become stronger, but simply because they… can’t. Past a certain point of exertion, Liu Qingge’s cousin would fall sick. Without fail, every time. All the doctors that their family have contracted over the years have said the same thing — they don’t know what the cause is, but if his cousin tries to push himself past his limits, he will surely die.

Liu Qingge wonders what the state of Shang Qinghua’s cultivation is at this point, after apparently suffering recurrent deviations that were never even treated, as well as suffering a teacher who allegedly did not care enough to take his student seriously.

It’s a wonder, truly astonishing, perhaps even a miracle, that Shang Qinghua had managed to form the golden core spinning sluggishly inside his chest. 

He threads his fingers through his shixiong’s, and squeezes, continuing to feed the other his qi as he watches with the eyes of a hawk the way that Yaomei-shibo haltingly advances, one step forward toward his martial brother and one step toward where Liu Qingge is holding the man’s motionless head disciple. As if Yaomei-shibo is trying to decide whom he should rush to the comfort of. 

Stay away from Shang Qinghua, Liu Qingge thinks viciously at his shibo, and looks up to send a wide eyed stare toward his own martial brother. Mu Qingfang is too busy watching the mess that their teachers and siblings have descended into to catch his eyes. 

Liu Qingge sucks in a shaky breath. In his arms, Shang Qinghua is still as a corpse. 

“Shidi, please,” Yaomei-shibo is desperately saying, reaching out toward his martial brother. “What’s wrong with A-Hua?”

“Don’t you call him that,” Yaozhi-shibo snaps back, looking emotional for the first time in Liu Qingge’s experience. “None of us has the right — ! ”

Liu Qingge can’t.  

“Qingfang!” He shouts out over the racket of his siblings tearing into their own teachers with vicious motivation. “Qingfang, something’s wrong!”

This quiets them all, and several pairs of eyes snap toward him and then down to the young head disciple he holds in his arms, before they all widen. Mu Qingfang rushes forward to kneel beside him, one hand flying to Shang Qinghua’s wrist.

“Qingge, what’s—” Mu Qingfang asks, and then freezes as he lets some of his qi trickle into Shang Qinghua’s pathways. He turns to his mentor, desperation clear upon his features and voice high in an uncharacteristic panic. “Shizun, I — Shizun, please , I can’t. I can’t —!”

To Feng Yaozhi’s credit, he snaps back into the role of a professional healer with no time to waste. In a blink, he’s thrown himself down beside his head disciple and presses both his hands over Shang Qinghua’s temples, brow furrowed furiously. 

There’s a brief moment, and then the doctor curses loudly.

“Yaozhi-shidi?” Mo Yaomei sounds terrified, and — Good. 

No, none of this is good, Liu Qingge thinks, half-hysterical as he helps Yaozhi-shibo haul Shang Qinghua’s limp body up. His younger martial brother has been abused for years and he’d just laid possibly dying in Liu Qingge’s arms, and he might just die anyway—

But. It serves Yaomei-shibo right, the terror that the man is experiencing, he fiercely amends. It serves all the peak lords right. 

They’ve failed so monumentally. Liu Qingge won’t be able to trust any them with his martial siblings again, and the very thought makes him sick to his stomach, but—

Disappointment. Helpless, incredulous, acidic disappointment. He can barely swallow it down. It heats his limbs so terribly that he feels numb to his bones. He pulls out his sword to step upon its blade. 

“His qi is — he’s truly deviating.” Yaozhi-shibo says, simply, eyes already ahead to where the medical peak sits. “This is — frankly, the second worst case I’ve ever seen before.”

There is, oddly enough, a pointed glance toward the head disciple of Qiong Ding. Yue Qingyuan is deathly pale, eyes wide and furious. Shen Qingqiu’s eyes dart between the two of them before narrowing with a vicious stare. 

The words themselves punch the air out of all of them, and there’s a loud flurry of metal against sheathes as they all alight upon their swords. 

“A-Fa — Qingfang. We need to get him into the operating room quickly. This needs to be soothed before it causes complications that cannot be rectified.”

Mu Qingfang’s face falls completely blank, with a strict control that is impressive to Liu Qingge, who knows for certain that every single one of his own emotions are displayed clearly upon his face for all to see — as they’ve always been. The Qian Cao head disciple clicks his heel against his blade’s hilt, nothing but determination in his eyes. 

“Yes, Shizun.” He says.

Liu Qingge adjusts his grip on his shixiong, giving Yaozhi-shibo a narrow look when the man tries to reach for him. The peak lord backs off, an unreadable expression on his face, mouth a flat line, but doesn’t try again.

“Channel qi into his outer meridians.” The doctor says instead, leveled. “Stay away from the dantian . Foreign and inexperienced qi is the last upset it needs.”

Their swords rise into the air, and Liu Qingge focuses all his attention to his two new top priorities.

One: get Shang Qinghua into a Qian Cao operation room as quickly as possible. 

Two: ensure that he doesn’t die on the way there. 

He draws in a shaky breath, fingers pressed into the curve of his shixiong’s uninjured wrist with enough force to bruise. He pushes his qi in, and is nearly sick at the sheer pandemonium that he encounters there. 

No wonder Qingfang and his Shizun are so frantic. Hell, Liu Qingge is frantic. He spurs his sword to go even faster, and sets toward doing his best to smooth down the spiking edges of Shang Qinghua’s qi to the best of his ability. Which isn’t exactly prodigious, he probably should have let Yaozhi-shibo take him, but —

It’s irrational, but Liu Qingge can’t help but not trust the man. Or any of their masters, for that matter. They’d just proven themselves to be threats instead of allies, where the safety of Liu Qingge’s martial siblings is concerned.

It feels like white, hot betrayal.

Now is not the time to ponder this disappointment and hurt, though. He has to stay levelheaded for Shang Qinghua. He has to be fast enough and good enough to calm the vicious, bristling, roiling waves of Shang Qinghua’s outer qi. 

He has to be enough. 

He cannot fail Shang Qinghua like he has been failed already. 

Chapter Text

<<Deviation in plot detected.>>

Shang Qinghua clenches his jaw, squeezing his eyes shut so tightly that he sees spots flash behind his lids, but the message doesn’t even waver. The system’s monotone voice echoes mockingly inside his head, where only he can hear it, and no amount of pretending to sleep will deter it. He knows that. 

After all these years, he knows that. 

<<Host must ensure the plot.>>

That’s so fucking helpful, when Shang Qinghua has no idea what’s wrong. How is he suppose to fix it if he doesn’t know what’s wrong?

He just knows that it’s his fault. Probably. 

It usually is. 

With a quiet groan he opens his eyes, squinting against the bright sunlight that filters in through the window.

His entire body is sore. He feels like he’s been hit by a truck, or perhaps a particularly burly Bai Zhan disciple. Even the joints of his fingers ache, down to the last knuckle, and Shang Qinghua bewilderingly wonders what happened. Hadn’t he been at —

He jerks upright, sitting up despite every inch of him screaming at him to lie back down. A quiet noise of pain escapes his mouth, and he claps a hand over it out of instinct. He eyes the door of the room he’s in — a Qian Cao infirmary room, if he had to guess — and lets out a shaky sigh of relief when nobody opens the door to investigate. 

Though, why would they? 

Shang Qinghua scrubs wearily at his face with his palms. There’s a crust at the corners of his eyes, he must have been out for longer than he thought. Likely not more than two or three days, though, which is a great relief. Any longer than that and the backlog of paperwork would be nightmarish. As it is, it will only take an all nighter or two to get the workload back on track. 

A plan to return to his routine duties in place, Shang Qinghua relaxes a bit. He opens his eyes and glances around the room. And finds out it’s not as empty as he’d thought. 

“Shizun!” He gasps, straightening his posture as best as his still screaming body will allow, and cupping his hands before him. 

“Qinghua,” his teacher says quietly. 

Oh, whole name. Not even A-Hua. He’d prefer that, to be honest, even if the nickname makes his skin crawl like ants. Whole name means that Shang Qinghua done fucked up. 

What the hell is he doing here? The man had never visited Shang Qinghua in Qian Cao, and that was before Shang Qinghua had learned how to treat himself so he would stop taking up the infirmary beds of those who require them more. But here he is, taking up space that would be better given to someone who actually needs it, and here Shizun is… staring at him. 

Shit. Shit, what had happened at the meeting? 

No, no. He knows what he did. And he’d known that his shizun would be upset. 

He just. Hadn’t expected Shizun to be this upset. 

Anxiety strangles Shang Qinghua’s throat, and he can’t stop himself from inching back as far as the bed will allow him to. The sheets bunched around his legs feel like iron restraints, and he swallows. 

Something in shizun’s expression shutters, and Shang Qinghua flinches. Shoving aside the repeatedly blaring alert from the system, his thoughts whirr wildly while he tries to come up with some sort of explanation for his most recent fuck up, but there’s nothing. His mind is blank, and he panics. 

“Sorry,” he gasps, bowing toward his teacher as best he can while confined to a bed. His arms are shaky and weak when he brings them up to clasp before him. “Sh-Shizun, this disciple is — is — this disciple apologizes for disappointing Shizun!”

His teacher stares at him like he’s never seen him before, eyes wide in a startled expression. There’s a paleness to his face, and Shang Qinghua wretchedly wonders what sort of comments about his head disciple the man had to put up with from his fellow peak lords after the shitshow that was the preliminary head disciple meeting. How much face had An Ding lost in the eyes of its sister peaks? All because of Shang Qinghua’s inability to deal with simple problems. 

“Q—Qinghua,” his teacher says, stumbling over his name, and bitterness fills Shang Qinghua’s mouth. 

Ah, his shizun can’t even say his name. The man is surely furious. 

He ducks his head, trying to hide behind his bangs as much as he can without his posture becoming disrespectful, and fuck. Why can’t he stop shaking? His limbs feel like jello, weak and unable to support him. 

“This one apologizes.” He whispers, and then — since he’s a head disciple now, Shizun must want him to admit to his own failings like a big kid instead of the teacher himself having to dish it out — he forces himself to say, “Accepting punishment for this one’s wrongs, Shizun.”

“Qinghua,” his Shizun croaks out, and Shang Qinghua finally lifts his head up, confused. 

Shit, was he doing it wrong? No, he’s gotten used to accepting the consequences of his own actions in these past years. So, why does his teacher seem so shocked?

Maybe he wasn’t as diligent as he’d thought? 

“Shizun…?” He risks hedging, letting his confusion show on his face. There isn’t anything for it — he can’t fix his behavior when he doesn’t know what to fix about it. 

“Qinghua, I — this teacher — you….” Shizun struggles for a moment, before releasing a shaky sigh and palming tiredly at his face, words falling to a halt. 

The bottom of Shang Qinghua’s stomach drops out, and dread begins to crawl up from his lungs. Had he gone too far, this time? What was Shizun about to demote him? Shang Qinghua will admit he isn’t the best head disciple — there are so many other good picks on An Ding who would be far better than him, and Shang Qinghua constantly feels guilty over having stolen their chances from them, but —

<<Character Shang Qinghua must be head disciple of An Ding peak.>>

I know, Shang Qinghua thinks frantically back, staring at his teacher in open terror. He clutches the sheets in between white knuckles, and then forcefully relaxes them. Showing any more weakness than he already has will not help his case here. It never has. 

<<Plot of world requires character Shang Qinghua to become An Ding peak lord. If character Shang Qinghua does not become An Ding peak lord, the plot will not progress in an acceptable direction.>>

I know.

<<If plot does not progress acceptably, Host will be removed from story and rejected from the system.>>

I know! Shang Qinghua cries hysterically, every muscle in his body tense in his terrified anticipation. I know what happens! You don’t have to keep telling me, I know!

Being rejected means being sent back to his original body, which is dead. 

And, no matter how guilty Shang Qinghua feels, no matter how much he doesn’t want to do most of the things the system tells him, he’s terrified of dying again. Dying is not fun. Dying hurts. Dying is scary. Dying is cold and more alone than he has ever felt even in both his extremely solitary lives, and Shang Qinghua doesn’t want to experience it ever again. 

His eyes water, and he stares desperately up at his Shizun, who stares back with an expression that Shang Qinghua absolutely cannot read. 

“What,” the man starts, and then clears his throat. Shang Qinghua flinches, and the expression on his teacher’s face twists minutely into something more… something more. “What is… Qinghua apologizing for?”

Okay. He’s making Shang Qinghua voice his mistakes himself instead of just telling him what he’s done wrong. A wholly acceptable disciplinary method. Shang Qinghua has been made to do this before, he knows how to do this. This is fine. He can — he can salvage this. 

He bows his head once again, keeping his body rigid so that it doesn’t collapse on him mid repentance. That would be embarrassing. He can’t afford it right now. 

“This disciple has disappointed Shizun.” He says, hating how his voice trembles with the words. “This — This disciple did not conduct himself properly at the head disciple meeting. This disciple was late to the head disciple meeting. This disciple did not finish the required paperwork before midday as Shizun said to. This disciple is slow and incompetent. Humbly requesting Shizun’s forgiveness.”

As he lists out his sins one by one, Shang Qinghua feels his body begin to grow cold. His hands, cupped before him, are shaking. He has, perhaps, fucked up too badly this time to be let off easily. 

“Sh-Shang Qinghua did not —!”

He winces at his teacher’s raised voice, certain of the man’s anger — he’d known he’d be upset, but he’d still tried to lighten the blow as much as he could despite knowing it would be futile, Shang Qinghua is so fucking stupid — and he’s horrified to find his eyes overflowing. Stop! Crying never helps! Crying always makes things worse! 

“This disciple,” he says, hiccuping through tears and hating every second of it, but if he misses anything now then Shizun would tell him afterwards himself and the punishment would be even greater. “H-Has failed An Ding. This disciple has not upheld the duties of head disciple well. This disciple —”

“Stop.” His teacher says, roughly, and Shang Qinghua freezes. “Shang Qinghua, stop.”

Clamming up immediately, Shang Qinghua shakily raises his head to stare up at his teacher with wide eyes, hoping that his terror is well hidden — but knowing from experience that it isn’t. He’s never been good at keeping his feelings away from his shizun’s sharp eyes. 

Instead of furious like he’d expected, though, Shang Qinghua’s teacher looks gutted. And Shang Qinghua rapidly has a long moment of hysterical realization, that no, this time it isn’t just anger, it isn’t just disappointment, it isn’t just his shizun not expecting much from him and being let down anyway. 

He has hurt shizun, today. Somehow, one of Shang Qinghua’s many, many fuck ups has not only toed the bottom line, but completely dug it up and laid it bare like a live wire. There is naked anguish right there in his teacher’s eyes — the teacher that had picked him and taken him under his wing, where the harsh and unforgiving life of the ancient imperialistic streets and underground crime rings and the slave alleys could not touch him — and Shang Qinghua has put it there. 

“No,” Shang Qinghua whines, releasing himself from his bow and covering his face with his hands. “No, Shizun, please, this one is so sorry, please — ”

He hates letting people down. He hates not meeting expectations. He hates that he can’t ever seem to do anything right. He just wants to do something right for once . 

His shizun gives a strangled sound. “Qinghua —”

The door slams open hard enough to careen open entirely against the wall with a second resounding bang, and they both jump. Shang Qinghua peeks through his fingers and the haze of his own tears to see a blurry figure a little bigger than himself storm into the room. 

“What are you doing here?” They demand, fury and rage in their voice. 

Shang Qinghu’s shizun starts. “Shizhi, I was only —”

“What the hell is he doing here?” The person points an accusing finger and turns to address another figure — rather, a group of other figures, who are clustered behind him, still in the doorway, and who titter nervously as they’re singled out. 

“He—! It’s… visiting hours, he was permitted—”

“I specifically ordered that no one was to be allowed within this room without my express permission.” The person snaps. “Do you have ears? A brain? Clearly not! I’ll send you to Qing Jing so you can grow one!”

“Ah, um, da-shixiong, that’s…? That’s his shizun….?”

“I don’t care if he’s the emperor themself, he has no place being in this room. Him especially.” The person has a deep scowl in his voice. He turns back to shizun. “You’re still here? Leave!”

“Now,” Shang Qinghua’s shizun takes a nervous breath, “that’s — that’s hardly the way to go about this, shizhi—”

“Get out of my infirmary —!”

“I was trying to apologize.” His shizun says, and Shang Qinghua’s mind goes blank. 

What?

“You have no place,” the angry person snarls, and holy fuck that’s Mu Qingfang. Why is Mu Qingfang snarling at his shizun?! That’s so out of character. 

“You think sorry will fix anything?” Someone else demands, and Liu Qingge shoves his way through the group of Qian Cao disciples that are huddled hesitantly in the doorway. 

He steps into the room and crosses it to stand beside Shang Qinghua’s bed, giving his shizun a glare so fierce and steely it’s like he’s facing a demonic cultivator instead of one of their peak lords. 

“You being here is only making it worse,” Liu Qingge sneers. “Don’t you have eyes? Can’t you see him? Look what you’ve done already.”

Shang Qinghua’s shizun is silent. He turns to look at him, and Shang Qinghua can see all sorts of emotions warring across the man’s face — grief, pain and guilt.

Shang Qinghua blinks, and tears break upon his lashes and slide down the already wet roads their predecessors have paved down his cheeks. His collar is damp. He feels humiliated, but also so, so confused. What the fuck is going on?

Mu Qingfang lets out a low growl that sounds like a warning. Again: what the fuck. 

“Get out!”

”I —”

“Yaomei,” a grave voice says, and all heads turn to the Qian Cao peak lord. Yaozhi-shishu has dismissed the group of disciples who’d been huddled there previously, and stands alone as he surveys the room, looking more exhausted than Shang Qinghua has ever seen him. 

“Yaozhi-shidi,” his shizun says, a plaintive tone to his voice.

Yaozhi-shishu shakes his head, giving his martial brother a severe look. “No. It’s best if you leave for now. If you want to visit later —”

“He will not.” Mu Qingfang snaps.

Yaozhi-shishu frowns down at his head disciple, but not nearly as strictly as the disrespect he’d just received demands. “Qingfang—”

“No.” Liu Qingge backs their martial sibling up, expression flat. “He will not.”

What beef did the head disciples suddenly have with the peak lords? Shang Qinghua hasn’t been unconscious for more than at least a day or two. What can happen in that amount of time?

Yaozhi-shishu stares down at the two disobedient head disciples for a long minute, and Shang Qinghua is momentarily convinced that the two boys are about to have their asses handed to them — for real though, he’d written them both way more filial than this! — but to his astonishment, the doctor peak lord’s shoulder slump. He turns back to Shang Qinghua’s anxiously silent shizun and his lips go thin. 

“Come with me,” is all the man says before turning on his heel and exiting the room. 

For a moment the man looks as if he might argue, but then his shizun bows his head, and Shang Qinghua watches in bewilderment as he follows Yaozhi-shishu out of the room without another word. 

“Qingfang will be the examiner.” He hears announced in the hall as the door slowly falls shut. 

“Sure as hell, it isn’t going to be you,” Mu Qingfang mutters, and he crosses over to the door and locks it shut behind the peak lords. 

Obviously, this is a fever dream. 

What else could it be, Shang Qinghua thinks in hysterics. Seriously, what’s going on? He is so confused he feels like crying, which is redundant because he’s already crying, like the absolutely useless wreck that he is. 

There’s a dip in the bed, and he jerks upright, hands falling away from his face in order to give a startled look toward Liu Qingge, who is sitting on the mattress beside him. The other boy has pinned him with a deeply thoughtful frown, and Shang Qinghua can feel the look crawl uneasily along his spine. 

“Here.” 

A soft, damp cloth is pressed against his cheek, and he flinches away from it, swinging around to find Mu Qingfang’s guilty expression. The boy’s voice is gentle, a very stark contrast to how he’d been speaking to their teachers just moments ago. 

“To… to clean your face,” the doctor apprentice explains needlessly, gesturing with the cloth. 

A moment passes, and then he holds it out toward Shang Qinghua instead. 

Shang Qinghua carefully takes it from him, and presses it against his tear-mottled skin. It’s nice and cool, and he feels the tension in his shoulders ease down a notch. With a sigh, and very conscious of how the two boys are still watching him, Shang Qinghua uses the cloth to wipe and scrub away the evidence of his own pathetic nature. 

When he’s finished, he’s not sure what to do with it. He doesn’t want to hand a dirtied rag back to Mu Qingfang and make the other boy deal with his mess, so he ends up curling his fingers around it until his knuckles are white and holding it against his throat, under his chin.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, gazing at the floor. 

Embarrassing. It’s so embarrassing that these two have seen him like this. What a great impression to make on your new martial siblings. 

Shang Qinghua is terrible at connecting with people. Why the hell was he chosen for this job?

“How are you feeling?” Mu Qingfang asks softly, eyes gentle. Liu Qingge doesn’t say anything, just watches. 

Shifting nervously in the sheets, Shang Qinghua finds an interesting design in the wood grain of the floor and examines it with all of his will. 

“I’m fine,” he says, keeping his voice light. 

“Don’t lie.” Liu Qingge murmurs, staring intently. 

His breath catching in his throat, Shang Qinghua winces. During the trainwreck of the meeting, had he let a little too much of himself show? 

On the bed, he edges away from the Bai Zhan disciple as unobtrusively as he could without appearing too rude, and says, “I mean; I’ll be okay.”

“Shang Qinghua,” Mu Qingfang says quietly, and Shang Qinghua closes his eyes in preparation for — for. For whatever his judgements his martial sibling has of him. 

There’s a pause. 

“Qinghua-shixiong,” Mu Qingfang starts again, and it’s so startling that Shang Qinghua blinks his eyes open and regards him with wide eyes. “You… do you remember what happened?”

“The head disciple meeting.” He answers promptly. After all, he isn’t stupid, just…. He isn’t stupid. “I was late. And… didn’t conduct myself appropriately. Apologies to shidi.”

Mu Qingfang and Liu Qingge both stare at him. 

Swallowing thickly, Shang Qinghua looks away from their gazes, and hurriedly adds. “M— Shizun was just going to discipline me, and this shixiong feels bad, s-so don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry?” Mu Qingfang echoes quietly, sounding startled.

“It won’t happen again,” Shang Qinghua explains as earnestly as he can, hoping to get through to them. He shrinks in on himself. “A-At least, I will… t-try my best not to… to….”

Liu Qingge abruptly stands up from the bed, and Shang Qinghua falls silent. He leans away from the other boy, eyes wide. 

“I think I will kill him after all.” Liu Qingge comments, Shang Qinghua stops breathing. 

What? Kill him? What had he done? He doesn’t think he’s done anything that would warrant his death, shidi! Shidi, we just met!

But then Liu Qingge turns and heads toward the door. So maybe he doesn’t mean Shang Qinghua? Then, who?

Mu Qingfang stops him with a sigh. “Qingge, we’ve been over this. We can’t kill the peak lords.”

!!!?

Excuse him?!

“Didn’t hear you disagreeing back in the meeting hall,” Liu Qingge grunts, but returns to the bed. He leans against the side of it this time, instead of sitting down. He crosses his arms and frowns. 

What! Gentle, doctor’s oath Mu Qingfang? Kill?

What alternate universe did Shang Qinghua wake up in?!

As scared of it as he is, he anxiously prods at the system in question. 

<<World state has not been changed from original mission.>>

So it’s still the same world?!

<<World state has remained unchanged.>>  

The system sounds as annoyed as it’s robotic voice will let it, and Shang Qinghua has long since learned not to poke the bear, so he abandons his line of questioning and settles himself in for just remaining completely confused. 

If it’s the same world, then why is everyone acting so out of character?

“That was in the heat of the moment,” Mu Qingfang is replying, waspishly. He takes a visible breath to calm himself, and then turns back to Shang Qinghua. There’s a small expression of concern on his face that fits his character much better than anything else Shang Qinghua has seen from him so far. 

“Shixiong,” the doctor apprentice begins, and then stops. He frowns, trying again. “Shixiong has nothing to apologize for.”

Immediately, Shang Qinghua bows his head. “This one allowed his emotions to get the better of him at the meeting —”

“You had a qi deviation,” Liu Qingge reveals, bluntly.

Shang Qinghua feels the blood drain from his face as Mu Qingfang lets out a weary sigh. 

“Oh,” he says, taken aback. “… I did?”

“A particularly, ah… gruesome one, actually,” Mu Qingfang explains, hands folded neatly behind his back. “This is why this shidi is asking how Shang-shixiong is feeling. We need to make sure the procedure went as well as we hope.”

“Oh.” Shang Qinghua sucks his head down to hide behind one big sleeve of the infirmary robe. “Okay. S-Sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.” Liu Qingge orders in such a strict tone of no nonsense that Shang Qinghua immediately straightens his spine out of habit.

“I’m sorry,” he replies automatically, and winces as Liu Qingge turns a glare onto him. 

“Qingge, please,” Mu Qingfang sighs out. He waves a hand toward the door. “Go and make yourself useful somewhere that isn’t my exam table.”

Liu Qingge’s face is like stone as he continues to watch him for a long, arduous moment that feels more like a minute. Finally, he lets out a loud, put-upon huff and pushes himself up from the bed. He makes his way across the room and unlocks the door, stepping out and pulling it shut just behind him. After that, oddly, Shang Qinghua doesn’t feel him leave, but remain outside, just standing there. 

“What.. is he doing?” He asks, staring at the door. 

“Guarding the room from any unwanted guests,” Mu Qingfang says, his lips twisting into a light grimace. “Wrist, please?”

Shang Qinghua looks at him, and holds out his wrist obligingly for him to press his fingers against. “Why would he need to?”

“Why indeed.” Mu Qingfang says darkly, eyes fixated on the wrist he holds. 

Shang Qinghua bites his lips and retires from that conversation, sensing that Mu Qingfang might not want to talk about it. Or just not with Shang Qinghua. 

It’s fine. Not many people actually want to talk to Shang Qinghua. 

Really, if only things would begin making sense again, that would be swell.

Chapter Text

When Shen Jiu, Mu Qingfang, and Yue Qingyuan all sit in front of him looking like they’ve decided on something, Shang Qinghua for a moment feels like the world is falling down around him. 

He’s not sure why. Maybe it’s the expressions on their faces — Mu Qingfang’s hesitance, Shen Jiu’s steely countenance, the flat and neutral absence of Yue Qingyuan’s usual polite smile — that puts him on edge. Maybe it’s the way that, after coming in, the three of them sit there in a hushed silence for a long few moments in which they only observe him quietly. 

Then, Mu Qingfang opens his mouth, and before he can say anything, Shang Qinghua finds himself blurting out the first thing that comes to mind. 

“I’m okay now, shixiong, shidi, thanks. Um, I can go back to work now?” It sounds more like a question than the statement he was going for, and he winces at their looks. 

“You’re not going back to work, Shang-shidi.” Yue Qingyuan says with deceptive gentleness. 

Shang Qinghua shakes his head, bewildered. 

“B-But, it’s only,” he stumbles over the words. “Over the past few days, the paperwork will have built up, and if I don’t start now then it will…. What?”

They’re staring at him, Mu Qingfang’s gaze concerned while Shen Jiu is incredulous, and Yue Qingyuan’s face doesn’t move a muscle.  

“Qinghua-shixiong,” Mu Qingfang says softly, watching him with worry. “You’ve been asleep for two weeks.”

Shang Qinghua stops. 

He feels numb, after hearing those words. His lungs are suddenly weaker than usual, and ice coats his veins. 

“No.” He hears himself say. Watches in a distant way how Mu Qingfang stands up and steps over to sit directly beside him, one hand on his shoulder as if to hold him steady.

“Shidi—” Yue Qingyuan is saying.

“No,” Shang Qinghua shakes his head. “Two weeks? No, no. The paperwork, i-it piles up, you know? Two weeks…” He feels his eyes sting, and shakes his head again. “I don’t think — I can’t….”

“Shixiong, please don’t worry. Your—” Mu Qingfang pauses, and then continues, delicately. “The disciples of your peak will have split the workload in your absence.”

Your shizun should have taken care of it himself, the taller man doesn’t say, but Shang Qinghua hears, and shakes his head wildly. 

Because, they don’t get it. They don’t understand. Shizun is busy with his own work, and the things he gives to Shang Qinghua are tasks not meant for the regular disciple to carry out. There are documents and manifests and audits and forms not meant for any eyes but the peak lord, and it’s regrettable that shizun has to delegate so much of it to him just to stay on top of everything, but if Shang Qinghua wasn’t there…

He feels sick, suddenly. Shang Qinghua bows his head and clutches it between his hands, the world around him spinning.

Mu Qingfang’s hand on his shoulder burns like a brand. “Please, shixiong should not worry himself over it. We — as in, the head disciples — have all spoken about it at length, and have decided it might be best if Qinghua-shixiong recuperates somewhere else.”

Shang Qinghua nods, relieved to be back in familiar territory. “I’m taking up space in Qian Cao that could be better used for someone else.” He regurgitates the familiar words easily. 

“No.” 

He blinks, raising a befuddled gaze to peer in confusion at the stormy black look that has overtaken Shen Jiu’s face. Beside the Qing Jing disciple, Yue Qingyuan’s expression is somehow even blanker than it had been before. 

“That’s not the reason we’re moving you.” Shen Jiu says, his voice chilly as the Arctic. “Qian Cao is meant to house the sick and injured, which you currently are — why wouldn't you be here?” 

Shang Qinghua opens his mouth, but can’t find the words to reply. 

That’s all true, he wants to say. Certainly, Qian Cao is a hospital, and it’s entire purpose is to heal those of the sect who require it. 

But it’s different for him, for Shang Qinghua, because….

It’s different for him. Slowly, he closes his mouth, feeling unsteady. Because —

Because why? Why is it different? It is different, he knows that it is, that there is a good reason why he can’t be here, but….

Shen Jiu tilts his chin up, looking like he’s won something. 

“You're coming to Qing Jing,” he says. “You’ll stay with me for the meantime.”

The meantime of what, he doesn’t elaborate, but Shang Qinghua is far too concerned about the first part.

“Uh, no?” He starts, and then the words that were so difficult to find before suddenly come tumbling out, almost over each other in their haste. “You heard before, the paperwork, I have to go back to An Ding right now because if I don’t start on it right now then I’ll be up for days again and I don’t….” He pauses to take a shuddering breath, ordering himself to not cry, fuck, “I don’t like to — I… I have to start right now.”

Mu Qingfang’s face has darkened. The sight of it has Shang Qinghua’s heartbeat quickening, and he licks his lips nervously and leans away from the other head disciple.

“As I already said,” the doctor in training voices lowly, “Qinghua’s peak has already dealt with the leftover work in the wake of his hospitalization. He should not worry himself over it.”

“But —” Shang Qinghua feels lost. “Shizun says…. They can’t….”

“Shang-shidi is not going back to An Ding.” Yue Qingyuan says, with no room for argument. 

Shang Qinghua sinks his teeth into his lower lip to brace himself against the scream of frustration that is building up from underneath his throat. He feels jittery, like the entire world is wrong and any second now he’s going to shake apart. 

“But,” he can’t stop himself from plaintively begging, “why?”

The looks that he receives from all three of them in response to that, he doesn’t understand at all. They look almost — sad. 

But, that’s stupid. What do they have to be sad about? Shang Qinghua will go back to An Ding, and he’ll get the work done — it will take a few more all nighters than he’d been planning for, but he knows he can manage it — and then there will be nothing to worry about!

So why… are they trying to stop him?

<<Shang Qinghua must be peak lord of An Ding.>>

This work, it’s … literally his only purpose here. If he does a subpar job, he’ll be knocked down from his position and fail to fulfill the mission of becoming peak lord. And after that, it’s game over. 

Why are they trying to stop him?!

“An Ding is…” Yue Qingyuan hesitates, the face of his neutrality breaking just for a moment as he searches for the right words. “Shang-shidi’s cultivation is currently very fragile. The… stressful atmosphere of An Ding will only aggravate it.”

“The atmosphere. Right.” Shen Jiu mutters darkly, and Yue Qingyuan actually gives him a quelling look.  

Excuse him, but what the fuck? What is this?!

“You don’t understand,” Shang Qinghua says desperately, nearly tearing at his hair if it weren’t for Mu Qingfang reaching up to pull his hands away from his head. “No. I — I have to, I have to—”

“Why?” Shen Jiu challenges him, calculating gaze reminding Shang Qinghua that he truly is one of the most observant people in the sect, even at this age. “Why must you? What is it that's forcing you to work yourself to death?”

Shang Qinghua bites into his lip so hard that it bleeds, blood trickling down his chin. Mu Qingfang heaves a quiet sigh and reaches out a hand to carefully pry his jaw apart. 

“That’s what I thought.” Shen Jiu says. 

“Qingqiu-shidi,” Yue Qingyuan warns. 

<<Shang Qinghua must become peak lord of An Ding.>>

Shang Qinghua can’t say anything. His mouth is quickly filling with blood. 

He goes to Qing Jing. 

It’s quiet on his peak. 

His disciples scurry, but never run, from one place to another as they see to their daily chores, barely daring to stop and speak with one another. They’ve all been tense, for lack of a better word, ever since their dashixiong’s first head disciple meeting had ended in a desperate rush to Qian Cao. Had almost ended in the loss of one of his new martial brothers. 

Shen Jiu — Qingqiu — has been similar to that of a brewing storm these past few weeks. Monstrous black clouds that hover, heavy but not yet unleashing their fury upon the world below. They bare down on the world as they travel the sky, lying in wait for the perfect moment to strike. 

Shen Qingqiu’s current mood is just as stormy, just as unpredictable, and the rest of his peak knows to avoid him for it, least they be what finally breaks the first cloud. 

It’s one of the reasons why Jun Yaocheng had done nothing but readily agree with his head disciple when Shen Qingqiu had come into his study that morning and told him — not asked, the boy had never asked him for anything — that Yaomei’s head disciple would be coming to recuperate on Qing Jing instead of his own peak. 

Maybe another reason was that this had been the first time since the disastrous meeting that Shen Qingqiu had even deigned to speak to him. 

Jun Yaocheng knows that it is a dark and festering evil, what he and his martial siblings have allowed to happen to one of their own disciples. Knowingly or not, the simple fact that Shang Qinghua has suffered so horrendously not only under their noses, but beneath their actively participating hands, is nothing short of repulsive. 

All these years content in the assurance that he and his sect were better than the Huan Hua Palace Master and his manipulations, and yet here they are. The fog lifted from their vision to reveal that, all along, they really are just another version of the very same darkness. 

Jun Yaocheng lifts his cup, taking a long sip of the strongest pot of tea that he has steeped in quite a number of years. Not even it’s heated, woody tones are enough to quell the quietly sick feeling that swims along his yin meridians. 

There is a knock at the door.

Jun Yaocheng closes his eyes tiredly. “Enter.”

“Shizun.” The door slides open to reveal a lower disciple, her head bowed. “Dashixiong has returned with Shang-dashixiong. He has taken him straight to his quarters.”

And not here, to greet his martial uncle and lord of the peak which he is to reside on, as polite etiquette demands. 

Jun Yaocheng sets his cup down, and steeples his fingers. He gazes at the disciple as she shifts nervously on her feet, uncertain as to how her shizun is going to react to this slight. 

But, is it a slight? And if it is, is it not deserved?

“That is likely for the best.” He murmurs eventually, watching his disciple relax under the words. “A-Bing, spread word to the other disciples that they are not to be disturbed, unless it’s a fellow head disciple.”

Duan Bing raises her head, looking uncomfortable. “Shizun, this disciple understands.”

As she turns to go, Jun Yaocheng pulls his hands apart and clasps them carefully together in his lap.

“A-Bing,” he calls after her at the last moment, before he can change his mind. 

She turns back. “Shizun?”

“Not even if it’s a peak lord.”

Duan Bing startles. She grips the sliding door in her hand enough for the wood to creek. He doesn’t bother scolding her. 

“Ah, Shizun…?”

“Send any visitors to me if you must,” he says, the words severe. “As I said, your dashixiong and his martial brother are not to be disturbed.”

Shakily, his disciple bows. “Shizun… this disciple understands.”

Watching as she leaves, closing the door and shutting him back in his study, Jun Yaocheng wonders if she does. 

Reaching again for his tea, he wonders if he understands, truly, the actual scope of  how what they have uncovered here will affect their sect. 

The future is a murky thing to behold, and he also wonders if he should feel guilty, for being so relieved at the thought that soon enough, he won’t have to worry himself over it anymore. 

He decides that he should, as he sips the bitingly bitter liquid that sloshes gently around inside his cup. He should feel guilty, because what kind of teacher feels relief at problems born of his generation surfacing at a time where he will not have to personally deal with it for long? 

He should have been more observant. He should have kept a closer eye on his shidi, should have made sure that Yaomei was not so drowning in his duties that he would miss, would exacerbate, something like —

Jun Yaocheng draws in a slow breath. He slips into meditation, and the hand that holds his tea slowly stops its shaking. 

It’s useless, dwelling on should haves and would haves. He should have noticed, and if he had known he would have —

He would have what? If the universe itself — if their direct disciples had not seen fit to slap them in the face with this monumental failure, would he really have paid the matter the serious attention that it deserves?

The worst thing for him is to realize that he doesn’t know the answer to that. 

It truly is time, he thinks heavily, for their generation to make way for the next. 

If only they’d realized it before, it wouldn’t feel so much like running away. 

“You will be staying here, in this room.” Shen Jiu says as he pulls open the door to the spare room of his house. 

Just a few days before, it had been used as a storage room, and it still smells faintly of parchment and ink, but Shen Jiu thinks the incense has been burning long enough that the smell of chamomile has chased out the previous musk. 

He turns back to his new guest, and smothers the scowl that wants to morph his face at the way that his younger martial brother stands with hunched shoulders to make himself seem smaller than he actually is. He resists the urge, as well, to snap at the boy to stand up straight. 

Because Shen Jiu knows the feeling. The subconscious desire to fade into the background. The vague hope that, if he makes himself smaller, it will make it more difficult for the universe to hit him with the next bout of bad luck that it has in store for him. 

Curling his hands into fists, hidden by the sweep of his sleeves, Shen Jiu raises an eyebrow. 

“Well?” He says, waiting. “Come inside, then.”

Shang Qinghua blinks wide and startled eyes up at him, as if he is still doubting Shen Jiu’s sincerity in his offer. Or rather, the boy is likely wondering why someone has not come to whisk him back to An Ding yet, and the fact that no one has is making him all the more nervous. 

To escape a prison is a heady feeling, a twisted mess of knee-jerk relief, followed by the sense that you're doing something irrevocably wrong, which is backed by the faint but growing panic and the nearly overpowering impulse to turn around and return to your chains. The irrational anxiety that maybe if you are the one to turn yourself back in, the punishment for being caught trying to escape would be less severe. 

Not that Shang Qinghua would ever be punished again for something he had no power over.

Not that An Ding would come for him.

They have already been warned against it. 

And if they did try. 

The idea that Shen Jiu would allow them to is laughable, at best. 

He waits, patiently, for Shang Qinghua to slowly edge into the room behind him. The head disciple’s eyes flit around like a prey animal that is looking for a way out. He finally walks over and with great hesitation sets the qiankun pouch containing his belongings on the table beside the bed. 

Liu Qingge had been a great asset, when they’d gone to An Ding to retrieve Shang Qinghua’s effects for him. Not that any of the pitiful disciples there could dare approach Shen Jiu’s icy cold demeanor, but the riled up Bai Zhan head disciple at his side ensured that none of them would even think to try. 

That their swords had been unsheathed at the time, also, probably had helped a good deal. 

Shaking the thoughts away, Shen Jiu observes the way that his guest has sat himself on the bed, and sees that Shang Qinghua’s body sways slightly with leftover exhaustion from his medical coma. 

He steps back toward the door. 

“I will go and prepare a pot of tea.” He says. 

Shang Qinghua swallows nervously, nodding. “Okay.”

Shen Jiu waits, and when he says nothing else, his mouth flattens in an attempt to forcibly restrain his scowl.

“What kind.”

“W-What?” 

Shen Jiu narrows his eyes. “What kind of tea does shidi prefer?”

“Um.” Shang Qinghua clutches nervously at his own sleeves, a lost look eclipsing his face like Shen Jiu has surprised him with a quiz that he hadn’t studied for. “A-Any kind is fine, shixiong.”

“No.” Shen Jiu refuses. “What kind of tea does shidi want?”

“I don’t want any kind in particular?” Shang Qinghua looks like he’s about to cry again. 

Shen Jiu grits his teeth. 

“Chamomile, ginseng, jasmine.” He lists, deciding to make it easier on his martial brother, who appears overwhelmed at being asked to pick his own tea. Had the boy not had a choice to make in his life? “There is also a tin of cardamom in the house, if shidi prefers some heat.”

Shang Qinghua, unfortunately, just looks all the more bewildered at the offered menu. 

“Whatever is easiest,” the blasted child insists uneasily. “Shixiong doesn’t need to trouble himself, r-really….”

Shen Jiu closes his eyes. He takes a slow, deep breath, and releases it. When he opens his eyes again, it’s to find Shang Qinghua watching him with wide-eyed, fearful caution, like one would watch a mountain lion they’ve accidentally come across without their sword. 

The minuscule amount of self-calm he had just acquired from the breathing exercise quickly flees Shen Jiu’s fried nerves. 

“Pick one, please, shidi,” he requests, trying not to sound as dangerously furious as he feels. From Shang Qinghua’s panicked expression, he has failed. 

“J-Jasmine, shixiong.” His martial brother whimpers, lifting his sleeves to hide behind them. All that’s visible of his face are two huge, honey eyes that glimmer with tears. “Please.”

Shen Jiu turns on his heel and leaves the room, catching the door just in time to keep it from slamming shut behind him. 

“It will be ready in a moment,” he tries not to grit out, heart beating furiously in his ears. 

What the hell had that been? His shidi had looked like a drowned kitten, or a small puppy who had just been kicked. Shen Jiu purses his lips flatly and makes his way to the tea heater, grabbing the jasmine yixing pot from the shelf. 

His next thought is, how could anyone look at that, and even think to mistreat him?

Brewing tea is a process, especially with light leaves such as jasmine that need to be handled with careful precision least the water be too hot and burn them, resulting in a taste too bitter to properly suit the gently fragrant blossoms. By the time that Shen Jiu has a pot full of at least three cups, he has managed to calm himself down from the icy rage that had cloyed his senses earlier. 

That’s not to say that he isn’t still furious. No, but the time to bear down with the full brunt of that anger will come soon enough. 

He carries it on a tray back to the room. He knocks on the closed door, and allows his anger to simmer unobtrusively below his skin when Shang Qinghua hesitantly opens the door, looking out of place and like he is confused over why Shen Jiu is knocking on a door in his own home. 

He sets the tray down on the table in the corner, across from the bed, but doesn’t sit down on the cushions.

“This shixiong has some business to take care of.” He says. “So Qinghua-shidi must regrettably have tea alone.”

“It’s alright, shixiong.” Shang Qinghua assures him near instantly, seeming surprised it would be any other way. “This shidi always takes his tea alone.”

Shen Jiu swallows down acid. His chest feels tight, then, and he wonders why. 

“Shidi shouldn’t have to be alone.” He hears himself say. 

To that, Shang Qinghua actually smiles — a small, tremulous thing.

“This shidi… prefers it.” He says.

Shen Jiu can at least understand that. Even if he doesn’t want to. Even if he suddenly wishes it were not so. 

“Then,” he says, giving his martial brother a bow. “Shixiong will return in a sichen. Please rest in the meantime.”

“I—” Shang Qinghua licks his lips nervously, glancing at the warmed cup of jasmine tea he has in a chokehold in his hands. “I’ll… I will, shixiong.”

Shen Jiu steps out of the room again. He pauses just outside the door, pressing a hand over his chest and gritting his teeth. 

Then, he leaves the pot with the too hesitant head disciple in his new guest room, and exits the bamboo house. 

There are leads he must chase down to their ends. 

Chapter Text

He wipes his face with his sleeve, cringing at the fact he even needs to more than the act itself. 

His limbs feel like they are made entirely of lead, a numb sort of back-breaking heaviness to them that makes even the slightest motion seem like an insurmountable task. He manages to push himself onto his side and curls up there on top of the blanket, not even bothering to make an attempt at peeling back the covers. Surely, they would be soft and inviting, a warm balm to the constant chill that permeates his body lately, but even the thought of doing so makes Shang Qinghua balk. For one, even lifting an arm sends a shockwave of tremors along the limb to his shoulder, every muscle weak. For another, the bedding here is so clean.

Shang Qinghua is… not. 

He’s still dressed in the red Qian Cao patient robes — his own An Ding uniform had never been returned to him, and while he’s fairly sure there are spare uniforms in his qiankun pouch, Shang Qinghua doesn’t currently know where that is. Likely amongst the things that Shen Qingqiu had gone to fetch from his peak. 

He wonders what the man had thought of Shang Qinghua’s abode. It must have been a bit of a scavenger hunt, even just finding the place. As head disciple, Shang Qinghua does have respectable quarters and a leisure house of his own, instead of having to share one with other disciples like he used to. But he hasn’t exactly had time to move into it, yet. His belongings are not much, and still most of them are packed away into boxes that are set in convenient places for rifling-through, never entirely emptied.

He’s not sure why he hasn’t unpacked yet. It’s been a few months since his promotion, but something about it all still feels frightingly temporary. As if it could be easily ripped away from him. Which of course it can. It’s almost too good to be true, and Shang Qinghua doesn’t—

He doesn’t quite trust it. He hadn’t trusted it when Shizun had told him the news, he didn’t trust the brief and robotic congratulations of a partial mission completion that the System had chimed in with, and he doesn’t trust any of it now. 

Something has to give. The other shoe is just waiting to drop, and despite not wishing to be underneath it when it finally does, Shang Qinghua isn’t stupid. He can recognize patterns. He knows bad things happen to him, and he can’t stop them, because —

Well, why should he? That’s just how life is, isn’t it? It’s best to just accept it and do damage control when you can. 

Shang Qinghua’s eyes are locked on the wall across the room, unblinking. He stares at the narrow window that allows him a glimpse of the serene and beautiful bamboo forest that exists outside of this house he’s in, and he doesn’t know how he got here.

Okay, he does know. It’s not like he’d been out of his body when Shen Qingqiu had escorted him over and given him the grand tour. But it’s — it’s wrong. He can’t be here. Shang Qinghua doesn’t belong inside Shen Qingqiu’s personal quarters; Shang Qinghua was never supposed  to step foot in this house, he’s pretty sure. 

He can’t be here. 

He blinks, and his eyelids follow the direction so slowly that it takes him almost five minutes to pry them open again, far too much effort spent. What’s he suppose to do, though, lie there with his eyes closed? When he already knows he won’t be getting any sleep at all?

His palms are itching. The only thing Shang Qinghua can see when his eyes do close are the mountains of scrolls that he knows are piled up on his desk back on An Ding, despite whatever any of his martial siblings try to tell him. They don’t get it. They’re not An Ding, they would never understand. 

He hadn’t gotten any work done today, none whatsoever, and he hadn’t done anything the two weeks before today, either, and —

And the knowledge is just a brick of weight that presses down on his chest, unrelenting, a weight of dread because Shang Qinghua knows he’s wasting time just lying here, being absolutely useless and worthless and lazy, while there’s so much to do.

His eyes sting, hot and vicious, and he resolutely keeps them wide open, refusing to let any tear fall. No, absolutely not again, not this time. He’s done, okay? He’s so done with the crying. Crying never helps, he learnt that before he ever started this second life, and Shang Qinghua is — he’s done. He’s done. He wishes it would just stop. 

He’s tired. 

He squeezes his eyes shut as they pulse with a fresh wave of heat, stopping the tears before they can fully form. He waits out the force that tries to climb up his throat and into his sinuses — he won’t, he won’t.

When he wakes up, the pressure on his chest is so heavy it feels as if he’s being pressed down onto the bed by an invisible force. He knows time has passed him by — he can’t tell how long it’s been, but he feels dazed and slow like he does when he almost falls asleep over his work and manages to pull himself out of it at the last second. Fuzzy around the edges and almost like he’s floating over everything, but not quite disconnected from his body like other times. 

It’s dark outside. The air that breezes in through the open window tastes like pre-dawn. He’s still in Shen Qingqiu’s guest room. 

Shen Qingqui’s bamboo house doesn’t have a guest room. 

At least, it hadn’t before. Shang Qinghua knows that, at least. Shen Qingqiu lives alone and never, even upon pain of death, accepts visitors into his personal quarters. Not even Mu Qingfang, who might be the one person in the entire sect who saw the most of Shen Jiu thanks to being the man’s doctor, was permitted entry. Shen Qingqiu goes to Qian Cao for any treatments he needs, and that’s that. 

But Shang Qinghua is here, lying on a pristine bed, in a guest room in Shen Qingqiu’s bamboo house. 

It’s wrong. It’s wrong, wrong, wrong. 

It’s so different, so off the rails of what he knows to be true about this world, that Shang Qinghua thinks he’s going to throw up. He’s dizzy with adrenaline, nerves shot, just waiting. 

Except, there are no blaring sirens or alarm bells that only he can hear driving him into an agonizing migraine that he can’t explain to anyone. No bright, neon red, translucent screens popping into his sight to tell him how badly he’s fucking up this time. No awful white text at the bottom right of his vision that says Punishment Protocol loading….

There’s nothing. 

He hasn’t decided yet whether that’s more terrifying than all of the above combined or not. 

The room he’s in is stiflingly silent. Even the sound of his own rattled breathing, too fast to be good but he can’t get it to slow, sounds distant to his ears like it’s not quite there. The world outside the window seems almost more silent, like it’s fake, not real, and Shang Qinghua —

He can’t be here. 

Shang Qinghua —

Has to. He has to leave. 

Shang Qinghua levers himself off the mattress and onto the floor, and stumbles his way, half-crawling, to the door.

His martial brother is kneeling on the floor, panting, his breaths stuttering in an unsteady rhythm as he claws desperately at his own chest. 

Shen Jiu observes him silently as he stands at the other end of the hallway, arms crossed over his chest as he leans against the wall, half-shrouded in the shadows of the darkened house. 

Shang Qinghua has not noticed him, and Shen Jiu knows that he will not until Shen Jiu himself steps forward to get his attention. He knows how the senses are after a deviation, how they’re weak and overloaded by everything in the world around them — or frantically scrabbling at the distinct lack of what details they’re able to gather, too used to having more to work with. 

Qi is the sixth sense, and when it’s been thrown so horribly into such disarray as a deviation, it’s unfettered and hesitant balance throws off every other sense one has. 

And with Shang Qinghua on his knees, barely able to even breathe, choking on his own whimpers…

No. Shen Jiu doesn’t blame him for being unable to notice his presence. 

He allows a few minutes to pass before he’s certain that his martial brother won’t be able to pull through this on his own. If he had faith, he’d have just left him to it and gone back to bed — heavens know that Shen Jiu would hate to be caught so vulnerable, especially after the events that led them to this point — but Shen Jiu isn’t one to fool himself. It’s obvious that, if left alone, Shang Qinghua will hyperventilate himself to unconsciousness. 

He steps forward, making sure his footsteps make clear, precise and noticeable sounds on the hard floor. 

Not in his house. That won’t be happening here. 

He’s only a few handwidths away when Shang Qinghua seems to register the noise of his approach, and the younger disciple’s head snaps up to regard him with wide golden eyes open in a cautious stare. 

Shen Jiu pauses, and waits for the other to look him over. He waits for Shang Qinghua to realize that he isn’t a threat and allow him closer. Or for the boy to decide he is a threat, in which case She Jiu will back away. 

He won’t leave. It’s his house, after all. And Shen Jiu won’t have anyone call him an ungracious host. 

There isn’t any other reason. 

It’s not because, caught in that fragile honey gaze, Shen Jiu can’t seem to bring himself to turn his feet away. That’s not it. It doesn’t even factor in. 

The faint light of ferocity — and it is there, it’s just hidden behind the meek exterior and the thick vulnerability — fades, and Shang Qinghua stares up at him looking like Shen Jiu has caught him in the midst of some nefarious act. 

Truly ridiculous. 

“I’m sorry, shixiong!” Shang Qinghua gasps. The expression on his face is twisted in a frankly burdensome look of guilt. “I tried, I did. I promise! But I — I can’t sleep, I… I’m sorry…”

You don’t have to, Shen Jiu wants to tell him. No one is forcing you.

But, he knows better. Instead, Shen Jiu kneels down beside the boy and places a hand on either of his shoulders, helping him into a more upright position.

“Thank you for trying, shidi.” He says, and watches the way that Shang Qinghua goes shock-still with surprise. 

Wide gold eyes peek up at him from beneath the thick, damp lashes, the astonishment they hold within them clear. Shang Qinghua is silent for a good few moments, long in the way that time seems to stretch as Shen Jiu waits patiently, but once they pass the smaller disciple slowly collapses in on himself as if he has lost the strength to hold himself up. 

Shen Jiu tightens his grip on his shoulders, and guides Shang Qinghua over to lean against the wall instead. He sits on his heels and folds his hands in his lap, looking back even as his martial brother stares at him in silent, unspoken befuddlement. 

Quietly, inside his heart, Shen Jiu rages. He feels like that is all he does anymore, these days. Every little thing that happens, every little thing he observes, it just causes him to be more and more displeased. 

But, it’s hard. It’s hard when he looks at Shang Qinghua and sees himself, once again as that child who suffered and had no one to help, no one who came back for him. It’s hard, looking at him and knowing that he has suffered in the one place where Shen Jiu had once thought such suffering couldn’t reach them. And it makes him angry. 

And Shen Jiu has a chance here, to be the person who is there for his martial brother, and what’s more is that he wants to. He looks at Shang Qinghua, who jumps at his own shadow because he’s learnt not to trust even that in a place where he was suppose to be protected; who is unable to make even simple decisions in his daily life because he is terrified of being in the wrong; Shang Qinghua, who has all the makings of a person who could be bright like the sun but was stunted by the hands that should have helped him grow, restrained and beaten back until he hid so far within himself that he forgot he could be anything all —

Shen Jiu looks at Shang Qinghua and wants to be selfless for one of the first times in his life. 

Even though, at the same time, Shen Jiu is bitter. Because even while he is filled with the need to safeguard his shidi from what seeks to harm him, there exists an undercurrent of envy there as well. That Shen Jiu is jealous of Shang Qinghua, for… having Shen Jiu there. When, back when Shen Jiu had needed someone, there had been no one. 

And then Shen Jiu feels guilty, for being jealous of Shang Qinghua for something that the other disciple had never asked for, for something that Shen Jiu is doing entirely of his own volition.

It’s all a mess, tangled up inside of him, of confusing emotions that he cannot parse through. Shen Jiu has tried — he has lost count of how many times he has meditated on them only to get nowhere. He can’t make heads nor tails of it all, and that only makes him angrier. 

How dare they. Shen Jiu had been doing fine before all this. How dare they ever think that they could hurt his martial sibling, and cause all of this to happen like a slow avalanche down the mountainside. How dare they make the promised safety and serenity of Cang Qiong Mountain Sect into a joke. A lie. 

Shen Jiu will find each and every one of them and make them pay dearly. He will not rest until this sect is truly everything that he had once thought it could be. 

For now, though, Shang Qinghua is still in front of him, gasping for air like it’s the last time he’ll be able to, and Shen Jiu reaches out for him. 

“Is shidi in pain?” He asks, eying the other up and down. 

Shang Qinghua looks at an end, depleted of any energy or the life that he may have once held within himself. His eyes are puffy with the visible absence of greatly-needed sleep, frustration lingering in the dampness that clings to them. The boy tilts back and rests his head against the flat surface of the wall, eyes fluttering tiredly even as his breathing quickens even more. 

“I can’t breathe,” he manages to grit out, and paws uselessly again at his chest. “Sh-Shixiong, I can’t sleep, b-because, I… I can’t….”

“Your lungs,” Shen Jiu says, blinking in realization. “Feng-shishu said you had scarring there. And your ribs…. Is it often that shidi forgoes sleep due to shortness of breath?”

Shang Qinghua closes his eyes, a grimace of shame crossing over his face. He lowers his head down, chin resting against his collarbone, the very picture of a chastised student. 

“Night terrors,” he admits quietly. “Wake me up, and that’s when my breathing gets….” He gestures at himself, at the clammy sweat that coats his skin. “Can’t stop for… a while…. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize when you’ve done nothing wrong,” Shen Jiu scolds. He reaches out again and helps his martial brother sit up. “Straighten your posture, give your lungs some room to work — if they're struggling, then coddle them. Mu-shidi was going to stop by in the morning anyway. We have a few hours until then, so we might as well make some tea.”

“Sorry,” Shang Qinghua rasps out miserably. His head is bowed and his shoulders are tense as boulders under Shen Jiu’s palms. 

Shen Jiu reaches out and flicks him in the cheek. “What did I just say?”

“Sor—” Shang Qinghua presses his lips together to interrupt what is clearly a knee-jerk response to anything that might ever slightly inconvenience anyone. He ducks his head down sheepishly, and Shen Jiu is stunned to find himself withholding a smile. 

Okay, not quite a smile. But his lips twitched, they definitely did. He felt them.

… It doesn’t matter. 

Shen Jiu purses his lips into a more familiar flat line and helps his shidi to his feet, steadying him as he sways like a newborn calf. He frowns. 

“Perhaps a bath would be best.” Shen Jiu says slowly. “Something to help shidi relax. When did he last do so, anyway?”

Shang Qinghua stops, gazing up at him with surprise clear across his face. For a second, it’s like he’s forgotten he was having trouble breathing at all. 

“A bath?” He asks, and then a flush overtakes his cheeks, and he glances away like he’s ashamed. “I don’t — Um, I don’t do that.”

Hand on his arm, Shen Jiu pauses, certain that he hadn’t heard correctly.  

“What?”

Shang Qinghua determinedly doesn’t look up at him. “I… don’t have a tub. And even if I — even if I did, I wouldn’t ever have the time to — I just scrub off with a soapy cloth or in the river sometimes. I-It’s not so bad. I stay clean.”

It’s spoken so earnestly. 

Shen Jiu tightens his grip, watching dispassionately as the boy cringes under his hand. His jaw aches. 

“A bath, then,” he says, something hollow to his words. 

And then he continues on his way, leading his shidi to the washroom and to the tub within which Shen Jiu begins to realize he might have taken for granted until now. 

For someone with his humble beginnings, isn’t that ironic. 

He has barely shut the door behind him before he realizes Shang Qinghua is already undressing, dragging his arms free off the red top robe in a sluggish motion and fumbling with the belt. 

Shen Jiu blinks once and turns his back, suddenly uncertain of how things might be done on An Ding. Maybe the wash rooms are communal? It’s not unheard of, and it is more efficient. An Ding is all about efficiency — or so Shen Jiu had assumed before all of this. 

He should never assume. 

He’s finding it difficult not to, however. The evidence is thick like a mountain fog and plentiful like rabbits; more keeps popping up everywhere he looks, and Shen Jiu doesn’t like any of it. 

Shang Qinghua whines softly and tugs at the belt, turning toward him and asks with a sleepy mumble — “Shixiong…. It’s too tight. I can’t….”

His cheeks are flushed, eyes trained on the floor, ashamed and embarrassed of his own inability. Shen Jiu knows how humiliated he’d be if he had to ask for help, and by the sheen of frustration in his martial brother’s eyes, Shang Qinghua can bear it just barely better than he would. 

He doesn’t say anything at all when he steps over and unties the belt for his shidi. When he’s done, he steps away and busies himself with getting the hot water talisman working so Shang Qinghua can remove the looser under robes himself without someone looking.

He does need help again, though, with the hair tie. Shen Jiu can’t help but gape when he finally gets it undone, because Shang Qinghua’s hair —

He leans around the boy’s shoulder just so he can be sure that Shang Qinghua has a chance to see the full width of his incredulity. 

“Do you know what a comb is for?” He asks.

Shang Qinghua flushes darker, and the plain white of the thin final robe that he’s kept on makes the color contrast starkly against his rather pale — too pale — complexion. 

“My hair curls when it’s wet.” He mumbles defensively, shoulders hunched. At least his breathing has somewhat leveled out. “It’s hard to get the tangles free and I can never reach all of them, so I just — put it all up in a bun and it’s fine.”

Shen Jiu stares at him. He waves a hand at Shang Qinghua’s head with a wide gesture. 

“This,” he says, reaching out to tug on a stray lock, making a face at how much of a wash it needs, “is not ‘fine’.”

Twisting around from where Shen Jiu has sat him down, Shang Qinghua gives him a wholly desolate expression that pulls Shen Jiu up short. 

“It’s been fine for me,” the boy says. His teeth have dug imprints into his bottom lip from how hard he’s bitten at it. “It’s never mattered before.”

“Your health,” Shen Jiu tugs at a particularly nasty tangle, and Shang Qinghua squeaks, “matters. The state of your body is important. Your hair is a sign of respect toward your ancestors and your parents, you should be taking care of it to the best of your ability.”

Shang Qinghua is stiff under his hands. 

“They’ve never done anything for me,” he says hotly, and Shen Jiu’s ministrations slow to a stop. “Why should I respect them?”

That’s a good question, Shen Jiu wants to say. He doesn’t dare. 

He presses his lips together between his teeth and works at the knot with fingers that are slightly more gentle than before. 

It’s a few minutes of stagnant silence later that Shen Jiu finds himself opening his mouth once more. 

“It’s important to show the world that it cannot touch you despite all its efforts to drag you down into the dirt.” He says, focus trained on the copper-toned strands he works at between his fingers. 

Shang Qinghua is still tense where he sits in front of him, back turned. He dips his head down a bit, let’s out a breath that sounds altogether weary, and doesn’t reply. 

Finally, Shen Jiu deems his shidi’s hair acceptably untangled. He helps him to his feet and guides him toward the edge of the tub. 

“I’m going to get a towel,” he says, accepting Shang Qinghua’s murmur of acknowledgement as a signal to leave. 

When he returns with the towel — and a selection of soap he’s fairly certain will work on the build up in his martial brother’s hair — Shang Qinghua has already lowered himself into the tub, and he sits leaning forward to rinse clean his tear-mottled face.

Shen Jiu places the towel and soaps to the side for now, taking up a packet of medicinal herbs good for ill-leveled qi that he’d gotten from Mu Qingfang at some time or another to toss into the bath water.

He turns to do just that, and it’s as he reaching out to dump the concoction into the tub that he sees it. 

Shen Jiu has one hand braced on the wooden edge of the tub, one hand held out with the packet in it. He clenches both so tightly that the blood drains out of his knuckles, the paper of the packet crinkling sharply and the wood of the tub creaking under his grip. 

Shang Qinghua lifts his head, blinking up at him. Water cascades in rivulets down his face, droplets clinging to his lashes and his hair, and he looks confused.

“Shixiong?”

Confused, like he can’t imagine what could be wrong. 

Like the thin material of the white robe is not soaked so thoroughly that it clings to him like a second skin, translucent enough to see straight through it. 

Like Shen Jiu does not have a direct, full view of the long, winding scars that glance across his back, many in number and lancing out in nearly every direction as if they are bolts of lightning, stark against even his shidi’s sickly pale skin. 

Shen Jiu swallows. His mouth is dry when he speaks. “I’ll get your hair for you, shidi.”

Shang Qinghua looks up at him, his honey eyes studying Shen Jiu for a quiet moment. Then, he turns back around and cups more water in his palms to rub at his face with. 

“Okay. Thanks, shixiong!”

Like nothing is wrong at all. Like Shen Jiu has not just gotten a face-full of the veritable battleground of cross-crossing whip-scars that decorate his shidi’s back. 

Shen Jiu stands there for a moment, wordlessly setting aside the now empty herb packet. He gathers the length of his far too-trusting shidi’s hair into his hands and carefully spreads it out, laying it flat into the water so that it floats slowly down and covers Shang Qinghua’s back from Shen Jiu’s sight. 

He fears that if he were to look at it again, he won’t be able to stop himself from hunting down that despicable shishu of his to demand answers. If the ignorant fool even has any for him. Perhaps he’d even have Liu Qingge come along with him, see if that might rejuvenate his memory.  

His hands have a slight tremor as he lathers up some soap and cards them through the wet hair before him, but thankfully Shang Qinghua is too distracted by the hot water to notice.

His martial brother is slowly but surely sinking lower and lower into the water, eyes drooping more and more as each minute passes. Shen Jiu’s just rinsed his hair free of soap when Shang Qinghua gives a quiet sigh and tilts over to rest his cheek on the tub’s edge. 

Shen Jiu pauses. He gazes down at his shidi with a neutral expression, taking note of how much younger Shang Qinghua looks when his face is not tight with stress and fear nor straining against the monumental fatigue that clings to him like an aura. The relaxed set of his brows, and the way that the edges of his mouth curve upwards ever so slightly, as if his features had been initially created to always have a sweet smile. 

Shen Jiu wonders how often his shidi smiles. Then, he wonders how often those smiles are genuine. 

He settles a hand on top of Shang Qinghua’s damp head and carefully moves it from side to side. 

“You can’t sleep here.” He tries to sound stern. Even to his ears, it’s too soft a tone. “You will drown.”

“Mmkay.” Shang Qinghua mumbles against the wood and water. 

Shen Jiu shakes him again. “Shidi.”

“…Okay.” Honey eyes crack open slightly, peering up at Shen Jiu as Shang Qinghua’s mouth forms a yawn, his hand rising out of the water to cover it. 

“Shixiong,” he murmurs into his fingers, “M’ tir’….”

“Will you sleep now?” Shen Jiu wonders, raising a brow at him. 

It takes a moment for Shang Qinghua to reply, likely to both register what Shen Jiu just said as well as to formulate an answer. Finally, he bobs his head in a slow, swaying nod. 

“Mmyeah.”

“Very well.” Shen Jiu says, and helps him climb out of the tub. 

He resolutely refuses to take note of the ridges of raised skin that he can feel beneath the robes under his hand. They’re thicker than he first presumed. 

He can’t think about it right now. Later. 

Later, he will think about it, and be angry, and piece everything together into the bigger picture that is slowly forming in Shen Jiu’s mind. And then, he will bring his findings to his fellow head disciples, because they have proven to be useful in this regard at least and the circumstance here is better tackled with allies than alone. Later. 

Right now, Shen Jiu hands his shidi the towel and turns away to retrieve a set of dry robes. And then he leads him back to the guest room and gets him settled into the bed. And then he closes the door. And then he drains the tub and cleans up the washroom. And then he brews some tea. 

And then he kneels at the table in the main room, the tea set out before him, his hands clenched over his knees so tightly that they tremble, and waits for the sun to rise. 

Chapter Text

Shen Qingqiu doesn’t come to the door himself when Mu Qingfang knocks on its wood. He calls softly from the inner room, admitting the doctor in training entry, and Mu Qingfang steps in to find his second senior martial brother sitting alone at a tea table set for three. 

The line of Shen-shixiong’s shoulders are deceptively relaxed, but there’s a firm and unyielding line of steel that runs through them and Mu Qingfang thinks he might be one of the few people who can see it past the younger disciple’s characteristic chilly mask of indifference. 

The rest of the house is dead silent, and as Mu Qingfang sits down across from him, he can see the tea has long ago gone cold. 

“You have been up for a while.” He comments idly, glancing up at his shixiong. Watches the way that Shen Qingqiu stares fixedly down at the full tea cup that sits between his hands. “Did you get much sleep last night?”

Shen Qingqiu’s hands spasm minutely around the cup he holds. He peeks up at Mu Qingfang without moving his head. 

“Did you?” He asks. 

“No.” Mu Qingfang freely admits. Then again, “It has been more than a fortnight since I last experienced a full night of sound sleep. I suppose it has been the same for you?”

“Hm.” Shen Qingqiu hums noncommittally, turning his gaze back to his tea. 

Mu Qingfang wraps his hands around the cup set before him. Regardless of the tea’s age or temperature, it’s a social nicety that brings a level of calmness and surety to his recently frazzled nerves. 

“How is he?” He asks lowly.

His eyes dart over to the short hallway leading off from this larger room, wherein he knows his most troubling patient has been set up. Not a day has gone by where Mu Qingfang doesn’t spare a thought toward Shang Qinghua and the boy’s circumstances. 

Not a day goes by where he doesn’t feel a by-now very familiar anger and hurt over it all, still. 

It’s been two weeks since Mu Qingfang last spoke more than ten words to his shizun. 

“Sleeping.” Shen Qingqiu says slowly. “Thankfully. He… had some sort of fit last night that woke him up. It was as if he was suffocating. It took some time for him to calm.”

“His ribs.” Mu Qingfang recalls darkly. “Yes, they’re…. Well, they could be in better shape. I’ll need to schedule a surgery for them at a later date. With his deviation still being so recent, I want to give his qi more time to settle more before putting his body under that much stress again.”

“Yes.” Shen Qingqiu echoes quietly. He keeps his gaze lowered toward the tea. “His ribs.”

Mu Qingfang sets down his cup. 

“Shixiong?” He asks. “Is there something wrong? Besides the obvious,” he adds, when Shen Qingqiu glances up at him with a wry stare. 

“You’ve scanned him yourself.” Shen Qingqiu begins. He sounds almost uncertain, in a way, but My Qingfang has never heard Shen Qingqiu be unsure of himself or his words, so he doesn’t know if that’s even the right thing to call it. “What would you say is his most concerning ailment? The aforementioned notwithstanding, of course.”

“Notwithstanding.” Mu Qingfang echoes with a morbid sort of humor. “Right.”

Shen Qingqiu treats him with an arching brow. “Shidi, please.”

“I apologize, shixiong,” he says ruefully. “It’s only… there is so much.”

Closing his eyes and looking almost pained, Shen Qingqiu gives a curt nod. 

“Yes,” he says. “But, right now, what is the most pressing?”

“It’s more of a compounding case, in a way,” Mu Qingfang admits, thinking about his words. “His lungs have a great deal of scarring that is evidence of at one point inhaling a rather unhealthy amount of smoke. It’s old scarring — years ago now, I would say, but it certainly does not help his breathing, and the ribs only make it all worse.”

“And the surgery will have to wait.” Shen Qingqiu recalls with a faint look of distaste. 

Mu Qingfang nods, his shoulders dropping a bit. “Unfortunately. I dare not upset his qi any further than it already has been. The consequences of doing so, I fear, will be grave indeed.”

“Deadly, you mean.” Shen Qingqiu says. He tightens his grip on his cup enough for the porcelains to make a faint clicking noise. 

“Yes. In the meantime, though, there are a few methods of easing his symptoms that I would like to try.” Mu Qingfang draws in a deep breath, and then releases it slowly. He casts his shixiong a rather defeated expression. “Until I can safely treat the cause, it’s all that I can do for him. Shixiong, I hate it.”

“It’s not the best thing to feel, helplessness.” The younger disciple says, a little hollowly, and Mu Qingfang gives a soft, bitter laugh. 

“No,” he agrees. “It is not.”

They're silent, then. The two disciples sit at the table together, silently nursing the cold tea that they will never drink, both of them thinking about what has befallen their once so-certain lives — or rather, not befallen, but has been finally revealed. 

It’s like removing a bandage from a wound to find that instead of healing as it should have, it has festered and rotted through to the bone despite whatever medicine it had been treated with. A betrayal of his skill as a doctor. 

Mu Qingfang knows that, rationally, none of this is his fault.

Before being chosen as a head disciple, he and Shang Qinghua did not have anything in common aside from discipling the same sect, which has hundreds of other disciples. The chances of them running into each other were not very big. Mu Qingfang had never met him before any of this — and while the reasons behind that are devastating to know, it’s not like Mu Qingfang ever had the chance to do anything about it.

He simply hadn’t known. If he had, he would have torn up his own peak attempting to make sure that it was rectified. He is not afraid of his Shizun, and though he respects — had respected, so much — the man, he knows that he would not have thought twice about reaming into his own teacher over an oversight, a negligence, of this magnitude. 

Mu Qingfang knows himself, and what he would have done. 

So, this feeling, this heavy guilt that he carries with him when he thinks about what’s happened — he knows, too, that it is irrational. 

But as irrational as it may be, Mu Qingfang cannot shake it away. 

He keeps catching himself thinking: if only he had met Shang Qinghua sooner. He would have noticed something was afoot. He would have done something about it. Shang Qinghua would have suffered less. 

Less, Mu Qingfang thinks despairingly, is still worse than not at all — and not at all is what it should have been. 

He thinks about the deep investigations that An Ding is currently being put under, and he viciously hopes that their conclusion will be to just dismiss the entire discipleship and start over fresh, with new faces that have never had the chance to take part in or lend hand to his martial brother’s abuse. 

It’s just a fantasy, but it’s one that Mu Qingfang finds himself indulging in a little too much. 

There’s a clinking sound of porcelain, and he glances up to find that Shen Qingqiu has set down his cup. The stare the younger boy is pinning him with is intense and calculating, a stark contrast to the distant and hollow-eyed look from before. 

“Regarding his older pains,” Shen Qingqiu begins carefully, “what would you say is the worst?”

“Shen-shixiong,” Mu Qingfang replies, helpless. “Why do you want to know?”

For a breath, his shixiong is silent, turning that intense gaze toward the table again. Mu Qingfang watches as he turns his head to look toward his occupied guest room. After a moment, Shen Qingqiu’s shoulders tense up a fraction. 

He turns back and his gaze is twice as intense. 

“There are scars decorating his back that concern me.” He admits. 

Mu Qingfang swallows, bowing his head. 

“I know the scars you speak of. They’re very old, shixiong, older than even the scarring in his lungs. They would have had to happen when he was —” Mu Qingfang abruptly stops, going quiet. Then, he asks, “Shixiong, should I really be telling this to you? Only, it’s Qinghua-shixiong’s privacy.”

“I understand,” Shen Qingqiu says quietly. “Maybe it’s me being selfish and digging into something that isn’t my business. But I saw them, shidi, and….”

He pauses. He pulls away from the table and Mu Qingfang can see the way that his hands curl into fists against his knees. 

Mu Qingfang presses his lips together tightly. His tea sloshes unsteadily inside the cup that rests between his palms. 

Shen Qingqiu sits back with a quiet, weary sigh. 

“I just… want to know how to help him.”

He looks away as he says it, as if he is embarrassed. 

“Me too.” Mu Qingfang whispers back. 

There’s a brief moment of silence. They’re both lost in their own thoughts, but something tells Mu Qingfang that what they ponder isn’t so different. 

Finally, he pushes his tea away and folds his hands in his lap. 

“It’s still his past, shixiong. If you wish to know, you’ll have to ask him about it.”

Shen Qingqiu releases a sharp sigh through his nose, looking disdainfully away. “I know.”

“We can still help him with what we do know, though.” Mu Qingfang says firmly, hands tight together. “Make things easier, perhaps, though I’m not yet sure how. He won’t trust our help, not for a long time.”

“It’s one of the more difficult things to accept.” Shen Qingqiu agrees in a murmur, and Mu Qingfang closes his eyes. 

Out of everyone in the sect, besides the boy’s own shizun, Mu Qingfang might be the one person who knows the most about Shen Qingqiu. 

It hadn’t always been like that. No — this knowledge, this closeness, it was something that Mu Qingfang had to fight tooth and nail for. Shen Qingqiu was a lot of things, but standoffish and extremely private were the paramount characteristics of them all. It had taken a rigid debate simply to convince the outer disciple Shen Jiu had been at the time to even come to Qian Cao, and even then he would only ever let Mu Qingfang see him. Even then, he would have a list of demands that must always be followed if he were to allow his health to be overseen by another person. 

That was fine, though. Mu Qingfang was many things himself, and a doctor (in training) who cared was his paramount. The very moment he had realized (and quite by accident, in fact) how despairing Shen Jiu’s cultivation was, how rattled it was, how much it was downright harming the younger boy — There had not been a single second in which Mu Qingfang hesitated. He had decided righ then and there, that no matter how prickly Shen Jiu was, no matter how many times he refused him, no matter that Mu Qingfang was only a lower disciple himself at the time — he would find a way to help him. 

And here he sits now — here they both sit, two head disciples of their respective peaks together at the same table within Shen Qingqiu’s own home.

It doesn’t feel as much of a victory as it really is. Not with what had been going on right under their noses the entire time. 

Instead, Mu Qingfang emptily notes their circumstance, and the long road it has taken them to get here. And how they will now begin that same journey again — however, instead of it being Mu Ling with Shen Jiu, it’s Mu Qingfang and Shen Qingqiu with their martial brother, Shang Qinghua. 

Mu Qingfang closes his eyes. Oh, it’s a long journey, with obstacles that often seem so impossible to surmount. However —

He blinks his eyes open again to look at Shen Qingqiu, who sits quietly across from him and is studying the far side of the room with a distant, thoughtful gaze, face void of his usual blank mask of disinterest. Instead, he looks human in his pondering and the undercurrent of concern, and Mu Qingfang knows that’s not a look most, if anyone, can claim to have seen from him. 

The journey is long, he thinks. 

But it’s also worth it. Worth every difficulty, every failure, every moment of feeling so very helpless in the face of someone else’s pain. Because in the end, that faint flicker of hope that one day things will be better is more important than the struggle it takes to get there. 

Shang Qinghua doesn’t know what to do. 

He feels — odd. Like time has been put on pause even as everything moves on without it. (Without him. ) 

Shen Qingqiu is there, holding a bowl of warm water with a gentle smelling oil and a comb, and he has sat Shang Qinghua down at the table cushion with the strict words not to move, while his shixiong ‘does something about the mangled mess atop his head’.

Nobody has ever combed Shang Qinghua’s hair for him. Not in this life and especially not in the last. Back then he’d kept it cut short, and there hadn’t been anything to take care of. But in this life, cutting his hair is one of the most taboo acts he could commit. So he can’t get rid of it no matter how cumbersome it can be. No matter how much he wants that weight off his head. 

Except, in the same way that no one has combed his hair for him, neither has anyone ever taught Shang Qinghua what to do with all the hair he has. 

It’s not like he couldn’t have asked. But he had never found the courage to do so. And anyone he felt he could ask, he was too wary to. The last thing he wants is to be a bother for that person. They’re already so busy, they don’t need Shang Qinghua underfoot and proving how abysmal his upbringing in this life has truly been. 

So he puts it all up into a bun. It’s easy and acceptable in this setting. And even if it is somewhat feminine, he doesn’t care. If it’s up, it’s out of his way and doesn’t get as dirty so quickly. One less thing for him to worry about. 

Except, here is his shixiong, not quite tutting but definitely unimpressed as he works a comb through the hair that Shang Qinghua has spent so long doing his very best not to think about. 

“Shixiong?” He tries, hesitating. There’s a noise of acknowledgment from behind him, and so he barrels on. “It’s really fine, I can just put it back up —”

“You need to comb it or it will become tangled.” Shen Qingqiu cuts him off flatly. “The more tangled it becomes, the more matted, the more it might hurt your scalp later on.”

Shang Qinghua presses his lips together, staring down at his hands that he has pressed together in his lap. The comb continues to move through his now dry hair at a steady rate, almost hypnotically. It scratches gently against his scalp and then lifts away with a gentle abandon, taking the weight of his hair with it each time. 

It feels nice. 

It feels so nice that Shang Qinghua doesn’t want it to ever stop. 

“Shixiong,” his voice is wobbly. “I — I can… Shixiong does not have to trouble himself. This shidi can do it by myself.”

“No.” Shen Qingqiu says, simply. 

Aghast, Shang Qinghua tilts his head back, glancing up at the ceiling in confusion. He would look back at his shixiong, but the last time he’d done that Shen Qingqiu had given him an impatient look that could curdle milk. 

“Shixiong, why?” 

The comb glides along it’s established route, from Shang Qinghua’s crown to the ends of his hair. He doesn’t think — no, he knows his hair has never been this smooth. 

Shen Qingqiu finally pauses, comb poised again at the top of his head. He leans around Shang Qinghua’s shoulder and side eyes him with a raised brow. 

“It feels nice, doesn’t it?” He asks, knowingly. 

Shang Qinghua flushes a bright red. 

“I—” he ducks his head. 

Slowly, a small smile steals across Shen Qingqiu’s face. Of course, it’s smug, but it’s also a nice smile, and —

And people… don’t smile at Shang Qinghua. Not like that. Not like they mean it.

“I want to,” Shen Qingqiu says. He settles back behind Shang Qinghua, and the comb continues. “If it’s bad, tell me. I’ll stop.”

Shang Qinghua sucks in a deep breath. He sits stock still, tense, but as time passes them by and Shen Qingqiu’s ministrations with his hair continue, he feels himself slowly begin to relax, until he’s once again a puddle of mush under the comb. 

He doesn’t say a word. 

When Shen Qingqiu determines that his hair has sufficiently absorbed the oil, he reaches forward and gathers it up into his hands. The weight is lifted from Shang Qinghua’s scalp immediately and he very abruptly feels settled in his body for the first time in —

For the first time that he can remember in this life, he so suddenly feels like himself. 

Shang Qinghua brings up his hands and presses them over his face, slowing his breathing to a crawl. Because he knows that if he doesn’t, Shen Qingqiu will hear the hitch in his breath. 

It’s futile, because Shen Qingqiu pauses anyway and leans forward again to peer around his shoulder. 

“Is it bad?” He asks quietly. 

Shang Qinghua fears talking. He fears that if he starts, he’ll also allow the tears room to escape. He shakes his head. 

Shen Qingqiu hums and runs a hand through the hair that he holds. His fingers rub briefly against Shang Qinghua’s scalp, and oh no. That’s even better than the comb was. 

“I can put it in a bun, if you’d like.” His shixiong offers. 

Feeling a little bit like he’s been stretched already too thin, Shang Qinghua shrugs his shoulders. 

“Or, you can wear it down.”

He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, and realizes that he’s holding his breath in. But, he can’t make himself release it, and so he sits there with his chest feeling too tight. 

“Shidi?”

Shang Qinghua shrugs. 

Shen Qingqiu actually sounds unsure. “I don’t want to chose for you, shidi.”

“Can you, please?” Shang Qinghua rasps out, choked. “Shixiong, please? I’m… I’m really tired. I don’t know. I don’t — Shixiong, I don’t want to.”

Shen Qingqiu quietly begins moving his hair about, tugging gently on it here and there. The weight is there again, but not as heavy as Shang Qinghua can remember it being, and he releases a shaky breath. 

“Alright.” Shen Qingqiu says. “I’m only going to braid the top of it back for you. That’s fine, right?”

“Yes, that’s fine.” Shang Qinghua says immediately, relieved. 

Shen Qingqiu doesn’t reply, apparently turning his focus to the task at hand.

Shang Qinghua folds his hands together over his legs and sits as still as he can, wondering once again how the hell he had gotten here. 

It’s when Shen Qingqiu is tying the braid off that he says, “Mu Qingfang is here to check over your meridians.”

Shang Qinghua jolts, lifting his head up to peer over his shoulder at the other head disciple. “… Now?”

Dipping his head, Shen Qingqiu affirms, “He’s in the other room with the tea.”

“Has he been there this whole time?”

“It’s very late in the morning. We wanted shidi to get as much rest as he could.”

Shang Qinghua rubs the pad of his thumb back and forth across the length of his forefinger. He bites his lip. “But, if he’s been waiting long… because of this disciple….”

“You think this shixiong is a boring host, shidi?” Shen Qinghua asks dryly. 

“No, not at all!” Shang Qinghua shakes his head furiously. “A-Apologies—”

“Enough of that, I was only teasing. Stand up now, the tea should still be warm.”

Still a little jittery, and feeling guilty for keeping someone as busy as Mu Qingfang waiting (and Shang Qinghua knows, out of anyone else, just how busy it is being the second in command of Qian Cao, and how little time Mu Qingfang has to dedicate to simple visiting like this), Shang Qinghua lets Shen Qingqiu help him stand up only because he is too distracted to haul himself to his feet before the other can offer. 

Exhaustion catches him as they walk down the hallway that connects the guest room and kitchen with the main room and the rest of the house. He thinks it’s rather unfair — hadn’t he just been sleeping a little while ago? And for some uninterrupted hours, too! He’s managed more on much less than that before. 

Maybe that’s just the thing with being… ill. 

He’s still not too sure what to think about that. 

Shang Qinghua knows that this isn’t the first time he’s had a qi deviation. Just the worst. There really hadn’t been a better place for him to finally collapse from the tangled mess of his cultivation than right in front of the one doctor (and doctor in training) in the world who could actually save him from it. It’s just absolutely humiliating, and Shang Qinghua still hasn’t decided whether he’d rather have simply died instead. 

(That’s a lie. He knows exactly how dying goes and he never wants to experience it again. He’s half convinced he shouldn’t remember at all. That, maybe, a person who is alive isn't supposed to know something like that.)

Mu Qingfang sits at the table with his hands folded neatly around a steaming tea cup, and he smiles gently up at them as they join him. 

“Good morning, Qinghua-shixiong,” he says, and Shang Qinghua remembers the familiar way in which he’d chosen to address him back in Qian Cao. “I hope you managed to get some good rest.”

Shang Qinghua settles himself into the seat directly across from him, and watches with wide eyes as Shen Qingqiu pours tea for both him and himself without even being prompted — not that Shang Qinghua would ever dare. 

Usually, it’s him pouring tea for others. 

“I’m fine,” he says absently, and then nods back a greeting in a rush when he realizes how rude he’s being. “G-good morning… shidi.”

Mu Qingfang’s smile is unchanging and patient. 

“I’m not quite sure I entirely believe that, considering the circumstances.” The doctor in training says.

He raises an eyebrow, and Shang Qinghua winces. Mu Qingfang’s face smoothes out again, as if the skepticism was never there in the first place. 

Ducking his head, Shang Qinghua looks down at his tea. “Sorry.”

“What did I say about apologizing if you’ve done nothing wrong?” Shen Qingqiu says sharply.”

“But I —” Shang Qinghua glances between the two other head disciples, befuddled. “I… didn’t I…?”

“No, Shen-shixiong is right.” Mu Qingfang assures him. “No apologies needed, shixiong. Anyway, I came to check on your meridians. I wanted to make sure they’re settling alright after what happened.”

“Okay.” Shang Qinghua says.

Mu Qingfang pauses. There’s a brief moment of quiet, awkwardness seeping into the air between the trio of them, before the Qian Cao disciple clears his throat and holds out a hand. 

“Ah, shixiong… if it’s alright that I hold your wrist…?”

Oh, right! Embarrassed, Shang Qinghua hurriedly thrusts out his arm, wrist bared upward, and he goes to rub at the back of his head sheepishly with the other hand. 

He pauses, at the long sheaf of hair there, that hangs neatly down his back. It’s straight, mostly; soft, and light. He pulls a loose strand of it away from the rest to peer at it in a silent sort of fascination, rubbing it between his fingers as he feels how sleek and smooth it is. It’s never felt like this before. 

He doesn’t notice the stares of the other two in the room, momentarily too distracted by the strangeness. He doesn’t see the looks that are exchanged above his head, Mu Qingfang’s unsettled frown nor Shen Qingqiu’s pursed lips.  

Mu Qingfang holds Shang Qinghua’s wrist in between his palms, his cool and soothing qi flowing in through the point of contact and Shang Qinghua struggles not to fall asleep right then and there. 

It had been a long night, and though he eventually — somehow — fell asleep, it was only a few hours before the sun began to rise, and Shang Qinghua is long since used to waking up before then. And everything that’s already happened this morning is… a lot. He already wants to go back to bed, which is a very familiar feeling. It’s only that, now, he’s not being permitted to power through it like he normally does. 

But Mu Qingfang’s qi feels so different from Shang Qinghua’s. It’s icy, like a balm against sore and burning muscles. In comparison, Shang Qinghua’s qi feels almost feverish, and the meridians nearest his wrist almost immediately calm at the welcomed new energy. 

He lets out a sigh without meaning to, relaxing where he sits. He releases the strand of his hair, allowing it to flutter down to settle against his chest instead, and feels his eyes go half-lidded. 

Shen Qingqiu scowls at him. 

“You didn’t say it was that bad,” he accuses. 

“I-I didn’t know, shixiong.” Shang Qinghua says, amazed at the sudden lack of the pounding that had become so familiar inside his own head. 

At that, Shen Qingqiu graces him with a silent stare, his brow furrowed and his mouth a pale thin line, but he doesn’t say anything. 

Mu Qingfang opens his eyes.

“As I thought,” he says, “still rather jumpy. It’s at least far better than before, but it has a long way to go before I would even think about actually moving you on to using it again.” 

“Sorry, shidi.”

“Qinghua-shixiong, it’s not your fault at all. One’s qi always takes quite a while to settle after something so tumultuous as a deviation, no matter the magnitude. You will just have to be patient with this shidi and his slow work in the meantime.”

“Okay.” Shang Qinghua murmurs, rubbing the back of his hand under his eye.

The absence of his typical headache is really making him give in to the tiredness when he would have fought against it instead. 

“Shixiong must not — are you listening, Qinghua-shixiong?” Mu Qingfang checks, and Shang Qinghua blinks rapidly, nodding his head. He sits up straighter, and the doctor in training eyes him closely before continuing. “Your core is unsettled and your qi is… for lack of a better word, very brittle right now. During these next few weeks, until it has had a chance to calm itself, you are at a high risk of experiencing another deviation. Given the seriousness of this one, we have no way of predicting how the next might affect you.”

“Oh.” Shang Qinghua says quietly, disheartened. It isn’t over yet? 

Mu Qingfang reaches out and gently pats the back of his hand. His touch is warm, and Shang Qinghua wants to grab onto it and hold it himself but that would be — inappropriate, probably. So he doesn’t. And when his shidi takes his hand back, Shang Qinghua strangely feels like crying all over again. 

Idiot. He’s been fine until recently! He hardly ever cried! Why is he being such a baby lately?!

“It should be fine, shixiong. You know that you should be careful, and you have all your martial siblings to help you. Together, we’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again, alright?”

Shang Qinghua nods, but in his heart he can’t really find any confidence in the probably empty platitudes his shidi is giving him, and it must show on his face because Mu Qingfang lets out a quiet sigh and exchanges a look with Shen-shixiong, whose expression is as flat as always. 

Shang Qinghua cringes inwardly. 

“Yes… okay.” He says quickly, averting his gaze down to the tea instead. 

“I want to impress upon you the seriousness of it, however,” Mu Qingfang decides to continue, looking reluctant. “Qinghua-shixiong, your cultivation might not survive another deviation. You might not survive. You need to be very careful until your core settles from this.”

Shang Qinghua pales. He nods silently, unable to speak. 

“This is why, for the next few weeks at least, you will be staying with Shen-shixiong.”

“I—” If possible, Shang Qinghua pales even further. His gaze snaps over to Shen Qingqiu, whose face remains unchanged, arms crossed over his chest. “Is that — is that fine, though?”

“I offered.” Shen Qingqiu says, eyes narrowing. 

“But I — You don’t have to, I can find somewhere else to —” He sits up, eyes brightening. “I can —”

“You will not return to An Ding.” Shen Qingqiu snaps. 

Shrinking back, Shang Qinghua stares at him with wide eyes. He glances at Mu Qingfang, who looks just as upset at the proposal that he hadn’t even voiced. Why are they all so adamant that he not return to his peak? He doesn’t understand.

“But,” he attempts, a little helplessly. “I’m head disciple….”

For some reason, this makes Mu Qingfang soften. He reaches out again to touch the back of Shang Qinghua’s hand, and this time Shang Qinghua just stares down at it, registering the warmth but not quite feeling it. 

“You are,” the Qian Cao disciple agrees gently. “But, shixiong, I’m your doctor, and we’re trying to keep you alive here. Your life is more important than your work.”

Isn’t it the opposite, though?! If Shang Qinghua doesn’t accomplish his work, his mission, he would die, balanced qi or no!

He doesn’t want to die again. 

Shang Qinghua carefully slides his hand out from beneath Mu Qingfang’s and draws it into his lap. He folds both his hands together and stares down at the table unseeingly. 

Mu Qingfang allows him to withdraw, but Shang Qinghua doesn’t see the way that his lips turn down at the corners as he and Shen Qingqiu both watch him in silence. 

It’s like a rock and a hard place, and Shang Qinghua is between them with absolutely nowhere to go. No way to win. 

Above them, Shen-shixiong releases a quiet sigh. 

“It’s almost time for midday meal. Will you be staying, Mu-shidi?” He asks. It’s not really an invitation, but it’s also not quiet a dismissal. 

It’s confusing to Shang Qinghua, who still can’t make heads nor tails of this new Shen Jiu that he doesn’t know, but for some reason Mu Qingfang seems to understand.

He stands up and makes a little bow, hands clasped before him. 

“This shidi has some other things he must see to today,” he says, “begging shixiong’s pardon. I will return later tonight, though, with some prescriptions I feel would help with Qinghua-shixiong’s recovery. If that is alright?”

“Mu-shidi is welcome here.” Shen Qingqiu allows imperiously.

The smile that steals across Mu Qingfang’s face, then, is something quietly breathtaking, and both Shang Qinghua and Shen Qingqiu look away from it.

Neither of them thinks that they really deserve to see it.  

“Alright. Tonight, then!”

“Tonight,” Shen Qingqiu echoes, then stands to lead their martial brother to the door. 

Shang Qinghua stares down at his wrist, missing the sensation of someone else's touch handling it so carefully. He slowly covers it with his sleeve again, and sits with his tea even though he can feel the weight of this entire world pressing down on him. 

No, he thinks. He doesn’t deserve to see a smile like that. 

Chapter Text

Shen Jiu has never been a stupid child. 

Even when he was smaller than a tea plant, he’d long since known the truth of the world — that it is unfair and cares for no one, regardless of their station. And the outlier of this fact is that, despite that being the truth, some people are just born into luck, while others are born into despair.

He has always wondered, is that a consequence of a previous life? Had he done something particularly awful before he had died the last time; something so terrible that it’s karma followed his soul into rebirth? 

It is the point of dying and being reborn, that Shen Jiu will simply never know the answer to that. 

Sometimes, when the world is dark outside and Shen Jiu is lying beneath a blanket, he wishes that one did not have to die first before getting to drink Meng Po’s soup. 

He’d always thought that it would have been so much easier, coming to Cang Qiong Sect without any of the memories that have always kept him submerged in bitterness. 

That it would be easier to look Yue Qingyuan in the face without remembering that he had once been abandoned by him. That Shen Jiu could look at the ever-present smile on that man’s face and be ignorant to the way that it is twisted in guilt. That he could look at that smile and trust it to be real .

Shen Jiu waves at the small flame with his fan, watching with empty eyes as it vanishes. The simple heat that it had emitted goes along with it, leaving him slightly cold aside from the steam wafting up from the congee inside the pot. 

He reaches for the small side table and takes up a packet of medicine. Untying it, he upends the contents into the pot. The finely-ground powder is the color of milled rice, and as Shen Jiu stirs it disappears into the congee until it’s as if he’d never poured anything into it at all. 

This is to help the fluctuations in Shang Qinghua’s qi. Even now, after being treated by Yaozhi-shibo himself who is a very renowned master of his profession, the flow throughout Shang Qinghua’s meridians still veers dangerously in every direction, almost as if they don’t remember which way they’re suppose to go. 

Mu Qingfang, in fact, had described it even worse. It’s almost as if the meridians had never known how to flow correctly in the first place. 

Shen Jiu’s throat tightens, and he hooks the ladle against the side of the pot. 

That could have been him, he knows. Before Yue Qingyuan had stumbled across him and dragged him back to the mountains. After that… fire… Wu Yanzi had told Shen Jiu that he would take him as a student, but instead of teaching him even his own demonic cultivation, the terrible man had been grooming Shen Jiu to one day be used as a cauldron for himself. 

With a cultivation base like that… something so twisted from what a stable foundation should be — Shen Jiu’s own meridians would have turned upon him and strangled his spirit until his body was all that was left: alive but lifeless, breathing without a soul. 

After that, Wu Yanzi could have done whatever he’d wanted with him. 

Shen Jiu is glad, truthfully, that he had killed the man. Even if it had been to protect Yue Qingyuan, who would never do the same if their positions were reversed, and despite the stain that it has left upon Shen Jiu’s soul… he’s glad. 

If he hadn’t, who knows what would have happened to him, or what condition his cultivation would have been doomed to?

He ladles into a bowl the medicinal congee that he remembers being prescribed to himself years ago by Mu Qingfang. Shen Jiu had only needed a bowl every week for six months before his meridians had thankfully managed to sort themselves out. He can barely recall what it tastes like, now. 

Shang Qinghua will have to take this once a day, every day, for the next three years, if he ever wants his golden core to stabilize like it should have been at its formation. 

Shen Jiu reaches over and calmly pries his own fingers away from the ladle, where his knuckles have become white around its handle. He sets it back in the pot and arranges the bowl on a tray that also bears a tea set. He takes the tray into his hands and walks without much hurry over to the table. 

That could have been him.

Shen Jiu can’t stop thinking it. 

If he hadn’t darkened his own soul with the murder of Wu Yanzi, if Yue Qingyuan had not come across him in that forest and spurred him to do it — if Wu Yanzi hadn’t found him and taken him to the inn that night, if Shen Jiu had spent a second longer in the spiritually toxic rift that the Qiu fire had resulted in thanks to Qiu Jianluo’s shady experiments…

Shen Jiu’s meridians would be such as Shang Qinghua’s are now. His core would be that weak, the barely flickering light that emanates from where it’s buried deep within his shidi’s dantian. 

It makes Shen Jiu doubt. It makes him wonder, was every misfortune he has faced in his life only the steps of the staircase that he’d had to climb to reach his own salvation?

And that thought makes him have doubts everywhere else. Things that he had once thought to be unshakable truths are now things he hesitates to think he must reconsider. 

Because, even amongst all the loud and chaotic events of the head disciple meeting, all the information they’d uncovered that day, the revealing of Shang Qinghua’s abuse and the ignorant, heartless neglect of their own teachers — amongst all of it, one thing had stood out to Shen Jiu the most. 

“This is — frankly, the second worst case I’ve ever seen before.” 

Yaozhi-shibo — who has had centuries to witness all kinds of terrible ailments — had said that regarding Shang Qinghua’s qi deviation, which was already so horrible. 

And then, the doctor had looked right at Yue Qingyuan. 

Yue Qingyuan, who’s cultivation is unshakeable, who’s golden core shines the brightest of them all. Yue Qingyuan, who is the model student, who is the strongest disciple — because he would not be next in line to lead the entire sect if he wasn’t. Yue Qingyuan, who does not even need to draw his own sword to settle a dispute. 

Yue Qingyuan, whose face had been paler than snow as he watched their shidi suffer his deviation. Whose eyes had shone with empathy  and not sympathy. Who, when he had been faced with Yaoshi-shibo’s gaze, had turned his own down to the floor as if he could not bear to meet it. 

Shen Jiu — if he was wrong about all of this, in regards to Yue Qingyuan, whose cultivation apparently was not unshakeable and never had been—

What else could he be wrong about?

What other truths that have plagued his heart all these years are in fact only assumptions?

That Yue Qingyuan had arrived at Cang Qiong and had become a disciple like he had said he would, and then had went on to focus only on becoming the strongest while disregarding his promise to find strength and then return for Shen Jiu and remove him from that terrible house —

If that’s not what had happened…

What had happened?

His eyes sting and a thick feeling rises in his throat. Shen Jiu, hovering uselessly over the set table, rubs at his face furiously with both his palms and grits his teeth. 

He can’t have been wrong. 

If he was wrong, then why has Yue Qingyuan’s answer to his questions always been guilty silence ?!

He sucks in a breath, shaken to his core even if he rejects acknowledging it. He can’t think of this anymore. 

He turns around and goes to wake Shang Qinghua so he can take his medicine. 

Only to find a stranger standing, frozen, in the entrance of the hallway, watching him with glittering eyes. 

An Ding robes and a quankin pouch clutched in their hands. 

Shen Jiu unsheathes his sword.

“What,” he begins dangerously, “are you doing here?”

The disciple, a young girl on the small side, presses her lips together and regards him with wide eyes, but doesn’t respond. 

“You, who have been told not to come near here upon pain of grievous injury. And yet, you are here. Does the disciple understand what must happen now?”

Finally, the pale faced girl’s expression shows an emotion other than blank fear. Instead of more fear or apology, her lips twist downward in stubborn determination.

Shen Jiu’s grip on Xiu Ya tightens further. His eyes flash with the incredulous rage that he feels in his heart. 

“Wrong answer.” He seethes, and steps forward. 

The girl throws her hands up before herself, shrinking back. 

“Disciple isn’t here to give dashixiong anything regarding An Ding!” She snaps. 

Despite her fear, she is stubborn and even outraged at Shen Jiu’s unspoken accusations. 

His steps slow. Shen Jiu pauses, but he does not lower his blade. 

Despite everything happening, he is almost impressed at this tiny child’s attempts at standing against him. 

Almost. 

“You break into this dashixiong’s own home without invitation — actually, acting against a direct order to stay away . For breaking such a rule and being so disobedient, is it not right that the disciple face a harsh punishment?”

The An Ding disciple audibly grits her teeth. There is a fierce scowl on her otherwise youthful features as she regards Shen Jiu. 

Again, somewhat impressive. 

But, Shen Jiu is not wrong. This girl will have to face punishment regardless of whether her intentions here are good or bad. And, being so obstinate in the face of being caught, he is rather unempathetic to what she will face after this. That is despite her being An Ding at all. 

Right now, Shen Jiu has no patience for anyone from that peak. 

“Well?” He demands. 

“Long Yu just wants to see her dashixiong.” The disciple hisses out from between her teeth. 

“Disciple Long is disrespecting her shizun and her peak by coming here.” Shen Jiu says. 

Honestly, he couldn’t give a damn whether Mo Yaomei is disrespected or not. But to break into Shen Jiu’s home? That’s not just disobeying, that’s a crime .

Maybe idiocy is just a contagious An Ding disease.

Long Yue’s glare only becomes even more fierce. “Shizun should be disrespected!” She spits out, unknowingly repeating Shen Jiu’s own thoughts. 

Speechless, Shen Jiu can’t stop his eyes from widening in shock. The point of his sword wavers and lowers an inch more toward the ground without his intention.

“To say such a thing out loud….”

“Meaning, Shen-dashixiong also thinks so.” Long Yu sniffs. She straightens up and folds her hands around the pouch behind her back. “If it does not leave this house, who is to say it was even spoken?”

“This dashixiong himself.” Shen Jiu retorts rather dryly. Continuously, this brat is impressive. Disobedient and insulting in ways even he himself would never dare to be. “Inside this house, where shimei is not supposed to be? There is no way that you will not be punished.”

“Disciple knows this.”

Shen Jiu frowns. “Then, why?”

“Disciple wants to see her dashixiong.”

“Impossible.”

Long Yu’s glare vanishes. Her face twists in something like anguish, like she has been greatly wronged and finally ran out of energy to fuel her anger. 

“Disciple wants to see if her dashixiong is okay.” She whispers, and this time her words shake slightly. Her eyes glisten even though her jaw is still clenched. Her shoulders are held up near her ears.

A child who is trying to be brave.

Shen Jiu takes a breath. He closes his eyes for a moment. 

A child who is brave. Perhaps too brave. 

He realizes his sword has lowered completely without his intention. Scoffing, he lifts the blade up again and, ignoring Long Yu’s flinch, slides the blade back into its sheath. 

The two of them stand there in a tense silence that is thick enough to fill the room. Shen Jiu’s face is blank, and Long Yu looks like she is furiously combating her own tears. 

Finally, Shen Jiu flattens his mouth. 

“Shang Qinghua is well. The disciple Long Yu will now return to her peak and face punishment.” 

Long Yu’s own mouth forms a tight, pale line. 

“Disciple wishes to see her dashixiong.”

“The disciple can wish all that she pleases.” Shen Jiu snaps, taking another step forward.

“Disciple needs to see that her dashixiong is well.” Long Yu reiterates stubbornly. Her glare has returned, contrasting her tearful eyes. 

“Does Long Yu believe that this dashixiong would lie about such a thing?”

Long Yu casts him a flat look. “Is Shen-dashixiong truly so ignorant of his own reputation?”

Shen Jiu blinks, furious. His jaw twitches. 

He is not. 

“Long Yu’s dashixiong has suffered so greatly already.” The disciple continues, voice thick with emotion and struggling to retain a steadiness. “She just wants to make sure that it has not continued.”

Shen Jiu is silent for a long moment. He opens his mouth to speak, but then closes it again when he changes his mind after noticing something in Long Yu’s behavior. 

Instead, he becomes calm and arches a brow at her to show how unimpressed he is with her blustering. 

“And?” He asks.

Long Yu blinks. She seems confused that Shen Jiu has refused to rise to her bait.   

Seriously, does this child have a death wish?

“Disciple has not lied,” Long Yu slowly says, watching him. “She has not brought any thing regarding An Ding peak for her dashixiong.”

“This senior is not asking about that.” Shen Jiu replies calmly. “Even though Disciple Long has indeed brought something for her dashixiong, and it’s possible that it regards another peak instead.”

Long Yu frowns at him. “Disciple has not brought work for her dashixiong, who is supposed to be resting!”

“Then what has the disciple brought for her dashixiong?”

Long Yu glances away, sullen. 

Shen Jiu stares at her. 

“Even if it is not work, or even a thing — ignoring that pouch you have for now — it does regard An Ding.” He surmises, watching Long Yu’s face fall. 

Yes, she thought she was being clever with her words, but Shen Jiu has been at this game a lot longer than this child.

“So?” He asks, raising his brow once more. “Kneel, and explain yourself right now, or this senior will bring the disciple’s elders to punish her for her rule breaking.”

A long moment passes between them, during which Long Yu grits her teeth and stares at Shen Jiu with a look of contemplation. 

Finally, the girl sinks to her knees on the hard floor and folds her hands in her lap, the quankin pouch nowhere in sight — probably tucked into her belt.

“Da-shixiong has been under Shen-dashixiong’s care for a few days now,” Long Yu says, eyes narrowing up at him. “In that time, surely Shen-dashixiong has noticed how… tightly wound this disciple’s dashixiong can become.”

“He’s just had a qi deviation.” Shen Jiu says flatly, unimpressed with her weak reasoning. “Hardly anyone wouldn’t be tightly wound after such an experience.”

“What Shen-dashixiong doesn’t understand, though, is that this is how this one’s dashixiong always is.” Long Yu purses her lips, arms crossing over her chest. Shen Jiu can see her becoming a rather formidable woman in the future. Right now, though, all she is is a little girl. “The less he knows about how things are going, the less he is able to be at ease. Dashixiong prefers to be kept up to date on all the latest information, and he becomes uncomfortable and even more stressed when he is left in the dark. Surely, Shen-dashixiong can understand this?”

Shen Jiu hates it, but he actually can. He himself feels most at ease when he can be certain of what is happening around him. Not knowing things means being surprised by things and, more often than not, those surprises are not good. 

It’s just simply better to know everything, because then you can have the best defense. Impenetrable. Safe. 

It’s another reason why the situation with Yue Qingyuan makes Shen Jiu so furious . How can he ensure that both of them are safe if the blasted man won’t tell Shen Jiu anything?!

Stomach sinking into his gut, Shen Jiu releases a sigh and pulls his fan free of his belt. 

He supposes that this is the point that Long Yu is attempting to make here. 

He is finding that he and Shang Qinghua are more similar with each passing day, and Shen Jiu…. Honestly, he would prefer anything but . 

If it were anything else, then he wouldn’t have to care. 

This caring, Shen Jiu isn’t exactly partial to it. In fact, he dislikes it. 

“So, what Long Yu has brought her dashixiong is information.” He says, finally. 

“Shen-dashixiong,” Long Yu insists, frowning up at him in a manner that does nothing to hide her stubbornness. “Please understand.”

“I understand.” He says sharply, fan snapping open to cover the way that his lips turn downward in distaste. “This does not mean that I approve.”

Long Yu, the unmannered brat, actually has the audacity to sigh at him. What are they teaching them on An Ding? Not etiquette? Absolutely nothing besides how to do paperwork? Shen Jiu wouldn’t disbelieve it. 

Long Yu pauses, looking puzzled. “Shen-dashixiong… then….”

“Then, what?” He snaps, irate. First, she sneaks into his home. Then, she almost disturbs Qinghua, who needs all the rest ( and peace ) that he can get. And now, what’s she doing? Arguing with him?! 

This little girl…. Truly unbelievable.

“It’s only….” This Long Yu, she sighs again! 

“Spit it out.” Shen Jiu says darkly, gritting his teeth and wondering why he is even entertaining her. 

Except, where else is he going to get insight on how things at An Ding were for his shidi? Only someone from the inside can be accurate. 

Since she brought information with her, even if it was intended for Shang Qinghua, Shen Jiu will hear it too. 

And more pieces of the image that is slowly being built in his mind can fall into place. Answers can be found. 

Even if he doesn’t like them. 

“It’s been almost three weeks. This shimei and her siblings have been greatly worried about our dashixiong.”

“Your siblings, hm?” Shen Jiu’s lips go flat, and he is not moved. 

After all, those An Ding disciples… any one of them could have been part of what has happened to his shidi. 

Long Yu seems to understand what he is leaving unspoken, because her face darkens. 

“This shimei and her siblings, we are of the lower disciples.” She says. “Younger than the seniors who worked with dashixiong. Our dashixiong, he is the kindest and most hardworking person in the sect, and we are loyal to him, Shen-dashixiong!”

Kind. Hardworking. Trustworthy. Admirable. 

All but one is the opposite of Shen Jiu himself. Again, how are he and Shang Qinghua at all similar?

Shen Jiu draws in a slow breath. 

No, he knows how. 

It only makes him angrier, that someone who is in fact a good person has suffered in the way that he once had. 

Shen Jiu, at least, is settled with the knowledge that he is anything but good. But Shang Qinghua? That’s different. 

He opens his mouth to respond, but a creak at the other end of the room signals that they are no longer alone.

They both turn, and Shang Qinghua leans out of the hallway, hair slightly mussed from sleep and a look of confusion on his face. 

“Long-shimei?” He wonders. His voice is thick still with exhaustion, and Shen Jiu’s lips curve downward. 

Long Yu lunges to her feet, halfway across the room in the blink of an eye. 

“Dashixiong!” Her previously stubborn and dour demeanor has disappeared abruptly to be replaced by an expression so bright that it’s nearly eye-searing. 

Without another word, Long Yu throws her arms around the older boy and pillows her head into his chest, completely bypassing the way that Shang Qinghua has gone rigid under the touch. 

Shen Jiu steps over, a dark look on his face and his fan waving imperiously. He’s about to reach out and yank this idiotic and brainless girl off his shidi when something stops him mid-motion. 

Shang Qinghua, the shock draining away from him, melts into his shimei’s embrace. There’s an expression of abject confusion on his face, but otherwise his body language is completely accepting and even, perhaps, eager.

Shen Jiu’s fan wavers, dipping down for a fraction of a second, and he unobtrusively steps away again to give them space. 

Oh. 

It’s nearly enough time for thirty breaths before Long Yu finally steps back and beams up at her dazed looking head disciple, and Shen Jiu makes the decision to keep quiet for now. 

“Did dashixiong sleep well?” The girl asks, as if she hadn’t just held her senior captive for such an amount of time. “How is he feeling? Can this shimei help with anything?”

“Ah…” Overwhelmed by the rapid-fire questions — as well as, likely, the embrace itself — Shang Qinghua blinks down at her in bemusement. “Long-shimei is here… why is that?” 

Suddenly, he perks up, and a loathsome feeling of upset uncurls in Shen Jiu’s stomach when, speaking a little quicker, Shang Qinghua asks, “Did shimei bring work for this disciple?”

“Da shixiong .” Long Yu stares up at him with a hard look. Her lower lip juts out. “No! Didn’t the doctor order for dashixiong to take it easy? Shimei definitely heard this. Why would this shimei bring work for her dashixiong when he is suppose to be resting?”

Shang Qinghua looks put out, almost disappointed in the way his shoulders drop. 

Shen Jiu presses his mouth flat. Seriously, this junior of his… What the hell is he supposed to do with him?

“But, then,” his shidi says slowly, clearly trying to understand, “why is shimei here?”

Long Yu sniffs. “To make sure dashixiong is alright. We are worried!”

“Oh.” Shang Qinghua actually looks guilty at that. “… Sorry.”

This time, when Shen Jiu is again about to step in, Long Yu just crosses her arms and pins her dashixiong with a deeply chiding look akin to a mother with her child. 

“Dashixiong, why would you say such a thing? Shimei and her siblings care for dashixiong, so of course we would be concerned for him!” 

She spins around and looks toward Shen Jiu, then, completely ignoring the way that her previous words have caused Shang Qinghua’s eyes to widen in shock. 

“Shen-dashixiong!” She says, reaching into her belt to fish out the quankin pouch from earlier. “This shimei has brought her dashixiong his favorite snacks and tea blend. Would Shen-dashixiong permit her to brew it for him?”

Feeling a little bit like he’s been wrung through and laid out to dry for some reason, Shen Jiu doesn’t put up a fight. It’s clear that, even if he said no, this irritating slip of a brat would still find a way to get it done despite him. 

“What tea?” He asks a little tiredly. “This senior will get the pot. Shang-shidi must take the medicinal soup first, before the snacks.”

“A certain jasmine blossom from the Tian Yi Overlook.” Long Yu chimes cheerfully, following after him even as Shang Qinghua seems to brighten at the words.

Suddenly, Shen Ju is actually grateful it was Long Yu who had decided to come and check up on her dashixiong. She at least reminds him a little bit of the younger sister Chao-er, from the Warm Red Pavilion. If it had been a lower male An Ding disciple, Shen Jiu would have instead drop kicked that kid off the peak before ever allowing him through the door. 

And, seeing how light Shang Qinghua’s eyes have become while he watches in bemusement as Long Yu happily putters around Shen Jiu’s home in a rather disgustingly domestic way, Shen Jiu thinks that maybe he can let this one slide. 

Just this one time. 

Later, after Shang Qinghua has fallen back asleep over his half-finished snacks and been led back to rest, Shen Jiu rinses and sets out the teapot to dry. When he turns back to the main room, it’s to find Long Yu posturing in a deep bow, her hands clasped out toward him.

Blinking, startled, Shen Jiu actually takes a step back.

“What’s this?” He demands, glaring down at the insipid girl. 

“This shimei is grateful toward Shen-dashixiong for taking such wonderful care of her dear dashixiong.” Long Yu raises her head, and Shen Jiu’s mouth flattens into a pale and thin line when he realizes her eyes are actually watery with emotion.

“That’s not something to thank me for!” He scolds, beyond done with this entire ordeal. It’s late. He is tired and wants to go to bed himself, and forget this happened at all. “Shang Qinghua is my shidi. As his shixiong, I am only doing my duty toward him. Stop being ridiculous.”

But Long Yu’s eyes are serious when she continues.

“I have never seen dashixiong so rested and relaxed before.” She says. She glances back toward the hallways leading toward the guest room and sniffles. “Shen-dashixiong… truly, he is a kind and diligent shixiong. This shimei is very relieved that he is there for her dashixiong.”

Shen Jiu feels his face begin to grow warm. Horrified, he whips open his fan to cover it and grits his teeth. 

“There is surely a great amount of work to be done on An Ding this evening.” He manages lowly. “Shimei should return so that her martial siblings will not be forced to take care of it alone.”

Long Yu brightens , it’s actually horrible. 

“Shen-dashixiong truly cares about his fellow sect disciples,” she crows, which is arguably worse . “Qing Jing peak is so lucky to have him!”

Face black, Shen Jiu begins to forcefully herd her toward the door. She has overstayed her welcome, which in fact she had never been given in the first place! He wants her out of his house!

“It’s time for you to be leaving now.” He orders. 

“Truly, all the rumors about Shen-dashixiong are such bold-faced lies. How dare they slander such a good person?”

“The audacity of you,” Shen Jiu hisses, backing her in until she only has the door as an option. “It’s reprehensible.”

“Shimei is an honest disciple!” Long Yu pouts. “Now that she knows the truth, she will always stand up for Shen-dashixiong no matter what!”

“Get out .” Shen Jiu tells her. 

A gleam enters Long Yu’s eyes, suddenly. She glances up at him from beneath her lashes. 

“As long as Shen-dashixiong continues to care so diligently for this lowly disciple’s dear dashixiong.” She continues, in a much quieter voice. 

Shen Jiu pauses. 

With one last smile, Long Yu dips into a bow and backs out through the door. 

“Disciple thanks Shen-dashixiong for his hospitality.” She demures, and then turns and takes off down the path in a dead sprint, as if there are demons on her heels. 

Staring after her as she quickly vanishes into the bamboo, Shen Jiu stands still. 

Has he… just been threatened?

He retreats back into his home and pulls the door shut. Turning to press his back against the wood, Shen Jiu puts away his fan and instead covers his mouth with his hand.

His shoulders shake, and he tilts his head back as he settles to ride out this abrupt wave of laughter that has overtaken him. 

He hadn’t known… tiny disciples like that, they can be so territorial, can’t they?

“Shimei doesn’t need to threaten me,” he mutters into his palm once his chuckles have died away. 

He pushes away from the door and makes his way across the room to begin putting away the rest of the snacks for Shang Qinghua to finish later when he wakes. 

“… I would have done it anyway.”

Chapter Text

Two days after Long Yu’s visit, there’s a polite knock on Shen Qingqiu’s front door. 

It doesn’t take a lot of thought to figure out who it is. Of all of the sect, only the head disciples currently have any sort of permission to approach this house, or so Shen Qingqiu has told him. Out of the head disciples, only a handful of them actually observe their own manners (again, Shen Qingqiu’s words, but Shang Qinghua knows these people well enough even if he’s barely met most of them) and Mu Qingfang is not yet due for another visit. 

Shen Qingqiu’s face is unreadable as he places a bowl of congee on the table before him. Shang Qinghua immediately reaches for the spoon without prompting — being treated with an unforgiving stare from his shixiong every time he’d waited to eat until his senior did first had been quick to instill this new habit into him. 

He sips from the soup spoon silently, and watches as Shen Qingqiu sits back on his heels as if he’s waiting for something. 

There’s another knock on the door, but no one calls out. 

Mu Qingfang would have at least checked to see if they were awake yet. 

A dark look crosses over Shen Qingqiu’s face, and the man releases a long and quiet sigh. His eyes are trained down at the table, lips flat, and Shang Qinghua thinks his hands are clenched in the fabric of his sleeves. 

Shang Qinghua takes another mouthful of congee and swallows it, the faint bitterness of the medicine mixed into it making for an interesting taste all around. He licks broth away from his lips, and inwardly cringes when another knock sounds from the door. 

“… Shixiong?” He asks, quietly fretting.

Shen Qingqiu’s lips turn downward at the corners, brows pulling into a faint frown. With another, deeper sigh, he slowly stands to his feet and makes his way over to the door. 

He slides it open and suddenly his frown has transformed into a scowl, which — Honestly, Shang Qinghua thinks it might just be force of habit, because Shen Qingqiu had obviously already known who was standing on the other side before he’d even opened it. 

Right over there, loose fist still raised as if he were about to knock for a fourth time, Yue Qingyuan sees the scowl and his entire countenance seems to droop. 

“Qingqiu-shidi.” He greets quietly. 

“What are you standing there for?” Shen Qingqiu snaps. “Stop looming like a tree and come inside.”

Rather than being insulted, the words seem to cause Yue Qingyuan to brighten a minuscule amount.

It’s sad. It’s really just plain tragic. 

Shang Qinghua turns back to his congee in a quick motion, heart beating a little too fast and feeling like he’d just been looking at something he wasn’t supposed to. 

He keeps his eyes lowered while his two shixiong do some sort of dance around each other in their efforts to get situated. The air in the house is suppressive and awkward, and Shang Qinghua makes it his utmost mission to narrow his focus solely upon the food he is tasked with finishing. By the time he’s finished half, Yue Qingyuan and Shen Qingqiu have settled around the table and tea has been poured. 

And now, there’s a thick disquiet than hangs over their heads like a guillotine. 

Shang Qinghua shifts nervously on his cushion, shoving another spoonful of congee into his mouth so that he will not be asked to speak. Because if he were addressed by either of these men right now, he wouldn’t know what to say. 

He doesn’t think they know what to say, either. Not to each other. 

They never have. 

That’s kind of the entire problem. 

Yue Qingyuan clears his throat carefully, and Shang Qinghua withholds a shudder. Oh god, now it begins. 

“I wanted to stop by and see how Shang-shidi is.” The first senior disciple of the sect says. 

“Alright.” Shen Qingqiu accepts. “As you can see, he is doing much better.”

Sitting here and being spoken about like he isn’t present is an odd feeling, but it’s really better than the alternative, so Shang Qinghua just curves his shoulders up and lowers his head even more and draws up another spoonful of congee. 

There’s a brief bout of awkward silence. 

“Though,” Shen-shixiong adds in a much different voice, meaning it’s no longer directed at Yue Qingyuan but at Shang Qinghua — don’t ask him how it’s different, it just is, and he doesn’t want to think about why. “If he continues to eat so quickly, he will give himself a stomach ache.”

Shang Qinghua quickly lowers the spoon back into his bowl. He swallows the congee and grabs for the cloth napkin, unfolding it to press it against the lower half of his face. He glances away from the table and toward the wall in embarrassment, so he doesn’t have to see the way Shen Qingqiu’s lips have quirked upwards slightly. 

Why you gotta call a bro out like that, Shen-shixiong? His method of avoidance is absolutely acceptable given the circumstance! Would you not have done the same?

“Qingqiu…” Yue Qingyuan sighs, and he glances over at Shang Qinghua before slowly shaking his head and closing his eyes very briefly. 

Shen Qingqiu’s expression returns to the neutral blank scape from before, and Yue Qingyuan’s lips thin out a little bit. 

Shang Qinghua ducks his head down, napkin pressed tightly over his mouth and with no intention of moving it away any time soon. 

“He’s really fine?” Yue Qingyuan asks quietly.

“Hm.” Shen Qingqiu replies. “He is doing much better than before. Not that it takes a lot for that to be true. Qingfang says he still has a long way to go before his meridians sort themselves out. Even then, they need outside help.”

Yue Qingyuan’s eyes flicker toward the bowl of congee, his face a little more blank than before. He meets Shen Qingqiu’s eyes, and whatever he finds there — some sort of unspoken confirmation — causes him to dip his head in a slight nod. 

“I still have a collection of the recipes that worked best with that medicine.” Yue Qingyuan says, voice level and eyes lowered. “I could bring it over later, if… if that would be okay.”

For a moment, Shen Qingiu’s face twists like he wants to spit Yue Qingyuan’s offer back into his face. It passes after a breath, though, and instead his expression turns even more blank than Yu Qingyuan’s, and he nods. 

“That’s fine.” He says, and then bodily turns his head away when the words make Yue Qingyuan brighten like a ray of sun. Shen Qingqiu looks like he’s bitten into something sour. “Not the one with the fish though. His stomach still isn’t ready for complicated foods.”

“Of course.” Yue Qingyuan says, looking a little happier than he had before. 

Their voices are low now, like they’ve leaned closer to one another and are having a private conversation despite the fact that Shang Qinghua is still in the room. That’s a little rude of them!

But not surprising. Those two, he knows, tend to forget the rest of the world when faced with each other. 

“It’s the same, right?” Yue Qingyuan whispers after a few minutes of slightly stilted but somehow companionable silence passes them by. 

“It’s worse.” Shen Qingqiu says darkly.

Shang Qinghua stares at his half eaten congee determinedly, napkin still pressed over his mouth.

He turns all his attention inward, and away from the discussion happening over his bowed head. He mentally separates himself from the scene of Shen Qingqiu’s front room and soon enough the other two disciples murmuring becomes a distant noise in the background. 

It’s finally comfortable, like this. He feels a bit more at ease.

He wishes he could just stay like this all the time. Uncaring, zoned out, completely removed from what’s happening around him and to him. 

He’s always wished that.

Wouldn’t it be easier, he’s thought, wouldn’t it be nice, if he couldn’t be reached by all the things that cause his lungs to stutter and tighten and quit on him? Wouldn’t life go so much more smoothly if he could just turn it off and allow the flow of events to carry him along with them without him having to put anything of himself into them at all?

It would be so good, he thinks, if the story could continue without him. 

He used to think it would be great if there was no story at all, but…

He can’t think that, not anymore. Not after he’s seen all of these people prove time and time again that they are alive and self-thinking. That they are real, maybe more real than Shang Qinghua himself ever was. 

It’s not a story anymore. It’s just the universe as it’s always been, ever moving forward as the beings within it make all their own choices for any number of reasons, usually not ever thinking about anyone else's choices as they do. 

The toughest thing now, for Shang Qinghua, is reminding himself that he is also a part of it all. 

Even if he often wishes so desperately that he was’t. 

He blinks awake in shock as a heavy thud sounds throughout the room. The dishwater rattles. Shang Qinghua feels like a bucket of ice water has been tipped over his head, dousing him to the bone.

Glancing over, Shen Qingqiu has an open palm splayed over the wood, skin reddening from how hard he has slammed it down. 

“There are scars on his back,” Shen Qingqiu hisses, stabbing a finger in the direction of Shang Qinghua startled face, “from a whip.”

Oh. Oh! This discussion had really taken a way more personal turn, huh?! Shang Qinghua jerks back in an aborted flinch, eyes wide and jaw clenched. 

He hadn’t — when had—?!

Oh. The bath.

He’s an idiot. He should have just refused. 

He should have —

Yue Qingyuan’s face is blank in that way which only accentuates the roiling emotion he covers with it. 

He presses his lips together and asks, so calmly it verges on obstinately polite, “…A whip?”

“They’re old scars.” Shen Qingqiu says, sitting back. “They had to have happened when he was — young. Very young.”

“It was Shizun.” Shang Qinghua blurts out, desperate to explain. Desperate to tell them that, whatever they’re thinking right now that puts such scary looks on their faces, they're wrong.

But his mouth is so far ahead of his thoughts, it bursts out without context. 

He watches with wide eyes as both his shixiong go eerily still. The neutral mask of Yue Qingyuan drops into something glacial. And then Shen Qingqiu whips his head around to look across the room at him, fury bright in every feature of his face. 

“What.” The Qing Jing head disciple asks lowly, voice nearly at a growl. 

Shang Qinghua shivers at the sound. 

“No, I mean — Shizun, he — he saved me. He interrupted before it could… go too far. Before i-it killed me. And he took me to Cang Qiong. I….” He pauses, eyes watering traitorously. “I have to work hard and prove it wasn’t a mistake. I have to — I have to do my best to repay him for that.”

His face screws up a little, and he treats them to a slightly teary-eyed glare. “But I can’t, because you’re keeping me here and you won’t let me!”

He lets his head drop back down, burying his face into his hands as his shoulders tremble in minute shudders. The tears are hot and salty as they come, nothing unfamiliar by this point, and god but he is so fucking tired of crying. He should be dehydrated by now, with how often he’s spurred to tears. 

There’s a hand on his back now, pressing groundingly against his spine. Shang Qinghua sucks in a deep breath and peeks out from between his fingers. 

Yue Qingyuan’s blank mask has broken now, replaced by something far warmer. It’s a startling mix of concern and sadness and even a layer of what is perhaps guilt. But that doesn’t make sense, because what does his shixiong have to feel guilty over in regards to Shang Qinghua of all people? Shang Qinghua doesn’t matter enough for anyone to feel something like guilt toward him. 

He’s inconsequential! A side character, cannon fodder whose existence barely impacts the story past some arbitrary plot point that could honestly just as well have been concluded without his input at all. He’d made his peace with that a long time ago (at least, he thought he had) so why is it that suddenly, everyone around him is veering off course and not getting with the program? 

Things were…. not good, before all this, but they were at least comforting in their familiarity. 

Now, lately, Shang Qinghua can’t predict anything that happens around him, and he — it’s scary. He doesn’t know what to do. 

He doesn’t like it. 

“You’re not working right now because it’s counterproductive to your recovery,” Yue Qingyuan explains gently, the hand he has on Shang Qinghua’s back moving in soothing circles. “Your shixiong and shidi and shimei only wish for you to heal.”

“But I’m useless like this,” Shang Qinghua says weakly, letting his hands fall into his lap in defeat. “What’s the point of wasting resources on me if I’m not working for the sect? Like this, I’m only dead weight!”

Shen Qingqiu abruptly stands up, surging to his feet in one smooth, quick motion. He stands there, looms, for a brief moment, as if he’s uncertain of what to do now that he’s on his feet, but then he’s moving quickly for the door after noticing how badly his movement had caused Shang Qinghua to flinch.

“Qingqiu-shidi—” Yue Qingyuan calls after him, but the other just waves a hand dismissively over his shoulder. 

“I need some air.” He says, tensely, and then he’s gone, out of the room. 

They both stare after him, neither of them speaking for a good few minutes, and neither moving to follow him either. 

Yue Qingyuan has moved away and is reheating the tea with a slow moving qi technique when Shang Qinghua sighs tiredly and rubs at his damp cheeks with the corner of his sleeve. 

“I made him angry again,” he murmurs, staring down at the way the residue of his crying stains the silk pinched between his fingers. He feels the way his shoulders curve downwards at the spoken fact, the way his stomach churns at his own ungratefulness. 

Shen Qingqiu has been… good to Shang Qinghua. For the past few days, whenever he’s needed something, anything at all, Shen Jiu has been there unprompted with it often before he can even summon the courage to ask. And yet, a lot of the time, something that Shang Qinghua does causes Shen Qingqiu to be upset. 

He’s not entirely sure what — if he just knew, he could make sure he doesn’t do it again — but whatever it is about him that rubs Shen Qingqiu the wrong way is unclear to him. His shixiong’s anger comes at the most random times, and Shang Qinghua can never tell what exactly prompts it, only that Shen Qingqiu always makes absolutely certain that his rage comes nowhere near Shang Qinghua. 

Shang Qinghua almost wishes it would. He wishes Shen Qingqiu would yell at him. Would take out his anger on him. At least Shang Qinghua knows how to deal with that. He’s used to that.

But Shen Qingqiu refuses to do what literally everyone else in this world would (and has). He exercises such firm self control, turning every scowl and every gritting of his teeth away from Shang Qinghua. He’s never upset at Shang Qinghua, just… because of him. 

Obviously, it’s because of him, what else could cause it?

Shang Qinghua wishes he could do something about it. He wishes he could stop being the way that he is, that he could reach inside himself and take out whatever it is about him that sets his shixiong off. But he can’t. He doesn’t know how, not yet. 

Except, now Yue Qingyuan is watching him with a confused frown on his face, and the Qiong Ding head disciple shakes his head slowly. 

“What are you talking about?” He asks, sounding genuinely confused. “Shidi, do you think that Shen Qingqiu is angry with you?”

Shang Qinghua stares back at him, equally confused. 

“Who else could it be?” He asks helplessly. “I’m the only thing different here. He wasn’t this angry before — at least, I don’t think he was? I… Shixiong, why are you looking at me like that?”

Yue Qingyuan moves away from the tea set, coming to return to where he had knelt beside him just minutes ago when he had soothed Shang Qinghua through his mini meltdown. He puts a hand carefully on each of Shang Qinghua’s shoulders and makes sure that he is looking at him before he speaks, his voice firm almost to the point of being grave. 

“Qinghua-shidi, please forgive this shixiong for not noticing before now.”

Shang Qinghua shakes his head, now even more befuddled. “Shixiong, what?”

“To clarify — Shen Qingqiu’s anger is not directed at Qinghua-shidi. Shidi has done nothing wrong.” Yue Qingyuan says almost sternly, like there is literally nothing to doubt in his words despite them not making a lick of sense. “So, why would anyone be angry with him?”

“I….” Shang Qinghua blinks, trailing off.

Before he had opened his mouth, there were several counter points he could have named, that yes actually he had fucked up more than once just this week alone. But, when he moves to actually speak, every thought flees his mind. As if even his anxiety knows that those arguments wouldn’t hold up against Yue Qingyuan’s firm words just now. 

A satisfied look crosses his shixiong’s face, when Shang Qinghua is unable to provide an answer, and Yue Qingyuan squeezes his shoulders beneath his hands before letting go and — taking the warmth of his touch with it. 

Shang Qinghua flushes at a stray thought, at his own abrupt longing for physical contact that is almost painful in its intensity. He feels vaguely numb without it, and despite the nearly overwhelming desire to feebly ask his shixiong if he could just — please — keep holding onto him, just for a moment longer, he —

That’s. That’s a little too pathetic, even for him, isn’t it? It is. It really, really is. 

So Shang Qinghua swallows against the sudden dryness of his throat and focuses with all his might on Yue Qingyuan’s next words, as if he’s studying for a test. Anything to distract himself from his own disappointment.

“Qinghua-shidi has done nothing, and no one is upset with him. Shen Qingqiu’s anger was directed toward someone else, just then.”

“But,” Shang Qinghua frowns, “He’s… always angry. Around me. I make him angry. I try not to, but I don’t know what it is. What is it? I’ll stop. I promise I’ll stop”

“It’s not you.” Yue Qingyuan is quick to assure him. “He is upset with what has happened to you, and how it continues to affect you.”

Shang Qinghua licks his lips, looking away with his confusion evident across his face. That hadn’t answered his question at all, shixiong!

“But,” he says helplessly. “I just had a qi deviation? I mean, I know that’s bad, but… I don’t see why that would upset Shen-shixiong?”

Glancing up, he sees Yue Qingyuan close his eyes for a slow breath, his wide shoulders straightening out with the long inhale and exhale. Like it’s some sort of breathing exercise, but why would he — Oh. 

“I’ve upset you, too.” Shang Qinghua observes, dismay sitting heavy in his gut. Is he just going to be a problem for everyone around him? An extra stress factor? He —

“No, no.” Yue Qingyuan says, leaning forward toward him with concern cinching his brow as he watches Shang Qinghua. “You didn’t. Shidi, you’re fine.”

He doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want to be a problem. He just wants —

Shang Qinghua sits back, leans away from the other disciple, stomach feeling cold like he’s going to be sick. 

“I’m sorry.” He says, covering his face so he doesn’t have to see his shixiong. “I’m troubling shixiong. And Shen-shixiong. A-And everyone else…”

Warm hands press over his own, grasping them gently and tugging them down and away from his face. Shang Qinghua peeks up from beneath his lashes to see the eternally gentle expression that encompasses Yue Qingyuan’s face, and its —

It’s something he would have only ever thought would be directed towards Shen Qingqiu. Yue Qi’s Xiao Jiu. The man’s most important person. 

But it’s not. It’s right here, directed at Shang Qinghua, who absolutely doesn’t deserve it at all and who doesn’t know what to do with it. 

“Shixiong?” He hates the way his voice shakes. 

Yue Qingyuan smiles softly and grips Shang Qinghua’s hands in his own. 

“Qinghua-shidi should think about resting now. He is a credit to his sect and to his peak, but even the most hardworking cultivators must know when to work and when to allow their bodies and qi a well-deserved break. No one thinks less of shidi for needing time to recover from what he has experienced, and the sect will still be standing until shidi is able to return to work.”

A slight breath of regret escapes Shang Qinghua’s lips even as he knows that, objectively, Yue Qingyuan has a point. “But, Shizun….”

“Is a peak lord.” Yue Qingyuan smoothly finishes for him. “Does Qinghua-shidi doubt his teacher so much that he worries over his ability to run his own peak in shidi’s absence?”

“No.” Shang Qinghua argues weakly, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip and averting his eyes, shoulders tense. 

Yue Qingyuan squeezes his hands again. Shang Qinghua’s eyes water, just barely, and he kind of wants to — to hold the hands back, but doesn’t know if that would be acceptable. It wouldn’t, right? So, he doesn’t. 

But he wants to. 

Maybe….

No. 

He shouldn’t. 

Of course not. 

Maybe Yue Qingyuan should leave. 

“Shixiong,” he hears himself say distantly. “I’m tired.”

Yue Qingyuan watches him quietly for a long moment, wherein Shang Qinghua just holds his breath. Then, his shixiong nods. He lets go of Shang Qinghua’s hands and stands up, dusting off his robes.

“Shall this shixiong leave the tea with Qinghua-shidi?” He asks, appearing completely unperturbed by the clear dismissal. 

“Sure,” Shang Qinghua’s voice says. 

He watches Yue Qingyuan dip his head into a light bow of farewell before he heads over to the door that Shen Qingqiu had stormed out of earlier. 

Something tight clenches its unrelenting grip around his chest. 

He… He doesnt want him to leave…. 

Shang Qinghua folds in on himself and rests his forehead against one of his knees as he listens to the sound of the door closing. 

He feels like he should… call after the man. Ask him to come back. To stay. He feels almost as if he... shouldn’t be left alone, right now. 

But he doesn’t know how to ask. Doesn’t know if he should. 

Thinks that, maybe, Yue Qingyuan has been waiting for an excuse to leave. The man is too polite to just get up and go like Shen Qingqiu had, after all. 

Maybe he wants to leave. 

Shang Qinghua should let him go. After all, he knows that this big brother type would surely stay if only he were to ask, even if Yue Qingyuan would rather be elsewhere.  

So Shang Qinghua stays silent, and lets Yue Qingyuan leave just like Shen Qingqiu did.

Tries desperately to calm the halting stutter in his lungs. Fails. Eyes burning. 

He… doesn’t want to be alone. 

Chapter Text

It’s the day after Yue Qingyuan’s visit, and Shang Qinghua’s shixiong suddenly stands up from lunch with a dark expression, his fists curled loosely at his sides as he stares over at the door with a dour gaze. 

“Sh-Shen-shixiong?” Pressing his lips together, Shang Qinghua raises his head from his medicinal congee and looks at the other disciple uncertainly, a little concerned. 

For a moment, Shen Qingqiu does not answer, or even move. 

Then, he says, “Hmph.”

“… Shixiong?”

Glancing over at him, Shen Qingqiu is still tense. Finally, Shang Qinghua’s shixiong lets out a long breath, his fists uncurling slowly. 

“Blasted brats with little to no concept of privacy…” Shen Qingqiu turns away from him, grumbling this under his breath.

Bewildered, Shang Qinghua can only stare after him with wide eyes as the man moves toward the front door.

Shen Qingqiu grasps the handle and yanks it open to reveal —

Oh, there’s a visitor. Again. 

Shang Qinghua is beginning to suspect that Shen Qingqiu feels like his home is being invaded lately, and he shrinks down in his seat, turning the tea cup he holds around in his hands nervously. 

Because, he of all people knows that his shixiong prefers isolation. The fact that the man’s solitude is being infringed upon so often now is clearly no other fault than Shang Qinghua’s. 

It really would be better, for everyone , if he just went back to his own peak. 

So, why is it that everyone around him seems to be adamantly against the solution that makes the most sense? Even Long-shimei last night had rejected the idea!

Shang Qinghua… he really doesn’t get it. 

“Were you just going to stand there all day?” Shen Qingqiu is asking dryly, sounding infuriated but also somehow not angry at all. It’s an odd tone to hear from that guy. 

“I wasn’t sure how to announce myself.” The person at the door responds awkwardly, and holy shit is that Liu Qingge? 

Shang Qinghua blinks slowly, and then shakes his head in muted wonder. And no little horror. 

Because, yeah. That’s Liu Qingge. 

At Shen Qingqiu’s house, and no one’s died yet. At least, Shang Qinghua hopes desperately that nobody is dead. 

He pauses for a moment, hands gripping his teacup tightly. Shang Qinghua’s teeth sink into his lip fervently, his eyes widening as his thoughts whirl almost too fast for himself to follow. 

…Fuck, what if someone’s dead?!

“It’s easy,” Shen Qingqiu is retorting, too fucking calm for a situation that has obviously already reached DEFCON 1, seeing as who exactly is at his door. “You knock. You know how to knock, right? Seeing as how you’re a person so used to hitting anything that gets in your way as a method of problem-solving, I would have assumed it to be your very first instinct.”

“It works.” Liu Qingge only shrugs at the veiled insult, not seeming to take it personal at all. Which is very out of character, what’s going on . 

The man looks up at Shen Qingqiu from under his criminally long eyelashes and raises a brow. “Are you going to let me in?”

“I’m still thinking about it.” Shen Qingqiu says casually.  

“Take your time. I’m patient.”

“Because you so clearly have nothing better to do than stand outside your shixiong’s door all day?”

“I just got here,” Liu Qingge points out, actually appearing somewhat amused , what the fuck. “Is it bad for a shidi to visit his shixiong while they take a break from the day?”

“Hm.” Shen Qingqiu makes a noncommittal sound, face impervious. 

Shang Qinghua slowly sets his tea cup down on the table, suddenly finding himself without the strength to hold it up. He’s in shock, because —

Holy. Shit. 

Are —

Are these two bantering ?!

Is that — Is that, there, between Liu Qingge and Shen Qingqiu, some sort of vague camaraderie?! 

What the fuck!

“You will not be eating my food.” Shen Qingqiu finally says. 

But then he steps away and just walks back to the table. 

Leaving Liu Qingge to come inside his house and close the door behind him. 

And now! Now, there are three people in Shen Qingqiu’s house. Two more than there was ever suppose to be. 

Two people inside one man’s sanctuary, and that man does not seem particularly perturbed about it at all. 

Not perturbed where Shang Qinghua can see, at least. 

He peeks at his shixiong’s face, unsure. It’s as coldly neutral as ever, holding zero clues as to what the man is actually thinking. 

Shen Qingqiu settles back at the table and takes a sip from his own tea. He doesn’t prepare a third cushion for their surprise guest, nor does he fetch another cup for him either. 

Liu Qingge doesn’t seem bothered at the blatant refusal of hospitality. Maybe because he’d arrived unannounced in the first place. In any case, the man simply drops down cross-legged on the floor before an empty spot at the table, which just so happens to be directly beside Shang Qinghua. 

Apparently finding the accommodations (or lack thereof) acceptable, the Bai Zhan head disciple then sets his stare unblinkingly upon him.

Shang Qinghua can’t really help the way that his shoulders rise up to tense right underneath his ears. He leans forward a little bit to peer down at the inside of his cup, wondering if there are any omens of the apocalypse to be found in the sparse loose leaves at the bottom. Because, the world is surely ending, right? 

It can’t be that Shen Qingqiu and Liu Qingge are… getting along? Of their own accord? 

Uh, yeah right. 

Impossible. 

Super impossible. 

Finding nothing in his cup but the last few gulps of tea, he sits back uneasily and casts a shallow glance toward his martial brother, who still stares at him like he thinks he will find some sort of answers on Shang Qinghua’s face if he looks for long enough. 

Across the table, Shen Qingqiu takes another sip of tea and is apparently content with simply watching them. He doesn’t seem to be in much of a hurry to get Liu Qingge out of his house at all. 

Really, the only one here who actually seems to want Liu Qingge to leave is him . 

Shen Qingqiu apparently doesn’t give a fuck! 

Which doesn’t make any fucking sense! At all!

Shang Qinghua wants to tear at his hair in confused frustration. What is happening ? 

Why does everyone keep not acting the way they’re supposed to?!

These people keep surprising Shang Qinghua, and Shang Qinghua doesn’t like surprises, okay? Surprises are not good for his panicky heart!

“Liu-sh… idi,” he begins, hesitantly, still not entirely used to suddenly being a shixiong now. Especially over people who had previously been his shixiong. The hierarchy of seniority in Cang Qiong Sect was fucked up. Why did he make it so confusing? 

Liu Qingge stares at him solemnly. And wordlessly. There is a stretch of momentary silence that keeps getting longer and longer.

Shang Qinghua coughs awkwardly and glances away from the man. “… Hello.”

“How are you?” Liu Qingge replies instantly, not even bothering to return a greeting. Wow. 

Well , okay, fair; at least that’s in character. 

Still, it’s an abrupt switch from being observed to being interrogated, and Shang Qinghua blinks dumbly for a moment while he hurriedly tries to gather up enough thoughts for a response. 

“I’m… fine.” He says, settling for the safe default. 

But it seems that Liu Qingge was not asking redundantly, because the older disciple tilts his head and his stare sharpens, drilling holes into Shang Qinghua’s head. 

“You suffered a nearly crippling Qi deviation, and you’re still recovering from it.” The man says. 

It’s not spoken accusingly, but Shang Qinghua still feels like he’s being scolded for something. He ducks his head down and looks away, and this is why he doesn’t catch the way that Liu Qingge’s expression immediately smooths out again upon seeing his actions. Or, across the table, the way that Shen Qingqiu sets his teacup down with a barely-visible frown on his otherwise neutral expression. 

“I’ve come here to check up on you.” The head disciple of Bai Zhan peak explains. 

“Oh.” Shang Qinghua voices, a quiet sound of semi-surprise that escapes his mouth before he can stop it. He turns his gaze down toward the hem of one of his sleeves and twists the fabric between his fingers nervously. “That’s n-nice of you.”

There’s a brief pause, enough for a breath. 

Shang Qinghua can still feel their stares on him, so he swallows and peeks up at them from under the false safety of his bangs. “… Thanks.”

Liu Qingge makes a low noise of acknowledgment. The taller man leans in closer to him in order to catch his eye, and then says again, “Really, how are you?”

His tone says ‘ even if you say ‘fine’ again, I won’t believe you, so you better just tell the truth.’   

Shang Qinghua’s teeth sink into his bottom lip. He doesn’t know how to answer this. What’s he supposed to say? What can he say to get them off his back? 

Too much attention is being paid to him, lately. Shang Qinghua doesn’t want it. It makes him nervous, an anxious mess. What’s he supposed to do, how is he supposed to act?

What do these people want from him?!

He really, really wishes that they would just tell him what he’s suppose to do. Give him some direction. Tell him what it is, exactly, that they expect from him.

It’s been a long time since Shang Qinghua was left to his own devices. After so long always having someone, be it his Shizun or a senior disciple or the system itself telling him what to do at all times — in the absence of all that, he feels a little lost. 

Truthfully, more than a little lost. 

He just wants someone to tell him what he’s supposed to do. 

Because he doesn’t know . 

And it makes him — afraid. All this time spent doing nothing when he could be doing something, when he probably should be doing something, and Shang Qinghua is fearfully waiting for the moment when the universe finally kicks Shen Qingqiu’s door in and drags him out by his hair for being such a terribly useless plot device. 

Finally, mouth dry as a desert, he’s forced to admit his pathetic limitations. It comes out in a shaky whisper. 

“I… don’t know.”

Above his head, outside of his gaze, Liu Qingge and Shen Qingqiu meet each other’s eyes in a long look that expresses many words. 

Then Liu Qingge nods, and sits back. 

“Okay.”

“It’s fine?” Shang Qinghua whispers, blinking up at him in a startled way. He’s a little stunned that the other would just so easily accept such a non-answer after so seriously asking that question. 

Nobody ever likes it when he says ‘I don’t know.’

It’s too upfront, too truthful, like waving a flag that proclaims how useless he actually is instead of pretending everything is fine. 

Except, Liu Qingge just nods once, and smiles. A tiny thing, just a twitch of the lips, but it’s confident and warm. 

“Yeah.” The future Bai Zhan war god says. “It’s fine.”

Shang Qinghua blinks at him, feeling a little stunned. 

Liu Qingge doesn’t say anything else. He just sits in patient silence at the table, head canted to the side as he studies Shang Qinghua’s crumpled posture. The An Ding disciple clasps his hands together and hides them under the table in his lap, at a complete loss of what to do. Shen-shixiong is of no help whatsoever — since he’d sat down again, the senior disciple hasn’t said so much of a word, nor given any expression to tell of what his opinion on the matter is. 

It’s seriously bad. Bad enough that it might as well be giving Shang Qinghua hives. There’s a growing thrum of nervous energy that is building up under his skin, like thousands of the tiniest insects. Their many, microscopic feet crawl endlessly along his veins, the undersides of his every muscle, inside the marrow of his bones. Shang Qinghua wants to scratch at them, even though he knows that won’t help. He wants to rock back and forth in a fruitless motion to at least expel some of the energy out of himself, but his shixiong — his shixiong and his shidi, rather — are here, both of them watching. They’d think he’d gone mad. 

Well. More crazy than they probably already suspect of him. 

The abrupt thought causes Shang Qinghua’s shoulders to drop a bit, and he lowers his head down so that his gaze meets his lap instead of the table. 

It’s been a long time, so he’s already long since accepted the matter that the people here consider him to probably have a few screws loose. If not because of how he is — cowardly, pathetic, useless — then there’s all the instances where he slips up and accidentally says something that belongs more in modern society than the time he set this world to in his manuscripts. 

Isn’t it a little ridiculous? To be the very author of a world and still be unable to fit into it? 

A lot like how he never fit into his own world, before. 

That just goes to show, doesn’t it. That no matter what world it is, Shang Qinghua doesn’t belong there. He doesn’t fit anywhere. 

He blinks his eyes, hard. 

No, it’s fine. He’s over this already, there’s no need to revisit old, hurtful thoughts! That’ll just make the current situation even harder for him to bear. And it’s already pretty difficult to deal with. Shang Qinghua, if he wasn’t already crazy, then surely he’s going to go crazy now.

Sitting here like he is, between Liu Qingge and Shen Qingqiu, silently inside the parlor of Shen Qingqiu’s house. 

Liu Qingge might be a strong silent type, sure. Shang Qinghua knew that at least — had written that, at least. At least this, he can expect from the man. 

Strongly silent for most everything except when it came to Shen Qingqiu, though. Shang Qinghua is pretty sure he’d written that as a rule of thumb as well. That was the other side of the coin, to how Shen Qingqiu would always lose his legendary cool whenever the ‘Bai Zhan brute’ would pester him. 

Except, these two people, who were to always be at odds even after one of them dies… 

They’re just sitting here. Not talking, barely moving. Liu Qingge watches Shang Qinghua like he’s the most interesting show on earth, and Shen Qingqiu’s piercing green stare is flat as he examines the detailing art of the teacup in his hands. 

It’s stuffy. Insufferable. Shang Qinghua really is going to lose his mind. 

“Um!” He sits up like he’s been struck by lightning, all static along his limbs with energy he can’t disperse. “Liu-shixiong — I mean, shidi, um…. Sorry, but, h-how is your sister, actually?”

There! An ice breaker. And a topic that Liu Qingge at his very core would never refuse to talk about. Not in the least because the man simply adores his little sister, but because he’s such a family man anyway. It’s almost dad-like energy, to be honest. At least, that’s how Shang Qinghu had always imagined it back when he’d been writing the guy’s character. 

Who knows, now that he’s a real, living human being in front of him. One that Shang Qinghua’s never actually been properly introduced to, at that. 

How would he know…?

Liu Qingge is staring at Shang Qinghua, eyebrows up near his hairline. There’s an expression on his face that’s says he’s been stunned by something, and Shang Qinghua hurriedly reruns what he’d just said inside his head, looking for what he could have possibly said wrong — oh!

“I-I’m sorry.” He says. He wrings his hands together under the table, out of sight. “The, uh, the head discipleship announcement was very recent, so I… I’m not really used to referring to you and the others as my juniors yet. A-After so long of you being my seniors, that is….”

“I suppose it would be rather confusing to most.” Shen Qingqiu ( finally!) pipes up. He’s gazing over at the surprised Liu Qingge with an inquiring look. 

“Th-That’s right.” Shang Qinghu ducks his head, licking his chapped lips as he turns his eyes away nervously. “I will — I will get better. Sorry.”

“This habit of yours.” Shen Qingqiu waves a hand in the air in an aimless, dismissive gesture. “I tire of it. I’m fairly certain I’ve told you this, as well.”

Shang Qinghua — who was side-eying the still wordless Liu Qingge oddly — blinks at him. 

“Um! Oh, right. Sor—” Shang Qinghua quickly presses a hand over his own mouth to stop himself from finishing the word. 

Shen Qingqiu sighs. He sets his cup down and shakes his head gently. 

“I suppose that’s as good a start as any. Hey, brute. Did you come here just to imitate a dumb statue? Don’t be so unattractive in my house like this.”

“Ah.” Liu Qingge blinks as if he’d just woken up from a daze. A daze under which he’d been staring at Shang Qingqiu for the entirety of. It was really freaking him out. “No, I… Shang Qinghua.”

“Y-Yes?” He squeaks out from behind the hand that he still has pressed over his mouth. 

Liu Qingge has a strange look on his face. “How did you know I have a sister?”

Shang Qinghua pauses. He slowly drops his hand back into his lap and frowns. 

“What?” What kind of question is that? “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I…” Liu Qingge is still staring at him like he’s said something odd. The man shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know why not. Can you tell me?”

Shang Qinghua coughs, and looks away from his stare. Both of their states, actually, because Shen Qingqiu is now watching him with a look of interest as well. Why?! What’s so weird about what he said?!

In fact, he has to be extra careful in what he says next, too. How to word his knowledge in a way that doesn’t make Shang Qinghua seem like some stalker…?

Really, that’s pretty much been his biggest issue in this world. Knowledge really is more of a curse than anything, truthfully. 

“It’s just…” Shang Qinghua clears his throat, and threads his fingers together in his lap, staring at the table so he won’t have to meet either of their stares. “Liu-shix… shidi, was really happy to have a sister? So he talks about her a lot. This shidi… um, I only overheard a few things.”

There’s not a reply. Shang Qinghua peeks up to find Liu Qingge bearing a rather dumbfounded look, and so he turns his eyes quickly to stare at the window across the room. He feels his cheeks heating up, and he blurts out, “That’s why —! S-Since it’s important to shixiong — um! I wanted to ask how things were….”

There’s only silence in response, and Shang Qinghua wants to cry. Why?! What went wrong with his super safe topic of conversation?! Nothing awkward was supposed to come out of this, it was only to fill the awkward silence to begin with! 

But now things are super tense in here, and Shang Qinghua feels like he’s about to die. Ah, what the hell went wrong?

There’s a thump, that comes from the way Shen Qingqiu sets his teacup down on the table rather roughly. The head disciple of Qing Jing casts a sharp glance across the table at his Bai Zhan counterpart, and Liu Qingge coughs suddenly. 

“W-Well. That’s…”

Cautiously, Shang Qinghua raises his gaze back up to find Liu Qingge watching him with something close to wonder in his eyes. Which is… weird. Why?

“Shix— um?” Dammit, this is so much harder than he thought it was going to be when Shizun gave him the title!

“A-Yan was born very recently,” Liu Qingge says, and his face looks a little embarrassed. “She hasn’t been announced yet. I guess I was a little too excited. But, it’s very… thoughtful, that Shang-shixiong noticed enough to ask.”

Oh.

Shang Qinghua wants to beat his head against the wall. He was too early! Is he stupid? Of course Liu Mingyan wouldn’t even be old enough to walk yet! That Madam Liu hasn’t even announced her daughter’s birth officially yet, that makes him seem so suspicious! Thank fuck that he wrote Liu Qingge to be talkative about two things: his rivalry against Shen Qingqiu, and his younger sister. 

Since one of those things was apparently no longer viable — which is still really confusing! How? — At least one is still true.  enough to be Shang Qinghua’s saving grace. 

Meanwhile, Liu Qingge finds himself reeling a little bit. He scratches his nail against the outer edge of the table, regardless of the fact that he knows Shen Qingqiu would not appreciate the action. It’s only, he is thinking deeply right now. 

It’s just… the depth of Shang Qinghua’s sheer diligence to his sect that surprised Liu Qingge. Not just on Shang Qinghua’s own peak, but all of the others as well. Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised, given what he knows now, but Liu Qingge is surprised, and he feels a little bad about it. 

It has all become increasingly obvious during the investigation that Liu Qingge and his fellow martial siblings have been conducting against An Ding directly after its head disciple’s qi deviation. That Shang Qinghua of An Ding, and not its peak lord, has been what has kept the mountain of logistics standing. And, in conjunction with that, the entire sect of Cang Qiong. 

Liu Qingge remembers his own thoughts. He’d been blindsided from the amount of duties they’d realized were piled upon the small shoulders of Shang Qinghua. He’d thought, how was it possible for a single person, much less a young disciple like Shang Qinghua, to be able to withstand such a workload? 

Well. Given the current state of said head disciple of An Ding, maybe withstand isn’t quite the right word. 

However. 

Just going through the daily paperwork, which was Yue Qingyuan’s idea (so that they would have a better idea of what their martial brother experienced on a day to day basis, he’d said) had been mind-numbing. Shen Qingqiu and Yue Qingyuan, the foremost of them that often dealt with similar duties — even they had looked a bit stunned at the sheer workload that piled upon Shang Qinghua’s desk in just under the time it took to burn through a few incense sticks. 

And that’s just one day. What’s in a week? A month? In addition to the rest of their martial brother’s duties? The boy is still a disciple, not a lord, and only recently a head disciple at that! And all this was happening, right under their noses…

No. It wasn’t hidden. They simply hadn’t seen it because they had not even thought to look. 

It had made Liu Qingge want to take his sword to the office, to get rid of all the paperwork the easy way. 

Except, all that would have accomplished would be even more of it later for Shang Qinghua, so Liu Qingge was forced to restrain himself. 

He still wanted to, of course, the urge itches underneath his skin every time he thinks about it. Especially now, beneath the surprise he feels. 

Because, even during all of that, the endless paperwork and the heavy weight of bearing duties of the kind that he was not yet supposed to be expected to handle  — even under all of that, Shang Qinghua still managed to find the time to find out and get to know his fellow disciples. 

It was written as little notes of observation all across his desk. 

He’d known Shen Qingqiu hated small talk, despite being good at it. He’d known what Yue Qingyuan’s favorite tea blend was, and that the most senior head disciple pretends not to like it all for image, for his shizun’s sake. Shang Qinghua had known that Wei Qingwei has a soft spot for rabbits, and that Ju Qingsong is afraid of the cold. That Rong Qingsheng is allergic to berries, that Mu Qingfang doesn’t like the rain. He’d known that the kind of love that truly lies within Qi Qingqi’s heart is not the kind that a male can acquire. 

He knows that Liu Qingge has a sister and that he adores her very much. 

Shang Qinghua knows all of that — and more , because this barely scratches the surface of him, Liu Qingge realizes. 

Shang Qinghua had learnt all of these things while bearing ceaseless abuse from his own sect, and in the meantime rarely, if ever, having the chance to actually meet any of them face to face. And yet, he’d still managed to find out their likes and dislikes, the little things about them. 

What that says, first and foremost, about Shang Qinghua’s ability to gather information, is astronomical. What it says, secondly and perhaps even more importantly, about the dedication and care that Shang Qinghua feels toward his fellow disciple…. 

Despite, well, everything …

Liu Qingge swallows thickly, pressing the palms of his hands together. 

“Shang Qinghua is a good martial sibling.” He praises in his characteristic blunt manner. 

After all, his gut tells him that it needs to be said aloud. He tends to trust his gut. And it seems to be right this time, too, judging by the wide-eyes and the disbelieving look he receives from his new shixiong. 

“You just met me, shi… di.” Shang Qinghua says, as if to refute Liu Qingge’s words. 

Liu Qingge accepts it as the admonishment it really is, even if Shang Qinghua doesn’t mean it that way, and ducks his head down in apology.

“Should have properly introduced myself to Shang Qinghua earlier than this.” He says a bit regretfully. “Much earlier.”

After all, what could have been avoided if Liu Qingge had strongarmed his way into Shang Qinghua’s life himself? Before all of this? 

Clearly, the boy needed someone to protect him. Liu Qingge could have done so, but he hadn’t, because he simply hadn’t known. 

He wishes he had. 

“We all should have.” Someone else says, and Liu Qingge blinks his eyes and glances across the table with faint surprise. 

Surprise that Shen Qingqiu catches, no matter how quickly Liu Qingge smooths his own expression out, and he receives a flat look of — that’s got to be exasperation. 

Before all this, he would have called it anger, or indifference (it’s always hard to tell with this guy), but he’s now spent enough time working closely with Shen Qingqiu that he can — sort of — differentiate the man’s expressions. Sometimes. If Liu Qingge’s luck is good that day. 

This expression now, for example, says something along the lines of ‘Really? Did you forget whose house you’re in? Did you forget that I was here? Idiot. ’

Shen Qingqiu’s expressions really do say a lot, once one finally learns how to decipher them. 

Sheepishly, Liu Qingge shrugs his shoulders and looks away, feeling his cheeks heat up just a bit. Irritating. 

“It was bad manners on our part, for not doing so.” Shen Qingqiu follows up, nodding once toward the still clearly bewildered Shang Qinghua. “Apologies for that, shidi.”

“Mn, sorry.” Liu Qingge nods as well. 

Shang Qinghua actually looks confused enough to cry. Liu Qingge almost feels bad about it. 

“No, I —” Shang Qinghua shakes his head furiously, like he’s on the verge of panic. “Y-You shouldn’t… not because…. I mean…”

Smugly, Shen Qingqiu says, “Is it quite enjoyable? Being apologized to so much.”

Shang Qinghua’s mouth clicks shut, and he stares at the man with wide eyes. He blinks a few times, and then covers his face with both hands. 

“ Mean. ” The smaller disciple murmurs under his breath, but the room is quiet enough to hear it, and Shang Qinghua’s ears are bright red. 

Liu Qingge can feel the corners of his mouth twitching up into a grin, and he glances over just in time to meet Shen Qingqiu’s amused stare. 

Ha! Their martial brother is kind of adorable, isn’t he?

Liu Qingge glances over to see that Shang Qinghua is still covering his face in embarrassment. He looks back at Shen Qingqiu to send the other a firm nod, all traces of mirth erased from his face. 

Likewise, the amusement is wiped clean from Shen Qingqiu’s expression as well, and he returns the nod elegantly, but just as serious. 

What has already happened can’t be taken back. However, going forward… something like this, it would never happen to Shang Qinghua again. 

Liu Qingge vows this, and he knows that Shen Qingqiu and their other head disciple siblings are in full agreement. 

Chapter Text

The next time Liu Qingge visits, he comes over to sit himself right next to Shang Qinghua without even waiting for Shen Qingqiu to invite him in. 

He’s so close that Shang Qinghua can feel the heat emanating from Liu Qingge’s body, which just reminds him of how cold he himself is. 

“Qinghua.” Liu Qingge says, staring intently at him. “Good morning.”

“Hello, shi…di.” Shang Qinghua stutters. He clasps his hands together in his lap and bites his lip, looking away. 

Ah, why does he have to stare at him, though? Look away, Liu Qingge! Shang Qinghua is begging you, here!

“Hm.” The Bai Zhan head disciple tilts his head. After thinking seriously for a moment, he says, “You can keep calling me shixiong, if it’s easier for you.”

“No.” Shen Qingqiu says at the same moment that Shang Qinghua bumbles out, “I can’t! That’s, that’s not how the sect hierarchy works!?”

Liu Qingge turns his head away from them both, glaring at the opposite wall. 

“If it’s easier that way, I was just saying that I don’t mind.” He defends. Somehow, his glare looks a little bit more like a pout. 

Shen Qingqiu scoffs. 

“You think that everyone who is shorter than you should call you shixiong, shidi . This sort of thing, it’s not about height or power.”

“It’s, um, a little bit about power.” Shang Qinghua weakly points out, and then clamps up when Shen Qingqiu turns his steely eyes toward him instead. 

“Exactly,” Liu Qingge points a finger at him, at the tiny stick figure in slightly too big head disciple robes that is Shang Qinghua. “You’re weak. I’m not. So, you should still call me shixiong.”

“Still not how it works.” Shen Qingqiu sighs, but doesn’t seem to want to argue against the point anymore. “Shang Qinghua, drink the rest of your congee, I will brew a pot of jasmine.”

“Mm!” Shang Qinghua straightens up, eyes brightening just slightly. He reaches for the bowl set before him and, instead of dreading the slightly bitter flavor of the medicine it contains, he turns his mind toward anticipating the light and sweet taste of the jasmine blossom he’ll soon be able to experience. 

Shang Qinghua is so focused on finishing every last grain of rice — he knows, after all, that Shen Jiu won’t hand over the tea until it’s all clear and polished — that he doesn’t notice the close way that Liu Qingge watches him. 

Sharp phoenix eyes take in every minute movement and reaction, from the way that Shang Qinghua seems motivated by a specific tea to the crinkle of his nose with every spoonful of the normal-looking congee. The way that, despite seemingly at ease within the four protective walls of their shixiong’s home, Shang Qinghua’s shoulders are still so-slightly curled inward, and his eyes are always flitting from one possible exit to another. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s doing it. 

Finally, he’s eating with his good hand, with the other curled protectively in his lap. 

“How’s your wrist?” He asks, glancing up at his martial brother’s face.  

Shang Qinghua blinks, torn from his reverie over a spoonful of medicinal gloop. He turns his head slightly to find that Liu Qingge has him pinned with a deeply analytical stare, and is waiting patiently for an answer. 

Analytical and patient. Two words he’d have never associated with Liu Qingge. Two words that weren’t supposed to be associated with the future Bai Zhan war god. 

It’s so different from what he expected. Everything keeps being different than what Shang Qinghua knows they’re supposed to be, really. 

Shang Qinghua takes a quick breath, and shivers. 

“Um.” He gingerly takes his injured wrist from his lap and raises it up to lay flat on the table. He frowns down at the bandages that still peak out from under his sleeve. “It’s… okay. Mu-shidi says that the cast can come off after another week if, uhm, if everything goes alright?”

“That’s good.” Liu Qingge says. 

His piercing stare has moved from Shang Qinghua himself to Shang Qinghua’s wrist.  Which, while not the greatest, is still slightly better than before, when Shang Qinghua had to bear the full weight of such a burdensome gaze. Ugh, way too heavy. He’s not a strong guy, you know? 

“Who?” 

“Um?” Shang Qinghua flinches back from the sudden question. “What?”

Liu Qingge points with his chin to Shang Qinghua’s wrist, which he quickly hides back under the table. His martial brother’s eyes narrow, and Shang Qinghua gulps. 

“Who did that to you?” Liu Qingge asks, voice gone from casual to steely within an instant. 

“Mm.” The sound Shang Qinghua makes is more of a whimper than anything. Hey, shixiong! Um, shidi! Please don’t interrogate him so suddenly! 

After all, he doesn’t know what to say yet! 

“I um, I don’t —”

“You can’t say you don’t remember.” Liu Qingge scolds him, gently but ruthlessly. He has an expectant look on his face. “Who was it?”

Shang Qinghua, in all honesty, has not put a single thought toward the story of his wrist injury. This entire time he’s been far more concerned with how his entire life as he knows it is falling down around his ears to even consider what he’s going to say about the thing that started it all. 

Awfully lazy of him, he knows. Then again, he hadn’t expected an answer to be demanded of him so abruptly, so soon! Knowing Liu Qingge (does he really, though, at all?), this guy will want immediate answers in clear and comprehensive Chinese. Yesterday . 

It’s almost impressive that a Liu Qingge with a question has managed to wait this long, actually. All things considered. 

Feeling frustrated and rushed, the corners of Shang Qinghua’s eyes sting a little, and he drops his spoon to rub at his nose. The utensil falls into the bowl with a loud clatter.

Movement comes from the doorway to the kitchen, and Shen Qingqiu steps back into the room bearing a tea set on a tray and an awful glower on his face. 

He comes over to firmly place the tray on the table, and voices a warning. 

“Liu Qingge.”

Scolded, Liu Qingge leans away from where he’s been closing in toward Shang Qinghua, and releases a rather pent-up sigh. 

“He knows who did it.” He points out. 

Shen Qingqiu’s jaw looks like it’s made of stone. “You can’t make him tell you.”

“But, he knows —”

“You can’t .” Shen Qingqiu says again. “Make him. Tell you.”

At such a tone of voice, even the stubborn Liu Qingge is forced to give in. Even if it’s just for today. 

Shang Qinghua’s lord and savior is named Shen Jiu. He will worship the ground his wonderful shixiong walks upon until his (second) dying day. He’s going to cry. Only because he’s touched, there’s no other reason why. 

Sniffling, Shang Qinghua embarassedly wipes at his eyes and curls over his injured wrist, staring resolutely at the far wall. Maybe if he pretends they don’t exist, they’ll grant him the same kindness? Oh, please. 

“You will not interrogate my guest in my home. Else, you will no longer be welcome in my home.”

Sullenly, Liu Qingge crosses his arms over his chest. 

“Asking shidi; is that clear?”

“Yes.” Liu Qingge grits out between his teeth. Then, “Sorry.”

Flinching, Shang Qinghua glances toward him from the corner of his eye, a little starstruck. This guy, apologizing? What?

“I… shouldn’t.” Liu Qingge gnashes his teeth together. “Shouldn’t force you. Don’t tell me if you don’t want to, I won’t make you. I just….”

He closes his eyes. Like Qingge’s shoulders slump and he bows his head forward. The next words come out in a softer voice, barely audible.

“I want to know who it was because I want to take care of it for you. I don’t like… that you got hurt.”

Shang Qinghua is silent. 

Raising his head, Liu Qingge presses against the sides of his jaw with both hands, tapping on the bone to loosen his clenched teeth. He sighs out aggressively and looks away. 

“I feel useless because I’m not doing anything to help.” He says honestly, looking put out and embarrassed. “So I got impatient. Just forget it.”

The ice is gone from Shen Qingqiu’s expression. The older man sets out a third cup from the tray to the table and finally pours the tea. He doesn’t say anything, just pushes the first cup across the table toward Shang Qinghua and gives him a look. 

Shang Qinghua dives for the tea like a man dying of thirst in a desert. He wraps his hands around the cup and just holds it, feeling the warmth deep in through his hands. He feels the stiffness of his limbs drain away slightly, and he thunks his head down onto the table. He’s already exhausted for the day. Jeez. 

Distantly, he hears his martial brothers begin a conversation over his head, of clipped tones and mutters that soften into quiet murmuring as barbs are exchanged, accepted, and smoothed over in the course of a single exchange. 

Shang Qinghua closes his eyes and drags the cup in to press into the crook of his neck. It’s blazing hot, but he doesn’t mind. In fact, he kinda craves it. His fingers are like ice cubes. It’s gotten a little better since Mu Qingfang’s been coming to visit and treating him, but it’s still… there. He’s still sick. Or broken, whatever. He’s not even sure anymore. 

Shang Qinghua isn’t sure he was ever right. Not in either world. Wasn’t there always something wrong with him? 

Anyway, what he wouldn’t give for a heating blanket. That sounds like what heaven must be. Too bad he didn’t write modern conveniences into this world (mostly). Past Airplane should have been nicer to present and future him. 

Imagine that! Even he is not kind to himself. 

“Ahem.” Liu Qingfe clears his throat. 

Shang Qinghua’s eyes snap open, and he turns his head to the side so that he can glance up at him from the tabletop.

From what he can see, Liu Qingge’s head is ducked and tilted, and his neck is flushed. Why?

“Um.” Liu Qingge glances down at him and then his eyes skitter away. “Mother… said to extend her gratitude for your kind words toward A-Yan.”

Shang Qinghua blinks. A-Yan…. Mingyan? Liu Qingge’s baby (infant!), sister Liu Mingyan? 

“Oh.” Shang Qinghua voices out quietly. “…. Okay.”

That neck gets even redder and Liu Qingge, who still won’t meet his eyes, leans back from his gaze. “I… wrote about what you said. In my. Last letter home. Ahem.”

“Y-You did?” Shang Qinghua splutters. He sits up from the table. “Why?”

He doesn’t think Liu Qingge could look any more embarrassed if he tried. Across the table, the silent Shen Qingqiu sips gracefully at his tea and seems incredibly amused. 

Is that what it is? Is it Embarrass Liu Qingge Day? Except, Liu Qingge is doing it all himself, somehow?

“I just, um.” Liu Qingge hesitates for a moment, and then Shang Qinghua has the misfortune of being on the receiving end of a very flustered bow from the future war god of Bai Zhan.

Huh!

“I was really… very touched. That Shang- shi— shixiong, is so… dutiful for his martial siblings.”

“You were touched?” Shang Qinghua echoes, dazed. 

“Mm.” Squeezing his eyes shut, Liu Qingge bobs his head once. 

He’s still in a bow. Shang Qinghua stares at him for a short moment, not entirely certain that what he’s seeing is real.

After that moment passes, he snaps to attention, eyes wide, and reaches out to carefully drag his martial brother out of the bow. 

“Y-You—!” Shang Qinghua’s face feels hot. He glances to the side. “… You’re welcome….?”

“Yes.” Liu Qingge’s voice is tight and clipped. The tips of his ears are as pink as his neck, the blush beginning to recede. 

He still doesn’t meet Shang Qinghua’s eyes. Shang Qinghu doesn’t want him to. Honestly, he feels just as mortified. Ah, what the hell was that? System, please! Are the characters all OOC or something?

Unnervingly, just as he’s realized it’s been ever since he first woke up on Qian Cao, the system is silent. 

Shang Qinghua realizes that he’s still grasping at Liu Qingge’s shoulders. He releases them as if they’re piping hot metal and stuffs his hands back into his lap.

His wrists twinges slightly from the abuse, too early in the healing process to be handled to roughly. He fights off a wince. 

Not well enough, apparently, because within the next moment, Shen Qingqiu is rising to his feet. 

“Have you finished your tea? The weather is very mild today. It might be a good idea for you to get some fresh air.” He suggests, voice just as mild as he described the weather being. 

Shang Qinghua struggles to keep the pout off his face. This man is far too attentive! 

“I don’t want to go outside.” He says, again.

He’s been saying it every day, after all. 

Part of him feels that, if Shang Qinghua was to leave this odd, twilight zone sort of safety that Shen Qingqiu’s house have proven to be, everything will…

What if everything goes back to how it was before?

What if all of this is some weird, extended fever dream brought on by his latest untreated qi deviation? 

What if he’ll wake up, if he leaves? 

Even if it’s not real, Shang Qinghua…. He doesn’t want to wake up. 

He shrugs his shoulders, and bores his gaze into the wooden table. His empty tea cup. Anywhere but their faces. If he’s more aware, will they seems less real? 

He can’t stand that. 

“I don’t want to.” He whispers. 

There’s a beat of silence. Shang Qinghua is caught between two stone walls closing in on him. One is his terror that none of this is true. The other wall is his guilt, that these people are extending a level of care toward him and Shang Qinghua — Airplane — he’s not strong enough to get with the program. 

He’s not strong enough to risk a dream on the chance it might be reality. Because, what if it isn’t? 

There comes a shift of fabric, and a warmth settles over his upper back. 

“That’s perfectly alright.” His shixiong assures him in a gentle voice that, just weeks ago, Shang Qinghua would have rejected the idea he was capable of. 

More fool him, apparently. 

“You don’t have to.”

Chapter Text

The mountain range has been suspended in a thick fog, as of late. 

It winds lazily between the individual peaks like a still and murky river, covering even the rainbow bridge that connects the mountains from view. It is particularly bad in the mornings, enough that if one were to hold their hand in front of them with their sword unsheathed, they wouldn’t be able to see the point of your own blade. 

It's a fantastic metaphor for the latest events of Cang Qiong, almost like a painting. The earth itself, creating art to reflect the state of the insects that crawl upon its surface. 

Fog covering the peaks, masking even their hands from their own sight. 

Their own hubris, shielding from their eyes the terrible reality that has been wrought by their own hands. 

“It’s not like you to wallow.”

Staring out at the scenery that nature won’t even let him see. It’s much like how he had never allowed himself to see what was really happening, all this time. 

He moves his eyes from the thick, white wisps that floated so largely in the air just outside the window, and sighs. 

“What do you even want?”

His shidi crosses his arms over his chest. They are burly from working in the fields all day, and this pose makes Xiao Yaobian’s figure all the more towering and impressive. 

The man huffs. 

“You see outside, right?” He asks. “Your dour mood is affecting even the weather, so cut it out.”

Mo Yaomei frowns. “Of course my mood is bad. Is there a reason for anyone to be happy right now? Is there a reason for the weather to be good? Tell me, please. I’ll go and put a stop to it right now.”

“Like a disease.” Xiao Yaobian says. “Spreading contagiously. Hey, everyone already feels down, why do you need to also contribute to it with that face?”

“Contribute? As well?” Mo Yaomei laughs lightly and runs a palm down his long, tired face. He hasn’t been sleeping well, ever since… “How can you say ‘also’, when I’m the top contributor to begin with?”

“Are you trying to hog all the blame?”

Incredulously, Mo Yaomei turns fully away from the window. 

He stomps across the office and sits down heavily at the table. There’s a tea set that has been laid out dutifully by a disciple, but the drink has already long gone cold. 

He picks the cup up and takes a sip from it anyway. The fog permeates the room through the open door, bringing with it a chill that has made the tea like ice. Drinking it forces Yaomei to return to his senses, and he feels even worse. 

“Who else can take it?” He asks wryly. “It’s my fault. Who would lie and try to share it with me?”

There’s a dull thud as Xiao Yaobian throws himself into the seat opposite from him. 

Mo Yaomei watches with a dull expression while the twelfth peak lord pours himself a cup from the pot and knocks it back as if he were doing shots with Cheng Yaoqing himself. Xiao Yaobian gives a grunt of surprise, eyes the cup and peers closely at the pot. He wags a finger above the spout to feel the lack of steam emanating from the ceramic, and makes a face. 

“It’s chilly.” He remarks disdainfully. “Where is the disciple on duty today? He hasn’t changed the tea out for a fresh pot? What time was this one set out?”

“This morning.” Mo Yaomei says. He sips again at his own cup, and hums once after the cold water chills his throat. “The disciples have been told not to visit again after the first time. They bring in tea once a day, and that’s it.”

“You told them?” Xiao Yaobian asks in shock. 

His surprise isn’t unnatural. In fact, it’s common knowledge that Mo Yaomei hates anything but fresh, hot tea. The duty of the disciple is to, beyond anything else, make sure that the tea is continuously fresh throughout the day while the work is done — on An Ding, that’s how it has always been. 

“Since when?”

“Take a guess.” Mo Yaomei scoffs. He glances down at the ice cold tea and regretfully sets it back down on the table. “Anyway, I… can’t stand to see their faces, now.”

Hearing this, the lord of the agricultural peak examines his shixiong very closely and doesn’t speak for a long moment. He doesn’t move to touch the tea set again, but does reach out to snag one of the rice wafers that the set has been garnished with. 

It’s rather stale. 

“Any of them?” He finally asks, eyeing his shixiong with a narrow look. 

Mo Yaomei’s jaw goes taut, teeth grinding together. He raises his hands and covers his face with them. 

“It’s because I’m a bad teacher that this has happened.” He admits. His heart aches in his chest with a dull pain, and he rubs futilely at his diaphragm.  “I know that. Even so, some of them were perpetrators, and because I am a bad teacher, I don’t even know which of them had a hand in this and which of them did not.”

“So you’re choosing to just punish them all instead.” Xiao Yaobian sounds unimpressed.

Mo Yaomei lowers his gaze.

His shidi taps a finger against his forearm and sighs explosively. “You’ve always been lazy, but even with something that causes you pain like this, you’ll just leave it like that?”

“I have no way to know who did what.” Mo Yaomei spits out. “I wasn’t there when I was supposed to be. Anything I get out of them will either be lies from the ones who did something, or secondhand accounts that I can’t trust entirely. I was blind, everyone was blind or played a part until our faces were slapped with the truth. How am I supposed to uncover anything further when it’s buried so deeply?”

“Lazy.” Xiao Yaobian points at him with his chin. “You’re too scared to look any further, because you don’t want to know the truth.”

“Whatever happened, it happened because I let it happen!” Mo Yaomei slams a hand down on the table, causing the tea set to rattle loudly. His cup falls onto its side and cold tea splashes against the dark wood. 

They both fall silent, staring at the mess.  

Xiao Yaobian looks up and raises an eyebrow. 

“I found that boy an inch from death, and I brought him to the mountain myself.” Mo Yaomei says quietly, eyes vacant as he stares down at the reflective tea pooled on the surface. “I told him he wouldn’t have to face the struggles of mortality any more, because the peak was an immortal home. I promised him safety and peace, because that’s what I knew of this place. I was so confident in my own perspective that I did not look closely enough at the things that should have concerned me. I was too complacent. I left him to fend for himself and didn’t believe him when he came to me for help — to the point that he stopped trying, and even expected me to perpetuate whatever horrible experience his life has become at my hand.”

Mo Yaomei plants his elbows unseemly on the table and drops his face into his hands. 

“I took him from one life of suffering and left him alone in another, lying to his face the entire time about how I’d protect him.” He says, throat tight. “The home I promised him is a lie, and he can’t trust anymore. The safety I promised him turned out to be completely untrue; how can I trust it, or trust myself?”

Mo Yaomei draws in a stuffy breath and rubs at the corner of his eyes with his sleeve, nose itching. His entire posture speaks of defeat. 

Xiao Yaobian watches him silently from across the table. After a moment, he reaches out a hand and flicks his fingers against the back of Mo Yaomei’s hand. It’s sharp, and the back of his nails graze Mo Yaomei’s soft skin and leave white marks behind. 

Mo Yaomei jerks away with a gasp, hands flying to hide behind his back as he gazes at his shidi with an open mouth. 

“Don’t hurt me!” He accuses. 

“Don’t be too pretty that your brain is nonexistent.” Xiao Yaobian lazily returns. “I read somewhere that people who are attractive have less intelligence because they were raised pompously. Wisdom only comes from suffering and learning from one’s mistakes, or something, whatever.”

“Wow, you read?” Mo Yaomei mutters, rubbing at his hand. “Shocking. That’s too shocking, I don’t believe it.”

“You don’t need to believe it.” Xiao Yaobian rolls his eyes. “It’s the truth. You're pretty and stupid, and you made a mistake. One more step: learn from it and try to do better. But, you’re not trying because you’re lazy and scared. What’s with that?” He shakes his head with a tsk. “You’re supposed to be the shixiong, but you’re too disappointing. The shidi is here teaching you instead. Amazing, right?”

“You’re rude as hell.” Mo Yaomei snarks, teeth bared. 

“But am I wrong?”

There is a brief moment of quiet. After which, Mo Yaomei slumps like a puppet whose strings have been cut. His posture is even lower than before when he had looked so defeated that it was pathetic to watch. 

“No.”

“Then,” Xiao Yaobian sits up and crosses his burly arms across his chest, an inquisitive look on his face directed at his shixiong. “What’s the next step?”

Mo Yaomei glances down at the cold tea that’s seeped into the dark wood of the table. 

“First off, I need to make it up to A-Lei—” 

Xiao Yaobian slaps the table hard. The tea set jumps again, but since the only cup with tea in it had already spilled, there is no further mess. Mo Yaomei, who has been interrupted, also jumps, and then casts a glare at his shidi. 

“Wrong!” The agricultural peak lord cheerfully degrades him. He points a finger at the cold tea set and the mess. 

“First off, call your disciple in and have him fetch you a fresh pot. Right?”

Mo Yaomei blinks at him, and then closes his eyes with a contemplative sigh — contemplative, but it’s a sigh that is also full of regret. 

First off, his shidi means this: stop ignoring your disciples and start investigating to get to the bottom of it. 

“Shidi is wise.” He mumbles as he reaches for the small bell talisman that is the master of the ones that all on-duty An Ding disciples carry with them. 

With a brief and silent ring of the small, silver bell talisman, someone outside would have gotten notified that their peak lord has called for them. 

“Not really.” Xiao Yaobian shakes his head. He smiles widely, pure and clean. “Shixiong is just too pretty that he is stupid. Don’t worry, though. Shidi will be here to help shixiong overcome this. After all, someone has to keep the sect running smoothly.”

Mo Yaomei stares down at the spilled tea. He blinks calmly once, and then his face twists into a sneer. 

“Rude as hell.”

“Ahahaha! But, I’m right, aren’t I?”

Rubbing at his face with exhaustion, Mo Yaomei makes a rude gesture at his shidi, and only gets loud laughter for his troubles. 

There’s too much work ahead of him, but Mo Yaomei can’t complain because it’s due to himself that he’s busy. 

It’s too bad, or very lucky, that his martial siblings refuse to let him get away with it, anymore.

Chapter Text

Shang Qinghua closes his eyes and breathes deeply. 

He… tries to breathe deeply. 

He can only inhale so far before his lungs get tight and he can’t take in any more. The desperate instinct that claws at his mind, telling him more , he needs more . That his lungs are still not full, and how can he live when he’s only half breathing? 

He heard somewhere, a lifetime and another world ago, that the brain can’t operate correctly when it doesn’t get enough oxygen. Difficulty with the lungs had been long since linked to an increase in risk for mood disorders such as anxiety and depression. 

Shang Qinghua hasn’t been able to breathe right for years.

He’s pretty confident, though, that he had the mental illnesses long before he was ever born here. 

Being unable to breath in all the way is uncomfortable. Sometimes, he feels lightheaded and has to stop and find a wall to lean against until the spots clear from his vision. It makes him slow. Annoying. 

It affects his work, which is worse. 

Shang Qinghua can’t breathe; he can’t focus. The words on the scroll swim and then he can’t read. If he can’t even read, he can’t do the work, and then the work just doesn’t get done. 

And then Shang Qinghu looks lazy, like he’s not even trying to get it done — but he is . He’s trying so hard, but he just can’t do it. 

His vision is dark and he can’t see and his head hurts and he can barely hear when someone is talking to him and he’s — 

Useless. 

There’s a hand, warm, pressed gently into the middle of his back. 

“Try again, shixiong.” Mu Qingfang murmurs. 

His fingers curl just barely inward against Shang Qinghua’s tense, tense shoulders. Some sort of aborted motion. 

Squeezing his eyes shut so tightly that he can see spots, Shang Qinghua tries again. 

His martial brother’s hand on his back is a faint weight, barely perceptible, but Shang Qinghua can feel it due to its warmth — and he’s cold, so cold. His attention zeroes in on this single point of contact. 

He’s cold, but — cold is fine. Cold is better than…

A flash of a bright and consuming warmth, too much of it, massive and looming in the darkness that is crashing down all around him. 

Well. It’s just better. 

“Hmm.” Mu Qingfang says. “Shixiong, one moment….”

The hand on his back falls away. Shang Qinghua barely has any time to mourn its warmth, the small pinprick that it has been, before it is overshadowed by a solid wall of heat instead. 

Shang Qinghua’s eyes pop open. He glances down in befuddlement and finds that Mu Qingfang’s hand is now pressed against his sternum. 

Following it back to the arm it’s attached to, Shang Qinghua strains his neck following that to —

Mu Qingfang is no longer sitting beside him. His martial brother has one arm wound loosely around him to keep a hand at his chest while he is hunched over behind Shang Qinghua with one ear pressed against his back. 

It’s warm. There’s so many points of contact. The hand is one; Mu Qingfang’s arm is another. He has the tips of the fingers of his other hand pressed lightly against the back of Shang Qinghua’s waist for balance as he leans down. The side of his head, the brief brush of his shoulder against the blade of Shang Qinghua’s. 

“Breathe, shixiong.” Mu Qingfang reminds him. 

Shang Qinghua’s lungs are on fire. He realizes that, at some point, he stopped breathing entirely. He sucks in a quick breath and then another, neither one of them anywhere close to enough — but that’s normal. So is the slight, quickly fading numbness in his fingertips. 

“ Slowly , shixiong.” His martial brother sounds bemused. 

Right, right. Breathe. In… out….

Usually, it’s fine. He’s used to it, and he can ignore it because it’s normal. He’s been dealing with it for so long that he can barely remember how it feels to be able to breathe in all the way, or his chest not being too tight. 

But his body remembers. His body knows how it is supposed to feel, and now that Shang Qinghua is sitting here, forced to focus on how messed up his lungs are, he can feel it all the more keenly. 

He can’t breathe in all the way. He just can’t. It stops somewhere just past halfway — his lungs can’t expand fully like they so desperately want to. His brain is screaming at him to take in more oxygen, but he can’t . The bottom of his ribs feel out of place. Wrong . 

(He never went to get them healed, that day. He had done that himself, so of course he’d done it wrong, done a terrible job, just like with everything else.)

Despite this being the same state he’s been in for years already, despite this being normal, Shang Qinghua’s reflexes are screaming at him that it is wrong, wrong, fix it, we’re dying —

It’s that super fun fight or flight response. Old friend! His body thinks it’s in danger yet again. Shang Qinghua’s extremities are buzzing with the need to move , the need to survive . 

No, it’s fine! It’s fine, we’re fine, we can still — please — please, we are fine —

“Shixiong—”

“I can’t .” Shang Qinghua bursts out breathlessly. His eyes sting. That’s normal too, at this point. 

Shang Qinghua is hating this new normal. 

He was fine before all this. Why are they trying to help him? They’re just making it worse. He wishes he could go back to that day and just skip the head disciple meeting. Shizun would have been mad, sure, but that’s better than all of this . 

He wishes — 

One hand grapples uselessly at his chest, as if he could just physically move the ribs out of the way just so his lungs could expand entirely. He collides with the back of Mu Qingfang’s hand that is already resting there. 

Touching warm skin that doesn’t belong to him, Shang Qinghua flinches away from it instinctively. Instead of letting him, though, Mu Qingfang simply flips his hand over and captures Shang Qinghua’s before he can pull back. 

Shuddering, Shang Qinghua stares down at the hand that’s intertwined with his while he hyperventilates. He draws in one half-breathe after the other, none of them good enough — they never have been. 

His head is throbbing, like usual.

“I cant.” He whispers. “Please, I can’t.”

“I know.” 

There is a strange quality to Mu Qingfang’s voice. Thick, like there’s something stuck in his throat. Or maybe the words are covered in cotton, something slightly muffling. 

“This shidi understands, shixiong.” He says quietly. “I’ve heard enough now, thank you. You’re doing very well.”

Where in this world or the one before it can Shang Qinghua be considered as doing well ? He can’t even fucking breathe right. 

Useless. 

Mu Qingfang sits back up. The warmth that had been pressed into Shang Qinghua’s back vanishes, leaving ice in its wake. His hand begins to slip out of Shang Qinghua’s and he seems to be making a move to stand. 

Swallowing against his dry throat, Shang Qinghua quickly leans back. He grabs at the healer’s fleeing fingers with the grip of a drowning man, and turns slightly until the side of his head bumps into Mu Qingfang’s chest. 

His martial brother goes stock still. He doesn’t move for a moment, and Shang Qinghua closes his eyes tightly as his breathing comes out in harsh panting. 

He curls his fingers around Mu Qingfang’s, tightly, and waits. 

Waiting for them to be ripped away. Waiting for the rejection, because he’s being ridiculous. Childish, clingy, improper, unwanted —

Mu Qingfang sits back down. 

Shang Qinghua sucks in a breath and holds it while his shidi wraps one comfortably warm arm around his shoulder and holds him against his chest. The fingers in Shang Qinghua’s death grip twitch slightly and then the hand turns over to grip his back. 

Warm, not cold — warm, but not burning. Dark, because Shang Qinghua’s eyes are closed. 

Better. 

“Sorry.” Shang Qinghua croaks out. 

“Don’t be.” Mu Qingfang brushes warm fingers across Shang Qinghua’s forehead. “This shidi is happy to help Qinghua-shixiong. Please do not hesitate to ask in the future.”

Shang Qinghua burns with shame. He blinks his eyes open and lowers his gaze, first to the hands intertwined over his stomach and then firmly to the worn, wooden floor. 

That he needs to be held together like this at all is cause for ridicule, surely well deserved. Anyone else in his position would probably handle everything far better than he ever has. Shang Qinghua is too pathetic. 

“I failed.” 

At breathing! A basic and automatic action that even someone who is brain dead can accomplish. Except Shang Qinghua. 

The arm around his shoulders tightens. 

“How can shixiong possibly fail? This is no test to be graded.” Mu Wingfang explains patiently. “I am simply figuring out how I can best optimize your treatment.”

Shang Qinghua’s lips thin. “There would be nothing to fix if I hadn’t ruined them in the first place. It’s my fault I’m like this. Shidi doesn’t need to be so polite.”

“Hm. Did shixiong ask to be crushed by a cart?”

“What? N-No?”

“I see. Perhaps, then, Qinghua-shixiong manipulated circumstances so that the cart would crush him, leading to his injury.”

Shang Qinghua grits his teeth, realizing what Mu Qingfang is saying. But the man doesn’t understand ! 

“No.” He says, a dark frown pulling at his brow. “But, shidi, if I wasn’t such a failure at — at everything , then I should have been able to heal the breaks fine on my own. And then you wouldn’t have to waste your time helping me at all!”

Why can’t Mu Qingfang see how Shang Qinghua is at fault here? It’s clear as day. This guy is so patient and nice to him, but he doesn’t need to be. Shang Qinghua isn’t like a normal patient: this is all his own fool fault, so Mu Qingfang can drop the bedside manners with him. 

There’s no point in putting in the effort when it doesn’t matter. That’s just inefficient. 

He should be saving his energy for the people who actually need him. Not Shang Qinghua. 

Suddenly, Mu Qingfang’s grip on his hand becomes like steel. Shang Qinghua blinks down at it in surprise. He gives his own a slight tug, but it doesn’t budge even a little bit. 

“I wasn’t aware Qinghua-shixiong was a member of Qian Cao peak?”

“Shidi, you know I’m not. Stop talking in hyperbole!” Shang Qinghua isn’t actually stupid! 

“Then,” Mu Qingfang squeezes Shang Qinghua in his arms just slightly, making him squeak. “Why is it that Qinghua-shixiong believes that he should have had skills above an advanced inner Qian Cao disciple, when he was barely an inner An Ding disciple himself?”

“I-It’s only ribs, shixio— shidi! Bones aren’t actually that hard to mend, you know. I’ve had plenty of practice, even back then, so I should have been fine! But I messed it up so badly.” Shang Qinghua blinks hard. Eyes stinging but not dripping like usual; good. “Even the younger disciples know how to set a bone. Clearly, this disciple is just lacking.”

The world moves, tilting. It takes Shang Qinghua a second of reorienting himself before he realizes that the room was the same, but Mu Qingfang had used his hold on him to turn Shang Qinghua around until they were face to face. He stares down at him, the normally bright and gentle eyes dark and flinty. 

Shang Qinghua stares up at the severely flat expression on his martial brother’s face, wondering why he looks so upset. 

“Qinghua-shixiong’s ribs were not merely broken.” Mu Qingfang explains softly. “It was not even a compound fracture. Shixiong is correct in saying these are simple fixes, for the most part, but he is incorrect when he says just anyone can handle them. Even for a broken wrist, I would not allow anyone to set it that is not already trained to do so. There's a procedure for every type of break, which varies depending on the location. If the procedure is not followed, then the injury will not heal correctly. If a disciple is not taught , then they won’t know the procedure. How can Shang Qinghua, who has never learnt anything past the stopgap measures of common first aid, possibly be able to complete extensive field surgery on himself while in a hostile environment ?!”

The doctor’s voice had risen slightly the more he spoke. By the end of it, he was just shy of yelling, and Shang Qinghua has cringed away from him as far as he can without truly escaping his shidi’s arms. 

He peers meekly up at Mu Qingfang from under his eyelashes. 

“If it wasn’t a compound fracture,” he says slowly, “then… what was it?” 

Because it sure had looked like a compound fracture to him. 

All the blood had washed off later — though that robe had been unsalvageable — but Shang Qinghua had never quite been able to get his rib cage to look quite right again.

Mu Qingfang is starting to look a little red in the face. 

“ That’s what you got out of all that?” He asks despairingly. 

Shang Qinghua blinks. “Isn’t that the important part?”

“No, my point was that it wasn’t your fault !”

“Yes.” Shang Qinghua agrees without agreeing. 

He lifts a hand and hesitantly points at his ribs. “But, shidi…. What’s actually wrong with them?”

His ex-shixiong runs a hand through his hair, messing up the meticulously styled topknot. A deep sigh explodes out of him, and Mu Qingfang looks very tired. 

“We aren’t done with this conversation just because you’re avoiding it.” He warns. Needlessly, at that! “We will return to it.”

Nope, no need! They for sure won’t! 

Eyes wide and feeling a little hysterical, a little bit like he wants to jump up and just make a break for it and never come back, Shang Qinghua again points at his chest. Wordlessly, this time — though, he does throw a helplessly pleading look in there, too. For good measure. 

Sure, it might not actually get him much leeway most of the time, but he’s pretty much mastered the puppy dog look after years and years of desperate practice. 

Mu Qingfang stares at him. 

With a huff, he shakes himself free and stands up. Immediately, Shang Qinghua regrets asking anything, missing the warmth fervently. But, this too is his own fault, so he silently watches as Mu Qingfang approaches the desk that had a variety of medical implements neatly organized across its surface. 

After rummaging briefly, Mu Qingfang turns back to him. In his hands he holds a delicate looking model of — something or other. 

Shang Qinghua can’t actually tell what it’s supposed to be. Maybe some super specific anatomical structure? It’s white and it’s got some sort of system of repeating spokes, but beyond that he doesn’t see anything familiar. 

“What’s that?”

“A prop.” Mu Qingfang states tonelessly. 

Shang Qinghua blinks at him. He’s about to open his mouth and ask for a bit more elaboration, when Mu Qingfang raises his other hand to hover above the one that holds the anatomical model. 

Under Shang Qinghua’s stare, there is a brief flare of qi, and a pressure emanates down (and up) from the doctor’s palms. 

Right before the two pressure blasts make contact, there is a moment of stillness. 

But they inevitably do meet. 

Caught in between, the delicate white spokes of the model crumple inward. It seems to have been made of paper mache and thin, sheer strips of wood, because the spokes splinter and snap with sharp noises so akin to a crackling fire that it causes chills to erupt down Shang Qinghua’s back. 

Mu Qingfang cuts off the qi to his palms. The model that he was holding is nigh unrecognizable now. Its form has lost its shape. The spokes are twisted, bent, snapped. 

Shattered. 

“Shixiong?” Shang Qinghua breathes out raspily. 

For some reason, he can’t tear his eyes away from the destroyed ‘prop’.

“This,” Mu Qingfang carelessly hefts up the model in one hand, “is what happened to your rib cage.”

There is distant roaring in his ears — like wind rushing past, or something to do with the ocean but much more terrible. 

Shang Qinghua places a shaky hand against his sternum and feels —

Feels—

Wood splintered all around him. Pressed into the dirt. Shouting — there’s a laugh here and there — the soil is cold and he is cold but his chest is on fire. He can’t breathe . 

He places a shaky hand against his sternum. It is slick and he can’t really feel it, but when he lifts it up to his face, his hand is drenched in red.

He’s cold. He feels sick, sick, he’s going to— He’ll die again. He doesn’t want to. 

Please, he doesn’t want to die again. 

Shaky hand pressed against his sternum. Red — blood — splintered pieces of white — bone .

His chest, his chest is —

He can’t breathe . 

“Shh.” Hands cradle his face between two palms — faintly warm. He can barely feel them against his cheeks. They’re numb with the cold — with blood loss. Just like the rest of him. 

“Shixiong, I’m sorry.” A soft voice murmuring into his ear, warm breath ghosting across his face. “That was — too far, I’m sorry. I was just… Shixiong, please , this one is sorry.”

He has a hand pressed to his sternum. It’s — dry. 

Shang Qinghua lifts it up to his face. It’s trembling violently, but…

Not red. 

He moves the hand to grip weakly at one of Mu Qingfang’s wrists as the man continues to cradle his head. A thumb sweeps out and brushes away a trail of tears. 

“I can’t breathe.” He sobs out desperately, clawing at Mu Qingfang’s arm.

“I know.” The healer says, voice thick and muffled with cotton. “I know. I’ll fix it, shixiong. I promise, I’m going to fix it for you.”

“Please.” Shang Qinghua closes his eyes. He clenches his jaw. His head throbs. 

“I will. I promise, shixiong, I will.”

Chapter Text

The Northern Desert is a perilous place.

Even for demonkind, its nature is unforgiving. Strewn with jagged mountains of ice and massive chasms hidden beneath deceptive blankets of powdered snow. One wrong step could send a traveler plummeting to their visceral death, their blood immortalized against the white expanse forever. Like paint strokes of bright, glistening red on a blank canvas. 

If it’s unforgiving for demons, it’s a downright death trap for humans. 

Yet, one of them had come and gone regularly — for years. And he still lived. 

He is strong even in his many weaknesses. It’s the opposite of everything Mo Shunwei  had been taught. But, watching it evokes something inside the chest. Admiration, perhaps. 

However, no matter the will to survive… human bones are still breakable. Their bodies, even that of a cultivator, are not made to withstand that which a demon can. 

Mo Shunwei had forgotten. 

He had become too comfortable. He had overlooked obvious knowledge that should 

never have been misplaced.

He strikes forward and the trunk of petrified wood of a tree from ancient times when the desert was still warm shatters with a grand explosion of rock and permafrost. The crack of its destruction echoes loudly throughout the valley. 

Mo Shunwei frowns.

The ice is cold. 

Mo Shunwei strikes again. He is showered in the aftermath. 

He adjusts his stance. Tightens his core. 

Snow is white. 

The shower is less this time, but still present. He gnashes his teeth. 

Another strike — finally, only a cascade of powdered snow falls lightly to sprinkle him. The pinpricks of each flake burn against his flushed skin. 

Shang Qinghua is weak. 

Is human. 

The demon prince of the North steps forward and rests a palm against the tree. It’s pulverized, unfortunately, which is the opposite of what Mo Shunwei had intended, but —

That was the entire point. 

The backs of his knuckles are cracked and dry, beads of blood dripping down his wrists. 

Mo Shunwei forms his hand into a fist and scowls at it. 

Again. 

He strikes the tree, and ice rains down. 

The demon snarls and gnashes his teeth. 

Again.

Not good enough. 

Again. 

Still too much. 

Again!

Mo Shunwei rests against the tree, gasping. 

It’s been hours, but he still hasn’t gotten the hang of it. 

As Prince, he’d been out through the most grueling training imaginable. After all, the law of demonkind is survival of the fittest. Royalty cannot be weak, or they should not live. 

He could never have imagined that training to hold back would be so much more difficult than training to be strong. 

Dragging himself to his feet, Mo Shunwei observes the tattered remains of the tree, and scoffs. 

He imagines it to be a body, a human body, and the cold that has surrounded him his entire life is suddenly within him, suffocating his organs. 

With one last glare at the tree, Mo Shunwei turns away from it and rips open a portal in the thick, freezing air in front of him. 

He’ll be back. Just like he has every day since his mistake. 

And once he’s mastered this — himself — he will leave the North once more. 

Mu Qingfang has made a mistake. 

Being the head disciple of Qian Cao is not a position one achieves just because of their medical skill. It is the unification of all qualities that represent the peak, just as it is for the eleven other mountains of Cang Qiong. 

He sits lotus style behind his low desk — the one in his personal rooms, not in the communal study. There’s paperwork strewn about; half of it his share of An Ding’s workload that he and the rest of the head disciples had divided amongst themselves, and he really should be doing it, but he can’t focus. 

He taps his fingers against the grain of the wood. He’s been doing it for a while now; they ache, but he doesn’t stop. It’s a bad habit he thought he’d already broken.  

Mu Qingfang closes his eyes. They burn from a lack of sleep.

But there’s no time to sleep. Not now. 

It isn't enough to be efficient at the peak specialty. That’s only a generalization anyway. 

What is looked for — required — in a head disciple is the embodiment of every principle that falls under that function. 

Oftentimes, they overlap across multiple peaks. 

For Qiong Ding, the peak of leadership, the head disciple must not only be good at management, but also excel in delegation and strategy. Administration plays a large part. The head disciple (and therefore successor of the peak lord) of Qiong Ding must be decisive, strong in judgment, respectable and, when it comes down to it, austere. 

All of which are qualities that truly describe Yue Qingyuan. 

For Qing Jing, the peak of strategy, Shen Qingqiu must also be decisive. He must be so well versed in the five arts that he can teach them blindfolded — which he can and has , the overachiever — because another name for Qing Jung is the scholarly peak. It’s other principles include refinement, loyalty. 

Shen Qingqiu has many characteristic qualities that can be used to describe him, but disloyal is not one of them. 

Then comes the third peak, Wan Jian. They are the masters of weaponry, specifically the creation of the spiritual blade. Their disciples must strive to show the hard-earned skill of craftsmanship, but this also requires a great aptitude for technical knowledge and mathematics. Above all, indeed, this peak treasures creativity. With many magnificent creations under their belt, the quiet Wei Qingwei is perhaps the leading example of this quality within the sect, only overshadowed by Chang Qingzhi of the tenth peak. 

The fourth peak — Well.

An Ding, the peak of logistics, shares a heavy hand in administration with Qiong Ding. The head disciple must be hard working — check. Well versed in the art of not only gathering information but also putting it to use for the sect — check. Knowledgeable about the inner workings of the sect (and their peers) — also check. They must be skilled at time management and delegation….

Shang Qinghua could use some work in that last quality. Not that he could be blamed at all — it’s not like he had anyone around to delegate to.  

There is the fifth peak, Xian Shu, with specializes in… politics. It’s actually espionage, but the other definition looks nicer on paper. They share the burden of gathering intel with An Ding, they just happen to take it a bit further. Their vast information network spans much of the jianghu, and head disciple Qi Qingqi is well on her way toward mastering the management of this powerful weapon. 

The sixth peak is self explanatory, really. They manage the security of the sect. They may have a reputation for being rowdy muscleheads, but to be a disciple of Bai Zhan means to be trained in battlefield tactics, situational awareness, and primarily the difficult skill of deescalation. The last one is more of a guideline that not a lot of them use (they all thrive off of drama, actually), but the point stands that they are trained in it. 

And anyone who knows about Cang Qiong has by now heard of it’s new head disciple, well on his way toward a quite impressive (and in Mu Qingfang’s opinion not entirely deserved) title. 

Then there is Cain Cao; the seventh peak of medicine. 

But also; patience, reliability, and most of all the ability to keep a calm head no matter the circumstance. 

Usually, Mu Qingfang excels at all of these things. 

There’s a reason that Shizun had chosen him, after all. 

He stops tapping the desk and puts his head into his hands. 

Yesterday definitely had not been his best moment. 

He, the healer, had led his patient directly into a panic attack. 

In hindsight, all the signs had been right there. So significantly clear. Shang Qinghua had been teetering on the knife’s edge of falling apart for the majority of the appointment, a hairbreadth away from a breakdown. It was obvious to anyone who knew what to look for. 

Except, Mu Qingfang hadn’t been looking. He’d been too frustrated and had allowed his emotions to control him. 

He had eagerly pushed Shang Qinghua off that knife and right into the roaring fire. 

The entire situation of Shang Qinghua’s illness and injuries upsets Mu Qingfang greatly, but it’s old news. It’s been weeks. He’s had plenty of time to come to terms with the reality of it, accept it — never like it, but acceptance is key to overcoming anything. 

However. 

Shang Qinghua considers himself expendable. 

Shang Qinghua clearly does not understand why what happened to him is so horrific, so unacceptable. Why it makes them so very angry. 

In fact, he thinks they’re angry at him, not for him. 

Shang Qinghua is convinced he is worthless, and that carries into how he accepts the help that is being given to him. 

Given to — Mu Qingfang rubs at his face and sighs out a short, mirthless chuckle.

Forced upon, is more apt. 

Because it’s the truth — Shang Qinghua will not accept help. He must be coerced and persuaded and blackmailed into receiving treatment of any kind.  

“I’m taking up space in Qian Cao that could be better used for someone else.”

And he had looked so sure of himself, too, that this was the answer to why he was being moved out of the medical halls. 

It couldn’t possibly be because Shang Qinghua requires a different kind of treatment plan. Long term. Indefinite. Better suited elsewhere. 

Literally any other reason. 

No, he was taking up space. 

Mu Qingfang grieved for Shang Qinghua’s self image, his assurance, his security. 

Every word out of that boy’s mouth was another nail in the coffin of Mu Qingfang’s belief in their sect and their teachers. 

Every word revealed another inch of how massively he had been failed by the people around him. 

Every word made Mu Qingfang shudder with rage. Rage like a boiling pot that he had to keep a lid on so that Shang Qinghua did not realize how hot it was — or that it was even over the fire to begin with. He would only blame himself, think he’d done something to ignite Mu Qingfang’s anger, when it was not even directed at him but rather on his behalf. 

The pot boiled over slightly today, right in front of Shang Qinghua. 

Mu Qingfang had wanted to show him just how impossible it would have been for a young intermediate who is not even a disciple of Qian Cao to successfully accomplish reconstructive surgery of their own thoracic cavity in the field with nearly no adequate supplies. 

The fact that Shang Qinghua had, indeed, done enough to save his own life and even lived like this for years shows just how amazing and intuitive he really is. If it were anyone else Mu Qingfang would demand Shizun negotiate him into the ranks of Qian Cao to be formally educated. 

But he was Shang Qinghua, the head disciple of An Ding who had been horribly, horribly wronged. 

And he is blind to this, entirely. Or worse, convinced that he deserves it. 

It’s infuriating. 

Yes, Mu Qingfang had gone too far. In trying to help and losing himself, he’d only made things worse. 

It will not happen again. It can’t. 

As Mu Qingfang, the head disciple of Qian Cao and its future peak lord and, more importantly, as Shang Qinghua’s martial sibling — he must be better than this. 

The door of his home slams open with a bang. 

Mu Qingfang jumps out of his skin for only a split second — the next, he’s on his feet, grabbing for his go bag. 

Rule one of Qian Cao; always be ready for the worst emergency. 

“What’s happened — Liu Qingge?”

The head disciple of Bai Zhan stands in his doorway, panting with wild eyes. He looks like he’s run all the way up the mountain instead of taking his sword. 

“Qingfang, quick.” He rushes over and grabs Mu Qingfang by the sleeve, tugging sharply.

The doctor allows himself to be manhandled — after all, there must be an emergency, and he can learn the details on the way — but he frowns at his shixiong. 

“Quickly to what?”

Liu Qingge’s face is grim, but there’s an underlying panic in his eyes as he drags Mu Qingfang out the door. 

“It’s Shang Qinghua.” He stiffly reports. “He’s having a relapse. Shen Qingqiu is with him now. Let’s go.”

Shit. This is exactly what Mu Qingfang was hoping wouldn’t happen. 

He rips his sword free of its sheath and jumps onto the blade. Liu Qingge is already flying ahead of him, sword slicing through the mountain air with a whistle from the speed he’s going at. 

“Explain to me on the way.”

Chapter Text

It is readily apparent the moment that Mu Qingfang barrels through the door of Shen Qingqiu’s home that the patient is not mentally present. 

Shang Qinghua’s body turns around at the sound of them coming in, body shaking slightly due to the shock of whatever he’s experiencing, and likely the damn cold , but his golden eyes are wide and glazed over, staring straight through them.

The front door of the bamboo house was wide open like a gaping maw, allowing for the brisk air from outside to fill the space of the front room. Snow had fallen to blanket the mountains late last night, and the covering is already two hands high. There’s a faint dusting of white on the floorboards leading into the cottage, snow that has snuck it’s way in through the opening.  

Shen Qingqiu is at the other end of the room. He kneels on the floor beside Shang Qinghua, who is collapsed in a dazed mess, his robes untidy and his braided hair askew as if he was roughly shoved to the ground. 

The head disciple of Qing Jing has both hands planted firmly on either of his shoulders to keep him in place, and they are glowing a faint teal — the color of Shen Qingqiu’s qi as it tries its best to soothe Shang Qinghua’s own rioting spiritual energy. 

Shang Qinghua is not with them. His eyes see something entirely different than what is actually around him. His face is pale and he claws weakly at the hands holding him down but otherwise makes no attempt to escape. 

His lips are blue from the cold, and he trembles like a leaf in the autumn wind. 

Mu Qingfang scowls and tugs the door firmly shut behind him. 

“Are you trying to freeze us to death?” He demands. “Are you trying to freeze him—?”

“No!” Shen Qingqiu hisses, casting over his shoulder a furious glare. “Open the door!”

Mu Qingfang is aghast. “What—?!”

A cold wind gently buffets his back, trailing icy fingers along his spine. He spins around to find that Liu Qingge has pulled open the door once again, a particularly disgruntled expression on his face. 

“My patient’s immune system is not in a place for this — this — whatever the hell you two think you are doing!” Mu Qingfang snaps. “Now follow my direction and —“

“No.” Liu Qingge says lowly. He gestures toward Shen Qingqiu, and the smaller form that he is huddling over. “He was much worse. He only calmed down when it was cold.”

Mu Qingfang pulls up short. He blinks, befuddled — but,  he’s a professional, and so he quickly shakes off his confusion to hurry over and kneel beside his martial siblings. 

His medical bag is dropped carefully to the door beside him and he snaps it open, fishing around within it for the implement he needs. Drawing out a palm- sized water jade, flat and smooth, he presses it directly over Shang Qinghua’s heart point, laying his hand flat over it to keep it in place. 

Mu Qingfang leans forward and presses his forehead against his patient’s. Shang Qinghua’s brow is slick with a cold sweat, but the doctor ignores it and instead focuses his attention on the state of his shixiong’s meridians. 

Which are catastrophic . Not that he is surprised. They are not as bad as they had been during the qi deviation itself, but it is still a horrific thing to be witness to, no matter how many times he sees it.  

The pathways are inflamed, burning along Shang Qinghua’s spirit veins in every direction. Tracing through them with a preliminary diagnostic technique, Mu Qingfang can still see the deep, visceral scars left from where the meridians had previously been tangled in a great maze of looping circuits, misfiring qi points and dead ends. 

They’re still angry and painful-looking, even darkened as they are beneath the bright glow of the reset pathways — the results of the deeply invasive surgery that had taken Mu Qingfang, his Shizun, and a team of Qian Cao’s most experienced hall masters three days and nights to complete. 

He still has nightmares about it. It’s one of the reasons why he’s been unable to sleep. 

The reset pathways are bright and burning — too much so. It’s like a living, pulsating serpent of fever writhing beneath Shang Qinghua’s skin and demanding freedom. Or to return to its previous circuits. 

Meridians don’t like to be redirected or moved. They are like the rivers that carve the valleys between mountains. Water running the same course for long enough leaves its mark in the land for eternity. What was once a trickling stream is now a deep strid; calm waters above, but a powerful riptide beneath the surface. Deep, fathomless, and set in stone . 

This is the reason that new disciples are watched so closely when they first begin cultivating. Any problem can be caught early on and corrected when the qi pathways are still just a trickling stream. It’s when the riverbed depends that it becomes nearly impossible to correct. An issue with the meridians that goes unchecked for years is nigh impossible to fix without permanently crippling the cultivator. Or worse. 

Shang Qinghua was lucky — no, he is a fucking miracle . 

The surgery that they had been forced to undertake was experimental, but he definitely would have died without it. He had died, in fact. Twice, on the operating table. 

Mu Qingfang has nightmares about that , too. 

It was brief , and he was resuscitated within moments in both instances — but even that leaves its mark on a person forever. 

Shang Qinghua has been a disciple of Cang Qiong sect for years. He had been accepted at a very young age, and started cultivating qi quite early. Both Mu Qingfang and his Shizun quietly suspect that it was perhaps a bit too early, even. 

A year is a long time in terms of cultivating qi, though it may not seem like it to most, who do not understand the intricacies the way that medical practitioners like Mu Qingfang do. 

Multiple years — a decade , even. Thats’s worse. That’s so far past the trickling stream and right into river territory. 

Mu Qingfang gently traces over the thick scar remnants, the forcibly emptied riverbeds of where Shang Qinghua’s qi used to flow. He soothes over the still angry, jagged edges with his naturally cold energy. 

Using the crystal as a point of focus, he directs an ongoing flow of his qi through his patient’s enraged spiritual circulatory system. 

Water jade naturally promotes deep concentration and perseverance, and is therefore used liberally in medical techniques that involve focusing qi outside of one’s own body or within that of another. Mu Qingfang always keeps several in his go bag, and he’s glad now that he does, because Shang Qinghua’s qi is like a deep, vengeful ocean, tossing to and fro as if in the throes of a great and calamitous storm of the ages. 

Deep, empty riverbeds that cry desperately out for the flow of energy they  had once maintained, and the forcibly carved dams and levees that form a new system full of energy that also desperately wishes to return to its old routes.

Even weeks after the surgery, Shang Qinghua’s spiritual circuitry is at war with itself, inside of him. This was, of course, entirely anticipated and they have taken steps to treat the fallout, but…

It really makes Mu Qingfang want to cry. 

It looks painful. 

It looks like torture . 

Some part of Mu Qingfang, tiny and abysmal and buried deep, deep within himself where he can do his best to ignore it, almost thinks that it might have been better for Shang Qinghua if he had died. 

At least then, the poor boy wouldn’t be in such horrendous pain. 

Just the fact that the thought exists within himself makes Mu Qingfang want to spit blood.

The truth is, Shang Qinghua will likely continue to be in pain for years . The rest of his life, even. The likelihood of this being a chronic issue is almost guaranteed. 

The knowledge only makes Mu Qingfang more bitter. 

After all, it could have been avoided if only people had done what they were supposed to do. If only the people responsible for him had done right by Shang Qinghua, instead of ignoring him and perpetuating his suffering. 

Now that the scars of the old pathways are soothed slightly — still raw and angry, but for now appeased — Mu Qingfang turns to the task of corralling the vicious and whipping storm that is occurring in the surgical pathways. 

This is a bit easier, as the core issue was the scars of the old pathway calling out to the energy flowing in the new and agitating it. With that treated as much as it can be, given the circumstances, calming his shixiong’s new meridians does not even require the crystal focus. 

This leaves room, now, to figure out what exactly the circumstances are. 

Mu Qingfang draws the stone away from Shang Qinghua’s chest and tosses it back into his bag. 

He leans back and then carefully draws Shang Qinghua’s listless body down so that his patient’s head rests against his shoulder, and Mu Qingfang can keep one hand with fingers pressed against his patient’s temple. 

Shang Qinghua is not trembling quite so badly anymore. Instead, it has died down to minute tremors that are likely now due to the freezing temperature of the room rather than anything else. His eyes have slipped closed and, in this position, he could almost be mistaken for being asleep to one who didn’t know any better. 

If only . 

Patient situated as comfortably as possible, Mu Qingfang now directs his attention to the other two bodies in the room. Who are also shivering slightly from the cold, though they would never admit to it, the morons . 

“Now,” he begins flatly. “Can someone please explain to me why we need to invoke hypothermia as a cure for a deviation relapse? I’m very interested in the theory behind this, not only because it goes against everything they teach on Qian Cao but because, previously, the only confirmed results of this ‘procedure’ was loss of limbs or death .”

The two grumpiest members of the head discipleships of Cain Qiong sect stare back at him with glowers that are so similar, Mu Qingfang knows they would both skewer him without hesitation if he were to point it out to them. 

He spreads his free hand out grandiosely, raising a sardonic eyebrow. 

“Please, enlighten me . The doctor.”

“He was much worse when it was warmer.” Liu Qingge says. He does not look at all amused at Mu Qingfang’s sarcasm. Pity. 

“Do you think I wanted to freeze everyone’s fingers off?” Shen Qingqiu hisses. “Do you think I derived some sort of enjoyment out of seeing him turn blue? How little you think of me, doctor .”

He’s long since stood up from the floor, and is now pacing back and forth like a caged animal, hair swishing behind him like a whip with every turn. 

He whirls around at this, looking down his nose at Mu Qingfang, sneer at full power. It’s even more accentuated, given Mu Qingfang’s position on the floor while Shen Qingqiu stands.  

There’s a brief beat of silence, a tension in the room thick enough to form a material body, and then Mu Qingfang sighs. His shoulders drop down a fraction and he lowers his head. 

“No, I’m sorry.” He says quietly. “It wasn’t my intention to accuse you of anything, shixiong. I’m just… worried , and it has me on edge. I haven’t been very good at controlling my emotions as of late, but that is no excuse. I need to work harder on not letting them get the better of me like this.”

Shen Qingqiu draws up short. 

He narrows his eyes at him, but it almost looks as if Mu Qingfang’s apology has taken the wind out of his sails, and he doesn’t seem to know how to respond. 

Liu Qingge steps closer and squints at him. 

“You look tired.” He says shortly. “Can’t sleep?”

Mu Qingfang closes his eyes briefly to soothe the constant dry burn of his exhaustion. He nods — he’s not proud of any of it, but it’s the truth and Mu Qingfang has never been one to skirt responsibility.  

When he opens his eyes, it’s to find Liu Qingge nodding back at him, looking as if he’s solved some riddle. Shen Qingqiu, on the other hand, has smoothed out his expression into something slightly less hostile. 

“Same here.” Liu Qingge offers in solidarity. 

“It seems to be a running theme.” Shen Qingqiu says. He closes his eyes and pinches at the bridge of his nose. His other hand twitches, likely longing for the weight of the fan that Mu Qingfang can see currently sits abandoned on the table. 

“Can you please give me a quick rundown of the events leading up to this?” The doctor asks softly. “Anything out of the ordinary that you think could have triggered his relapse?”

Shen Qingqiu pauses, a look of contemplation coming across his face like a shadow. He glances toward the open door and frowns.  

“It came on very suddenly. He was fine all morning, and even when that beast over there came to bother us with his unwanted presence. It was only when the cold front hit, and I tried warming the place up, that he became…” Shen Qingqiu’s lips twist, less of a sneer and more of a disgruntled grimace, and he waves a hand toward Shang Qinghua’s unconscious form. “Like this.”

“Shang Qinghua likes when I visit.” Liu Qingge crosses his arms with what looks to be a pout on his normally serious face. 

Shen Qingqiu sniffs and does not provide him with a response. 

The Bai Zhan head disciple presses. “ You like when I visit.” 

“I do not .”

“Don’t lie.”

“I never do!”

Liu Qingge squints at him and doesn’t look convinced. “Hm.”

“Do you know, you look absolutely moronic when you make that face, stop —“ 

Mu Qingfang presses out a tired sigh. 

“Can we, perhaps, return to the matter at hand?” He asks dryly. 

Both his shixiong twist around to blank at him, as if they’d forgotten they weren’t the only ones in the room. 

Perhaps, if they were, they would bicker all night long. 

If the situation here was not so important a conundrum to solve, Mu Qingfang might find that funny. 

Instead, he asks, “What happened right before the relapse? It should be something outside of routine, shixiong. I’m not putting blame on anyone, I’m just trying to understand the scene. Something happened today that either hasn’t happened before or hasn’t happened with as much volume as it did today. Something triggered this. Please help this shidi determine what it was.”

“It was cold.” Liu Qingge says. 

He frowns down at the small pile of snow that the wind is bringing into the house, and kicks lightly at it. Powdery white flakes explode into a small cloud against his boot. 

Shen Qingqiu scowls at him but doesn’t comment.  

“Shen Qingqiu lit a brazier to warm the house.” He continues. “It was alright, at first, but once the flame got going tall enough to cast a shadow…”

“Shang Qinghua started shaking. I… didn’t realize it, at first — Or, I did, but I thought it was because of the cold.” Shen Qingqiu’s scowl remains. His hand clenches and unclenches at his side, and he looks down at the floor. “I should have known it was more than that.”

“No, he was quiet.” Liu Qingge is shaking his head before Mu Qingfang can even reach out to assure his shixiong he can’t be at fault. “Shang Qinghua, he… he was terrified, but he was still , and silent. Like prey on a hunt when it realizes it’s been cornered.”

Mu Qingfang frowns. He reaches down and carefully brushes Shang Qinghua’s hair away from his feverish forehead. It’s as hot as a fire itself, especially against the doctor’s cold, icy fingers. 

“What did you do, after he went into that state?” He asks. 

“He was staring at the brazier as if it were some demon about to eat him.” Shen Qingqiu says dryly. “What else? I doused the flame. Except, a doused flame emits smoke, and —”

“The smoke made it worse.” Mu Qingfang concludes. 

Shang Qingqiu gives him a narrow look for interrupting. He steps over and leans down to scoop his fan off the table and opens it in front of his face. 

Dramatic bastard, it was surely only so his narrow gaze could be better accentuated.

Shen Qingqiu looks a bit more settled now, though, with a fan in his hand.  

“We opened the door to air out the room. It had the added effect of making it blasted freezing, but Shang Qinghua panicked further when Liu Qingge tried to put his winter robe on him. Or at any other attempted touch, for that matter. Getting him into a position where I could begin an emergency qi transfusion was a trial in and of itself.”

Mu Qingfang nods, thinking over the information that he’s received.  

“You handled it well, I commend you.” He says. “Though, I think you can close the door now.” 

He can feel Shang Qinghua’s tremors growing smaller and less frequent against his side, and that’s not a good sign. Especially given that he isn’t actually dressed for the weather outside. Clearly, Shang Qinghua had no intention of leaving the bamboo house when he woke up this morning. 

Just like every other morning, or so he’s been told. 

Mu Qingfang understands. He doesn’t quite agree, but he understands . 

“It was less the warmth of the heat itself, I suspect, and more the open flame that triggered it. The sight of the fire and the smell of the smoke overwhelmed Shang Qinghua’s senses just enough for him to fall into what sounds to me like a flashback episode, likely of a traumatic experience from his past.”

“Well, he does have a wealth of them to choose from, doesn’t he.” Shen Qingqiu mutters acridly. The fan waves gently before his face and his eyes are leveled with contemplation. 

“So, he was trapped in some memory?” Liu Qingge asks. 

He has moved over to pull the door closed, and it smears snow across the floorboards as it does. But he’s not staring at the mess beneath his feet — Liu Qingge is staring at the corner beside the door, where an empty steel brazier sits inconspicuously. 

“A bad one.” Mu Qingfang nods. “Likely one where he was injured badly. He had a similar episode the other day, not nearly as bad as this one, but... I was hoping that was the end of it.”

“Clearly not.” Shen Qingqiu snaps his fan shut and crosses his arms, tapping it against his arm. “I don’t recall any fire-related injuries on the list Yaomei-shibo gave that day, however.” 

That day.  

All three of their expressions darken at the reminder. Mu Qingfang draws Shang Qinghua tighter into his arms and begins yet another cycle of qi soothing. 

“Burns are not the only injury a fire can inflict.” Mu Qingfang says, mind combing through everything that he knows about Shang Qinghua’s medical profile. And, as his shixiong’s recorded physician — Mu Qingfang had ensured this, first thing after the surgery had concluded — he knew it all. 

“Shidi?”

Mu Qingfang places a flat palm over his patient’s chest. Beneath his palm lay Shang Qinghua’s mutilated rib cage and faulty lungs that have caused him so much trouble. 

Faulty lungs, with strange scarring, from…

“Smoke inhalation can cause quite a bit of damage.” He murmurs, deep in thought. “It can permanently scar the throat and the soft tissue of the lungs. It can even result in the loss of the vocal cords — clearly, that hasn’t happened here, but the scarring is quite extensive…”

“So, he was in a fire?” Liu Qingge asks, squatting beside him. He is staring at Shang Qinghua’s slack face, the corners of his mouth turned downward. 

Shen Qingqiu does not come any closer than he already is. He is not even facing them anymore — his back is turned to them, and instead he stares resolutely toward the window pane. 

Mu Qingfang studies his back, but can’t know what the man is thinking. 

“It seems like it.” He answers. 

Liu Qingge frowns. “But, where?”

“That’s the question.” Mu Qingfang says. “But also, when was he impaled? How? Where did he get his wrist broken, and by who? Who allowed him to get crushed by the cart? Where do the scars of captivity come from, and how did no one notice he was missing for the duration of that? Who was behind it, and why?”

With each question, Liu Qingge’s expression grows darker and his glare more fierce, until his lips have curled back to bare his white teeth. 

Conversely, Shen Qingqiu’s shoulders have become more tense, but he does not turn from the window. 

Mu Qingfang grits his teeth. “I’d like to find that out, but it’s a mystery. The only answers lie with Shang Qinghua himself, and he’s not talking.”

“We can’t make him.” Liu Qingge says immediately, almost like a warning. 

Mu Qingfang blinks at him. 

He glances toward Shen Qingqiu, who won’t turn around, and his lips twitch slightly. 

“No, we can’t.” He agrees. “He should not have to tell us, anyway. That is not a burden he needs to bear.”

“We will find out on our own.” Liu Qingge nods seriously. “And kil—“

“Murder is not a solution.” Mu Qingfang deadpans almost automatically. 

“Oh, but we will.” Shen Qingqiu finally deigns to speak, though he remains facing the window. The man’s fan taps lightly against his leg in a repetitive motion. 

It’s like a self-soothing one. Mu Qingfang can understand. After all, it’s been a stressful afternoon for them all. 

“Shixiong?”

Shen Qingqiu glances over his shoulder at him. His eyes are like shards of ice. The room was just beginning to warm again now that the snow wind is no longer dancing around inside of it, but Mu Qingfang suddenly feels the fingers of the  cold tracing down his spine. 

“We will.” Shen Qingqiu says, face neutral. “Kill them, that is.”

Mu Qingfang stares at him. 

“It’s what they deserve, after all.” The head disciple of Qing Jung sniffs imperiously, fan flashing under his chin. “Disgusting mongrels, besmirching the good name of our sect and laying their filthy paws on our martial brother? Killing them would be a kindness, really.”

Liu Qingge’s eyes are wide and shining with fervent agreement, and he nods. 

“Anyone who hurts Qinghua-shixiong should be dealt with swiftly.” The boy resolutely states.

He peeks down at where Shang Qinghua is lying against Mu Qingfang’s side, and reaches out a hand to gently pat the boy’s fluffy hair. 

His voice is grave when he next speaks. “Anyone who can look at him and still can hurt him, they must be a demon. As cultivator’s, it’s our sworn duty to—“

“You are both exhausting .” Mu Qingfang says dully. Why are all his martial siblings so pro-murder? Except Qinghua-shixiong, obviously; he’s a blessing from heaven. “Help me get him into bed. There’s no reason to be sitting on the floor like this now that the worst has passed. He’s stable, for now. Shen-shixiong, can you grab my —? Yes, thank you.”

He gathers his shixiong on his arms and moves him more comfortably against him, angling to stand. Liu Qingge quickly reaches out to help them up, and follows with a supporting hand down the hallway toward the room in which Shang Qinghua has been staying. Shen Qingqiu follows after them with Mu Qingfang’s medical bag in one hand and his fan in the other. 

The room is sparse, only an extra blanket on the bed. Even after staying here for a while, Shang Qinghua does not have much to look at. It makes it all the more sad to know how the boy refuses to leave. 

Liu Qingge helps him lay their shixiong down and, as he tucks him under the covers, Mu Qingfang decides that next time he comes to check his patient over, he will bring a nice potted plant with him. Something nice to see but practical — to help the bit with his damaged meridians, perhaps. 

If Shang Qinghua won’t go out into the world because he is afraid, then Mu Qingfang will just have to bring the world to him. Reintroduce him, one simple thing at a time.

Slowly, the anxiety will disperse. And, with the guaranteed protection of his martial siblings, Shang Qinghua will one day have nothing to fear. 

Chapter Text

Another armful of documents is set on top of Yue Qingyuan’s already crowded desk. If he were anyone more dramatic, he would say that he could almost hear the wood creaking due to the added weight. 

He glances down at the scroll he is currently working through — another abysmally filed requisition form — and withholds a sigh. 

“Thank you, you may go.”

The inner disciple conducts a bow, calculated and perfect as is expected of all disciples of the first peak. They murmur a respectful farewell and the door barely makes a sound as it whispers shut behind their exit. 

Yue Qingyuan eyes the new stack of scrolls dispassionately and valiantly resists the overwhelming urge to swipe everything currently on his desk onto the floor. 

As therapeutic as the violent crashing might sound, it would be terribly unreputable and unseemly. So, as with the rest of his more violent impulses, Yue Qingyuan ruthlessly quashes the stray thought and marks another calculation in the margin of the requisition. 

After all, he has no right to act in such a way. This before him now is only a small portion — one eleventh, at that —  of the workload that his shidi had to handle in just a week. The rest of the work was spread out amongst the other head disciples, and the fact that even then the amount of it is still nothing to sneer at is —

It strikes home, just how Shang Qinghua had been drowning. 

Yue Qingyuan draws in a long, slow breath through the nose and holds it for four beats before releasing it. 

When that does nothing to quell the buzzing feeling of upset still circulating within his chest, the head disciple regretfully hangs up his brush and pushes away from the desk. 

Perhaps some fresh air will clear his head. 

The thought that, on his own, Shang Qinghua would have simply had no time to take a break like this or rest adequately, just makes the buzzing sensation grow fiercer. It makes Yue Qingyuan hesitate at the door to his study, contemplating briefly whether he has the right to rest like this when his shidi never got the chance until it was forced upon him, forced upon them all. 

Then, he shakes his head and slides the door open, stepping out onto the veranda of the office. 

He must imagine how incensed Mu Qingfang would be, should he find out that Yue Qingyuan is having such thoughts again. The head disciple of Qian Cao might just threaten him with his sword a second time, and the mental image brings a slight smile to Yue Qingyuan’s lips. 

He hopes that the medic is getting enough sleep. Heavens know Yue Qingyuan is not, but the last time he saw Mu Qingfang, his shidi had been sporting quite the dark circles under his eyes. 

It’s a look currently very much in style among the head disciples, he’s found. 

Yue Qingyuan touches a fingertip underneath his own eye, feeling the way the skin is raised with a slight puffiness. Quickly, he drops his hand back to his side and steps onto the rainbow bridge. 

He walks in meditation, which is not the best of ideas but one that Yue Qingyuan desperately needs to follow through with right now. It quiets the buzzing just enough that by the time his feet hit grass, he’s managed to wrangle it back behind the closed doors in the back of his mind once more. 

When he sees just where his feet have brought him, however, it starts up again in a dull and low vibration. 

Yue Qingyuan’s teeth sink into his lower lip before his mind can catch up with the action, and he quickly ceases the biting as soon as he realizes. 

Helplessness wells up within his heart, and he stands there for a second more than is likely proper before he accepts the fact that he is where he is, and that he should probably knock on the door in front of him before the person that lives behind it gets fed up with his silent hovering. 

Much to Yue Qingyuan’s shame, it would not be the first time that it has happened. 

It takes only three knocks. He is in the motion of the forth when the door is unceremoniously yanked open before his knuckles can make contact with the wood, and Yue Qingyuan hurriedly drops his arm before his fist can land on the face of the person staring back at him. 

Yue Qingyuan blinks, and then sighs. 

“Good morning, Liu-shidi.” He says. 

The younger head disciple stares at him for a moment longer, gaze intense  searching as it normally is wont to be. He replies in his typical delayed fashion — which is a more recent development, as Liu Qingge normally was one to speak before he thinks and act before he speaks. In the past few weeks, the Bai Zhan disciple has been displaying much more patience and observation in the way he conducts himself. 

“The tea’s cold.” Liu Qingge says after they’ve both stepped into the receiving room. Yue Qingyuan can see the set arranged on the table, but only one cup to indicate that Liu Qingge had been sitting here with only himself as company. “I can make more?”

“I’ve partaken recently.” Yue Qingyuan waves off the pleasantries. He knows they are not his shidi’s strongsuite, and is proven right by the way Liu Qingge’s shoulders relax fractionally. “There is no need for such ceremony. Is Shen-shidi home?”

Liu Qingge nods, dropping back into the seat behind the tea. There is a small collection of scrolls also arranged on the table, and Yue Qingyuan catches a glimpse of a qi circulatory system diagram on the one that is lying open. 

Is his shidi, who is a physical cultivator first and foremost and whose skills center on the practical application of martial instinct, actually studying theory?  

Recent events have wrought changes upon them all, Yue Qingyuan thinks somewhat bitterly. Some for the better, he must admit — but he does wish it could have been prompted in literally any other way. 

“He’s been watching over Qinghua-shixiong since Qingfang left.” Liu Qingge says, taking up the scroll in his hands. He had said the tea had gone cold, but his cup is still full and untouched. “He’s with him now, in his room.”

Liu Qingge pauses. He sets the scroll back down and stands up. Yue Qingyuan watches him walk across the room to the counter against the wall, beneath a large window, where a platter of dishes is set out to cool. The Bai Zhan disciple selects a tea pot of yixing clay that still has steam billowing gently from its spout, and he carries it back to offer to Yue Qingyuan. 

“Medicinal tea.” He explains as Yue Qingyuan accepts it with a raised eyebrow. “It’s jasmine, Qinghua-shixiong’s favorite. He should drink some if he’s awake. But, Qingfang said that Qingqiu-shixiong could have some too.”

Yue Qingyuan cups his palm under the heated curve of the pot, watching the steam rise. Shen Qingqiu must have been quite affected by their shidi’s relapse if Mu Qingfang is recommending that he drink from the medicine that is prescribed to Shang Qinghua, who is recovering from a violent qi deviation. 

“I’ll make sure he has some.” The corners of Yue Qingyuan’s mouth tug upward, but there is no feeling behind it. It’s only habit that drives the motion. 

Liu Qingge only nods and returns to the table. He curls his legs underneath him and takes up the scroll again, his brow furrowing as he stares unblinking at the words there. 

Yue Qingyuan studies his shidi for a brief moment, marveling at the rare scene he’d never once thought he’d see, before he shakes his head and turns himself toward the hallway leading into the depths of the house.  

Shen Qingqiu is right where he was said to be. 

He does not move a muscle from where he sits in a chair beside the bed, eyes staring over it and its occupant and instead out through the open window behind them. His hands are curled into loose fists and lying side by side in his lap, and his mind looks to be far away. 

Curled up in the bed and bundled in only a light sheet, Shang Qinghua is turned onto his side with half his face pressed into a cotton pillow. What little that is visible is red with his fever, clamminess clinging to his brow and making his skin shine in the daylight that streams in from the window. The pillow case under his cheek is damp with dark spots of sweat, and his breathing is harsh. 

The slight panting and occasional gasps are the only sounds that break the silence of the room aside from the occasional birdsong that filters in through the open window. The line of Qinghua-shidi’s rib cage rises and falls jaggedly with every puff of air, each breath visible as a vapor in the chill that the outside air brings in. 

Yue Qingyuan closes the door behind him and moves to the table, arranging the teapot. There’s an empty one already there, that he moves aside to make room for the new one. The tea cups are also empty, the barest residue clinging to the pottery, which makes the tight knot sitting inside Yue Qingyuan’s chest loosen. 

He pours the fresh tea into both cups, filling one only halfway to make it easier to give to someone who is bedridden. Setting the pot on the warmer, Yue Qingyuan sits behind the table and folds his hands on the table, taking the time to simply observe. 

The room is sparse. Despite being a guest for nearly a month, Yue Qingyuan cannot spot anything personal that would speak of Shang Qinghua’s presence here aside from the boy himself unconscious in the bed. It’s empty, nearly desolate, and the sight of it makes the buzzing in Yue Qingyuan’s chest deepen ever-so slightly. 

He knows — they all know — of Shang Qinghua’s refusal to step outside. Right now, it’s impossible, as he is unable to even sit up, but he’d been doing better for a short while before his relapse. A walk outside for some fresh air and to take in the nature would have likely helped his recovery further. Shen Qingqiu had made mention of his attempts in convincing their shidi to do so and how they all ended in failure. 

Seeing this room now, little more than a kindly prison, and knowing that it is this space that Qinghua-shidi is so adamant on keeping himself confined within…

Yue Qingyuan attempts the breathing exercise again. Again, it doesn’t quite work, but he didn’t expect it to. 

It hasn’t worked in a while, now.  

He waves a hand over the fuller cup, checking the heat of the steam that wafts up from its contents. Noting that it is a much more consumable temperature, Yue Qingyuan silently pushes it across the table to sit before the empty seat on the other side. 

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to, not really. They had always been apt at speaking without words, at least with each other.  

It makes the continued distance between them all the more cutting. Yue Qingyuan is not used to having to use his words with his brother. He isn’t sure how to even begin to. Xiao-Jiu had never once needed it. 

But for this, he demands it. And Yue Qingyuan, always desperate to provide his brother with anything he could ever want or need, can’t give him this one thing. 

And so they remain, as ever, at an impasse. 

Yue Qingyuan hates it. 

At the sound of the pottery sliding across wood, Shen Qingqiu’s fists flatten out over his knees. He sits still for a moment longer, before he draws himself up from the chair and stands. 

He sits across from Yue Qingyuan wordlessly. He doesn’t look at him, instead staring down into the tea with a blank look on his face. The elder disciple waits patiently. 

Shen Qingqiu, after a minute of silence, picks up the cup and takes a long and deep drink of its contents. He sets the cup down with more force than necessary, and the resulting clack resounds in the quiet of the room. 

Yue Qingyuan goes for a gentle starter, tried and true. “How are you, shidi?”

Shen Qingqiu folds his hands primly atop the table between them. His stare is sharp and cold. 

“Aside from the sect secretly being a fucking cesspool of abuse — don’t give me that look, there is no one else present to hear and you know it’s true.” Shen Qingqiu sniffs at him. 

Yue Qingyuan stays silent, observing him with an inquisitive eye. 

He watches as Shen Qingqiu’s gaze turns down toward the table, to the arrangement of his own hands as he unclasps them and splays them flat. He watches the way Shen Qingqiu’s lips purse so tightly they’ve turned white, how his brow has crinkled ever so slightly in the middle as he struggles to smooth out his expression but can’t quite manage to hide all of it. 

And Yue Qingyuan knows that there is something beyond the current situation they’ve all found themselves in that is bothering his brother. 

Instead of pry — as much as he’d like to, he knows that does not work with Shen Qingqiu — he turns his attention to the tea pot. The embers within the warmer it sits on have begun to die out, and so he pokes a finger into their huddle and nudges them around. With the barest burst of qi, they glow bright with heat once more, and steam begins to waft up from the pot again in short order. 

It’s into the hissing of the slightest spark that rises from the embers that Shen Qingqiu whispers, “When you experienced your qi deviation, was it as bad as his?”

Yue Qingyuan—

The wind outside must be particularly strong. He feels cold, like his insides have frozen. His stomach, his liver, his lungs. His heart. Frozen, and yanked down by the harsh, unrelenting grasp of the earth. He’s only just had his hand sunken into embers, his skin still pink from the contact, but even that feels cold now. 

He raises his head, and finds Shen Qingqiu staring right at him. 

“What?” He croaks. 

Shen Qingqiu simply looks at him. His eyes are sharp and knowing, and his gaze cuts right through Yue Qingyuan like he isn’t even there — or, like he has been flayed open, and Shen Qingqiu can see everything that lies inside of him. Everything that makes up who Yue Qingyuan is. Every little mistake, every flaw — everything wrong with him. His little brother is looking at him, and he can see just how bad of a failure Yue Qingyuan truly is. 

“Your qi deviation.” Shen Qingqiu repeats, almost casually. As if he’s talking about the weather outside. “If Shang Qinghua’s is the ‘second worst’ that Yaozhi-shishu has ever seen, then was yours the worst?” 

He reaches for his tea again, and takes another deep draw from it while Yue Qingyuan watches him with wide eyes. 

Shen Qingqiu sets his cup down, too hard again — harder, this time, as the table rattles underneath his hands, and there’s a sharp clink as the pottery chips against the wood. 

“He looked right at you, when he said that.” His brother says blithely. His lips turn white from how tightly he presses them together. 

“I don’t —“ Yue Qingyuan stutters, and it’s the wrong thing to even try to say, because Shen Qingqiu knows him, knows what he says — they don’t need words, they never have — and his head snaps up to settle him with a furious glare that makes the buzzing in Yue Qingyuan’s chest triple. 

“The head disciple of Qiong Ding, strongest of the next generation of peak lords. Renown for his power, next in line to lead the sect. He had a debilitating qi deviation? Worse than Shang Qinghua’s — Qinghua, who is bedridden thrice over, who required intense surgery to even begin to treat him, who is no better than a  cripple, likely for the rest of his life, if even.“

Shen Qingqiu’s grip flexes around his tea. A crack fractures down the side of the cup, and he shoves it away from him. It skitters across the table and hits against the tea pot warmer with a dull thud that makes Yue Qingyuan twitch back. 

Shen Qingqiu points a finger at him, eyes alight with a fury that carves itself into every muscle of his face. 

“The revered future sect leader, his qi deviation was worse than that?” Shen Qingqiu shakes his head, hands curling into fists as he presses them into the table, jaw clenching. “Except, the revered future sect leader was once just a lowly slave. Like me, he faced a bleak future of hardships; fated, once, to be unable to do anything more than scrape the bottom of the barrel. Freed from that, with every opportunity to step higher and higher before him, was the once-slave and now future sect leader too hungry? Did he climb too fast, wanting more, and inevitably fell in the pursuit of more power?”

Yue Qingyuan’s chair hits the wall before he even registers that he’s on his feet. He stares down at — at his brother with wide eyes, pain and hurt lancing through every part of his being. Shen Qingqiu won’t even look at him. 

“You think of me like this?” He asks, unable to suppress the raw aching in his voice. “You — You think me power hungry?”

“What am I supposed to think?” Shen Qingqiu snaps. He is on his feet now, too, chair toppled on its side. Yue Qingyuan wonders what Liu Qingge makes of all the racket that they’re creating. 

“You never came back.” Shen Qingqiu hisses, angry and spitting as a cat. “You never showed up, and I had to — to get myself out of that nightmare! The next time I see you, you are some high and mighty, righteous cultivator of one of the most powerful sects in the jianghu, and you keep saying sorry but you never tell me what for!”

Yue Qingyuan feels his face twisting, grief and shame and misery coming to the forefront. He steps back as if struck, as he takes in the rounded curve of his brother’s shoulders. Shen Qingqiu has never looked so small in his anger. His fists are clenched tightly in the frantic of his sleeves and his hair shadows his face as he looks to the floor, the rage shaking his figure from crown to heel. 

“How do I know,” Shen Qingqiu says flatly, “that you are not just apologizing to the poor slave you got too busy and important to go back for. That you are not simply saying that you are sorry for the circumstances, only that your duty and position to your blessed, immortal sect negates the promise you made to save me from that hell!”

Shen Qingqiu kicks the table in a rare show of physical violence. Normally, he’d make his point with his words, but such a thing is impossible like this — not when emotions are high, when Yue Qingyuan is choking on them himself so badly he can’t even utter a word. 

A common occurrence. Yue Qingyuan never has words, when it comes to his brother. Something else that he continues to fail at so successfully. 

“I waited for you.” Shen Qingqiu presses out through both gritted teeth and the knuckles he has pressed against them. Yue Qingyuan is experiencing vertigo, the world swimming sickeningly like the floor has been ripped out from under him. 

“The one person who even knew about me, that — that I thought cared about me. The only person.” Shen Qingqiu glares at him with fierce, red-rimmed eyes. “Who else was going to come and save me? Nobody. Do you understand? You left me there to rot!”

Yue Qingyuan opens his mouth. No, I didn’t. 

He had shown up. He kept his promise, only — he’d been too late. 

Always, always too late. 

Why can’t he just say it, then? Admit to his faults, of which he has many — but he can’t. The words are stuck in his throat, and it’s only a matter of time before Shen Qingqiu’s expression shutters closed once again, and he’s turning away from him, and he won’t even look at Yue Qingyuan again for weeks —

There’s a groan from the bed, and both Shen Qingqiu and Yue Qingyuan whip around to face it. Belatedly he remembers just where they are having this confrontation. Wide eyes — vulnerable and furious and deeply, deeply grieved — land simultaneously upon the curled form with such intensity that Shang Qinghua, who it appears has been watching them with glazed and feverish eyes, flinches away from them. 

Immediately, Yue Qingyuan’s expression falls flat. 

He steps carefully around the table, takes another step across the room, and lifts a hand out toward his sick shidi. Except, Shang Qinghua cringes away from his touch, and so Yue Qingyuan is helpless to do anything but drop his arm back to his side.  

Momentarily putting his brother out of his mind — as torturously difficult as it may be to step away from the situation at hand — he forces a gentle expression onto his face. The head disciple of Cang Qiong carefully sits himself on the edge of the bed. He gives enough distance to provide Shang Qinghua space to get away if he wants to, but close enough that the offer of comfort is still present. 

Yue Qingyuan opens his mouth to say something soothing, but Shang Qinghua beats him to the mark. 

“It was me.” The An Ding disciple says. 

His gaze is a bit wild, flitting quickly between the shixiong beside him to the other that still stands over the table with a hunched, haunted stature. 

Yue Qingyuan blinks. He wants to smooth Shang Qinghua’s hair back from his clammy face, but he restrains himself. 

“Hm? Shidi?”

Shang Qinghua’s gaze peeks once more toward Shen Qingqiu’s silent figure, and then settles on Yue Qingyuan. 

“I did it.” Shang Qinghua says, eyes unfocused. 

“What did you do?” Shen Qingqiu asks a little waspishly, and Yue Qingyuan casts him a long and blank look — wishing he was in a place to scold him. He doesn’t meet his gaze. 

“Yue-shixiong was… always looking for someone.” Their shidi replies.

Yue Qingyuan sits up straighter, as if he’s been struck by the lighting of tribulation.

He looks at Shang Qinghua, whose eyes are glazed over with fever but nonetheless retain some value of coherency — not completely, but enough that he seems confident in what he’s saying. His words are not delusional, just uninhibited. 

Then, he turns his eyes toward his brother, who has gone as still as a jade statue and is staring at the floor with such an incredible glare that it makes Yue Qingyuan want to stand far away. 

He’s not sure why, but a cold feeling of dread slowly begins to inch up his spine. 

Chapter Text

Yue Qingyuan’s hands are clasped tightly behind his back. He can feel the ligaments pulled taught around his knuckles. He can almost hear the bones creaking under the pressure. 

Across the room, Shen Qingqiu will not look at him. 

Shang Qinghua continues, unprompted. 

“Shixiong wanted to find this person so badly, and when… when that happened, and it stopped him from looking, shixiong went even crazier than he already was just from the sword.”

“Shidi, that’s quite enough,” Yue Qingyuan says. 

His breath comes in a hurried, uncontrollable way. He can’t quite keep it in his chest long enough for it to do its job. Actually, his head feels a bit light. 

He reaches out his hand to stop Shang Qinghua — how, he doesn’t know — but it is only left hovering helplessly in the air when Shang Qinghua flinches away from him for a third time. 

“Shixiong was locked in the caves for so long, he couldn’t continue to look for the person he was trying to find.” Shang Qinghua mumbles, his gaze turning to fix on the light that is coming in through the window. “But… I’m good.”

“Excuse me?” Shen Qingqiu croaks out. 

Yue Qingyuan looks at him. His brother’s glare has moved up from the floor to pin Yue Qingyuan with an expression that was slowly turning into something pale. Yue Qingyuan’s lungs spasm, breath stuttering, and he looks back to Shang Qinghua, who is nodding. 

Shang Qinghua is entirely unreceptive of Yue Qingyuan’s rather unsubtle attempts to get him to stop talking. 

“I’m. I'm good at finding things. People.” He mumbles. “Since… Yue-shixiong, he was very good to me before, so I… I wanted to help him find the person he was looking for. Because he couldn’t.”

Yue Qingyuan’s hand is visibly shaking. He drops it down into his lap and swallows dryly. The movement scratches down his throat, and he presses a cough into his palm. His hands are clammy with sweat. The buzzing in his chest is impossible to ignore, and he sets a palm over it and presses down, hard. 

It doesn’t do anything. He wants to weep. 

Before the first head disciple meeting, before recent events unfolded, Yue Qingyuan can only remember meeting the prospective head disciple of An Ding once, and it wasn’t even that memorable. However it had gone, though, it had impacted Shang Qinghua enough that the boy had felt he owed Yue Qingyuan. 

Knowing what he does now of Shang Qinghua, Yue Qingyuan can’t be sure that his “being very good” to the other boy wasn’t just common courtesy and being polite. Clearly, Qinghua-shidi did not experience such simple things often, and mistook them for genuine kindness. 

Whatever the truth is, it makes something sour and bitter squirm in Yue Qingyuan’s chest, and the buzzing does not abate. 

“Qinghua…” He whispers. 

“So, I found the person.” Shang Qinghua states. 

The words come out flatly, neither nervous nor proud. It’s stated like a fact, and one that Shang Qinghua is wary of. 

The both of them stare at the bedridden disciple. 

“You… found him?” Yue Qingyuan finally asks, bewildered. If his shidi had found Shen Qingqiu before it was too late, then why… 

Why hadn’t he brought him back?

Shang Qinghua’s eyes flick toward Shen Qingqiu, who seems to wake up a little from his stunned stupor. 

He takes a step away, green eyes wide and fists shaking in his sleeves. “Qinghua—” 

“Wasn’t good.” Shang Qinghua mutters. 

“No.” Shen Qingqiu says. 

It’s unclear whether it’s an agreement with Shang Qinghua’s description or a denial of the situation entirely. 

Suddenly, a hunted expression crawls across Shang Qinghua’s face, and he turns an unseeing gaze down toward his lap. 

His face is flushed from fever and completely pale underneath that, causing him to look wan and like he’s experiencing something horrific in his mind. Sweat trickles down the side of his face, and he clenches the blanket over his legs tightly in both his fists as he recounts what he is seeing to the two horrified disciples with him. 

“The building’s on fire.” He says quietly, the words hollow. 

Shen Qingqiu's back hits the wall, his shoulder colliding roughly with the wood. He closes his eyes. His head bows. 

“No.” He says again.

Yue Qingyuan aches to reach out to him, aches to reach out to Shang Qinghua, but he knows that neither of them will accept his hand, and so he is left staring at Shang Qinghua with wide eyes.

“It was.” He whispers back. “It… it was on fire. It burnt to the ground. Killing… everyone inside of it.” 

Shen Qingqiu presses a hand over his mouth to stop a quiet, tortured noise from escaping. 

“It isn’t a normal fire.” Shang Qinghua says. “It’s wrong. Toxic qi.”

Toxic. Meaning that people who are not cultivators or possess a strong spiritual root wouldn’t have survived at all.

Shen Qingqiu silently raises his head. He turns it from side to side, shaking it as if he wants to deny it a third time but his voice has failed him. 

“I’m a cultivator. N-not… not a very good one, but. I’ll survive. And the person that shixiong is always looking for, they… aren’t a cultivator. Yet.”

Shang Qinghua says all of this in a slow and certain way despite his feverish and slightly muddled state, as if it was all something that he had thought very deeply about many times before. 

“That person… isn’t awake. They fainted from… from the smoke.” Shang Qinghua hesitates, glancing from Shen Qingqiu to Yue Qingyuan and back to Shen Qingqiu before he chooses his words. Shen Qingqiu’s mouth twists downwards. 

“And…” Shang Qinghua’s eyes flit away from them nervously. “Um. I like to be prepared. My qiankun pouch always… has a lot of things in it.”

A sound of agreement escapes Yue Qingyuan. They’ve all seen the contents of Shang Qinghua’s qiankun pouches, back when they were going through his office to split the workload and retrieving his belongings from his residence. 

Spiritual tags. Immortal binding cables. Emergency medical supplies. Random artifacts. Some of his own personal inventions (which, going by the various diagrams they discovered in his office, are fully tested, completely operational, and so very clever. Their martial brother is quite the genius. Cang-shidi can’t wait to chat with him, when Qinghua-shidi is ready to do so). 

Shang Qinghua walked around even his own peak carrying enough supplies to support a small troop in a case of crisis. 

Yue Qingyuan curls his hands into fists over his knees. He then reaches out to press down Shang Qinghua’s own fidgeting hands. 

He’s fiddling with his fingers, picking at the bandages around his healing wrist. Yue Qingyuan’s touch makes the younger disciple freeze in place momentarily but, this time, he doesn’t pull away. 

“I have a… artifact that can put up a temporary barrier, keep the toxic qi from invading the meridians. But it only fits one person.”

“You didn’t wear it.” 

Yue Qingyuan looks up. Shen Qingqiu has moved to stand over the bed. He stands there staring down at Shang Qinghua with eyes widened with a look that seems like rage, but Yue Qingyuan knows is closer to fear, to horror. But, Qingqiu is the type of person to turn fear — in this case, the fear of being correct, or rather the absolute refusal to be correct — into anger. 

He is standing close enough that his elbow slightly grazes the shoulder of Yue Qingyuan from where he is sitting on the bed. He can feel Qingqiu shaking. 

Yue Qingyuan closes his eyes and takes a breath. He holds on in or four beats, and then releases it. Useless, as always. 

Shang Qinghua squints up Shen Qingqiu, looking confused. 

“It only covers one person.” He says, as if he’s stating the obvious. 

As if it was obvious, that he would use the only artifact he had on hand that could protect him from the toxic qi on someone other than himself. As if it was obvious, that Shang Qinghua would give up his own safety in order to protect someone else. 

As if there is no question about it at all. 

“So you placed it on,” Shen Qingqiu’s words hitch slightly, the briefest of pauses before he finished his sentence, “…that other person.”

Yue Qingyuan , despite knowing better, reaches for Shen Qingqiu’s hand, but the younger man pulls away from his touch. He draws back, not surprised but not hurt any less than he has been every other time Shen Qingqiu has refused his comfort. 

He hates that he feels hurt. Shen Qingqiu is right to refuse him. 

Yue Qingyuan shouldn’t feel hurt over something he deserves. He should just accept it. 

That’s his biggest flaw, though. He can’t accept it. He’s tried — he tries every single day, but it doesn’t get any easier. 

“Mmhm.” Shang Qinghua agrees quietly. “So that person is okay. Not waking up, though. Qi exhaustion.” He’s muttering now, words coming fast and nonstop, eyes peering into the distance at something neither of them can see. “The fire is… really bad. I have to — to drag him out. But… the building is too damaged.”

Shang Qinghua suddenly squeezes his eyes shut and presses his hands over his eyes. He’s shaking like a leaf. Yue Qingyuan’s hand falls from his hand onto his leg, and he squeezes the boy’s knee instead in the hopes to give him some sort of grounding in reality. He isn’t sure it works. 

“It… it’s falling. It fell.” He corrects, sniffling. “It fell down. On me.”

Shen Qingqiu growls out a curse so lowly that it’s almost a whisper. 

Yue Qingyuan flinches minutely at the sound. He carefully pats Shang Qinghua’s back until the trembling slows. 

“It’s alright.” He says, keeping his voice gentle. “That all happened a long time ago, remember? You’re safe in the sect, now, Qinghua-shidi.”

Shang Qinghua raises his eyes, and blinks at him. Yue Qingyuan can see that they are still misted over, and even as Shang Qinghua picks up his hand and holds it in between his, he knows that the younger disciple is still not wholly present with them. 

Shang Qinghua shakes his head. “The sect is not safe.” He says factually. After all, that is the truth in Shang Qinghua’s experience. “And… it hurts.”

Yue Qingyuan glances behind him. His brother still stands at the wall, eyes wide and blank as he, likely, relives his own traumas brought back to life through their shidi’s words. 

“Your shixiong will protect you now, Qinghua-shidi. In fact, we have medicine for you that will help with the pain.” He levels his voice a notch louder, and watches as Shen Qingqiu’s eyes snap back to awareness. That gaze meets his own, and Yue Qingyuan looks pointedly toward the half-filled tea cup that still sits, untouched, on the table. 

Shen Qingqiu stands stock still for just a moment longer, before he appears to shake himself back into awareness. With movements that are less graceful than usual, he stoops to collect the tea. 

Yue Qingyuan turns back to their bedridden martial brother and strokes the back of his hand comfortingly. Shang Qinghua shivers at the touch, and leans forward toward him in a way much like a wilting flower might open up toward the sun. It makes the buzzing in Yue Qingyuan’s chest so much harder to ignore, as deep as the sadness he feels toward his shidi’s situation. He curls an arm around Shang Qinghua’s shoulders and sits still as the boy melts against him. 

Clay pottery is pressed into the back of the hand that his shidi holds in his grasp. Yue Qingyuan glances down and finds his brother perched on the bedside chair, a cup of tea in either hand. Shen Qingqiu does not look at him — his attention is all on Shang Qinghua, and he has the undrunken cup cradled in one hand. His half-drunk one he is holding out to Yue Qingyuan.

Silently, Yue Qingyuan slips his hand out of Shang Qinghua’s grip. He gives the arm around the boy’s shoulder a squeeze when he makes a hurt sound at the loss of contact, which seems to settle him. Shen Qingqui wordlessly places his own cup in Yue Qingyuan’s free hand and then turns to coax their shidi to drink from the other. 

Yue Qingyuan takes a breath. The buzzing in his chest has traveled out into his extremities. It’s a constant discomfort, lighting his circulatory system with an electric sensation that reminds him of a dark storm. He blinks back the heaviness of his eyes and lifts the cups to his lips to down the remaining tea in one gulp. 

Immediately, it helps. Not enough, but the buzzing abates from his limbs and curls back up within the center of his chest. It will escape its bounds once more, soon enough, but for now it is content to remain where it is, at a dull level just slightly above what Yue Qingyuan is able to ignore.  

Shang Qinghua is convinced to drink the tea, and curls into his arm with a content sigh. His eyes are fluttering closed, and he still looks sickly and awful, but the feverish red of his face is not quite as vibrant as before. 

“Sorry.” He whispers into Yue Qingyuan’s collar. 

“Stop saying that.” Shen Qingqiu breathes out, eyes closed. His voice is near silent, so quiet it can’t possibly be expected for Shang Qinghua to hear it. 

Yue Qingyuan tightens his arm around the boy’s shoulders. 

“What are you apologizing for?” He asks. 

Every breath that Shang Qinghua struggles to take, it ghosts a warm puff of air over Yue Qingyuan’s neck. He reaches down and sets the tea cup aside, fixing the thin sheet more securely around the patient’s legs. 

“I tried to bring the person that shixiong was looking for.” Shang Qinghua mumbles, brow furrowing slightly. “But… he was gone when I woke up. It took… a long time to climb out. The house was… heavy. It hurt. And I couldn’t find him again. Sorry…”

Yue Qingyuan breathes in through his nose, long and slow. He holds it for four beats, and tries to release it just as slowly, but it comes out all at once in a gasp, and there are tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. 

He lowers his head and presses his face into the soft, wheat hair of his shidi, struggling to calm his lungs. Yue Qingyuan closes his eyes tightly.  

When he speaks next, it’s muffled by both his shidi’s hair and the tight grip his emotions have around his own throat. 

“You did well, Qinghua-shidi. This shixiong thanks you for your hard work. He is,” his voice catches, and he clears his throat gently, “he is very touched at your thoughtfulness. You are hurt, though, and you should rest so that you can recover.”

Shang Qinghua rolls his head back against Yue Qingyuan’s shoulder, forcing the head disciple to raise his to look down at him and meet his hazy gaze. 

He blinks slowly. “The building was heavy.” Comes the whisper. 

Yue Qingyuan reaches up and moves a strand of hair out of his face, pulling at the sweat that sticks it against his clammy skin. “It must have been. Shidi is strong to have withstood it. This shixiong is so glad that Qinghua-shidi survived.”

For a long moment, the An Ding disciple is completely silent. He stares up at Yue Qingyuan as if he’s looking for something in the angles of his face. 

The weight of that gaze is monumental, Yue Qingyuan suddenly realizes. He can feel its weight pressing down on him from all directions, holding his heart in place with a strict vengeance. Instead of something fearful, though, this weight is warm and all-encompassing. 

Trusting. 

Yue Qingyuan looks inward at himself, as well, and finds that he will do anything not to betray this trust, more fragile than the sweep of a swallow’s wings. 

His shidi seems to find what he’s searching for only a breath later. Those honey-gold eyes brighten fractionally, a smile curling at his mouth like the sun rising over the horizon after a dark and difficult night. 

“Shen-shixiong made it home, though.” The boy says haltingly, eyes growing heavy with every blink longer than the last. “It took a while, but he’s here now. Yue-shixiong doesn’t have to be sad anymore.”

Yue Qingyuan swallows. He closes his fiercely stinging eyes and holds his shidi close. He can feel as Shang Qinghua slowly relaxes further and further into his embrace as sleep comes to claim him once more. 

“Please…” Shang Qinghua mumbles, on the verge of unconsciousness. “Don’t be sad anymore.”

“I’m not sad.” Yue Qingyuan says, breath catching. He rubs a hand up and down Shang Qinghua’s arm. “I’m so happy. Thanks to you, Qinghua-shidi. This shixiong is in your debt.”

“No.” Shang Qinghua mutters his rejection shortly, almost grumpily. 

He breathes out, long and slow — shorter than it would be from anyone with working lungs, but he’s trying, and Yue Qingyuan’s heart hurts for him — and is asleep within the next moment. His body slumps against his shixiong, who gathers him into his arms and just — 

He stays there, just like that. 

Yue Qingyuan’s head falls forward, and he carefully sets his cheek against his shidi’s soft, loose hair.  

All Yue Qingyuan is aware of is his own breathing and the uneven but sure motion of his shidi’s lungs moving beneath his palm. It could be a minute or an hour, several sticks of incense or just one, and he would not have known how much time passes before he hears a slight shuffle to his left. 

A soft scrape of wood against the floor as the chair is quietly moved ever closer to the bed. 

There happens a beat, between the three of them, of silence where all that happens is breathing. 

One breath is released in a long and slow sigh. 

“I thought it was Wu Yanzi.” Shen Qingqiu says quietly. 

Yue Qingyuan stirs. He pries open his heavy, itching eyes and peers toward the second senior head disciple. “… Qingqiu?”

Shen Qingqiu makes a face at the name, but doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he stares at Shang Qinghua’s slumped body with a dull, empty gaze that Yue Qingyuan finds only slightly unnerving. 

“Wu Yanzi said he’d been the one who took me away from the fire and to the inn.” The second senior head disciple says. 

A disgusted scowl twists his brother’s face and Shen Qingqiu curls in on himself, to bury trembling and pale fists into the folds of his sleeves. 

“Why the hell did I believe that guy?” He laughs. The sound is flat and humorless. “Liar! All he did was lie. I shouldn’t have listened to him at all, but, I…” Shen Qingqiu glances back to Shang Qinghua’s bowed head, and his shoulders slump. “… I didn’t know.”

Careful not to jolt their sleeping shidi, Yue Qingyuan reaches a hand out toward him. “Xia— uhm, Qingqiu….” 

His voice trails off, whatever he might have said unspoken in the air of helplessness that wraps itself around them both. 

There’s a beat of silence, hesitation clear in both the young men sitting still awake in the room. 

Finally, a wry smile that’s flavored more with a grimace curls at Shen Qingqiu’s mouth, and he breathes out a quiet, bitter sounding sigh. 

“There’s not really a good name for you to call me at all,” he says. “Is there?”

Yue Qingyuan watches him silently, and only closes his eyes when he’s unable to find the words to reply. His hand falls back down to his side. 

He’s been doing that a lot today, it seems. 

Shang Qinghua, still asleep, makes a small noise and reaches out for that hand, grasp falling just short enough that only the tips of his fingers graze the back of his shixiong’s knuckles. 

Yue Qingyuan lets out a small gasp. The stinging in his eyes worsens, and he squeezes them shut again. 

After a long moment, the hand that hangs limply at his side flips over to grasp Shang Qinghua’s outstretched one. 

The silence in the room is thick enough to cut with a sword. They sit there, unable to speak just as they always have been — but unlike every other instance in their lives, they need words for this; and such words simply refuse to come, just as they always do. 

Yue Qingyuan holds the reason that his younger brother is even alive in his arms, and Shen Qingqiu can only sit there and stare at the older brother who did not actually break his promise, and neither of them are able to speak. 

After what feels like hours have passed them by, a single knock sounds softly at the door. 

They turn to stare at it, like it’s the strangest thing in the world that they’ve ever seen. 

“Yes?” Shen Qingqiu calls after a long moment, a strange expression on his face. 

The door slides open slowly as if the person on the other side isn’t actually certain if they want to come in, despite having requested entry. A beat passes where the threshold remains an empty gap between wall and door, until at last a head pokes through it to stare at them with dark, intense eyes. 

Liu Qingge looks slightly hesitant — which is out of character, certainly. 

“Are the both of you done, uh.” He pauses, eyes flitting about the room to take in the scene, and then again as if he is searching for the words he wants to say. “Are you done fighting over the sick person?”

Yue Qingyuan blinks. Without his intention, his arm tightens around Shang Qinghua, who murmurs in his sleep and turns to hide his face completely in his shixiong’s collar. 

Beside him, Shen Qingqiu glances at him, to where he is holding their shidi, and then shakes his head with a soft scoff. 

He stands up from the chair, and smoothes out the wrinkles in his robes with pale hands. 

“Liu-shidi.” He says, and the younger head disciple straightens up with a very alert look about him. 

“Hm?”

Shen Qingqiu points at the tea pot on the table. “It’s cold.”

Yue Qingyuan watches in fascination as an expression of complete and total exasperation eclipses Liu-shidi’s face. 

“Heat it up yourself.” He mutters, turning away to leave. 

He stops in the doorway, and glances over his shoulder to fix his gaze on their fourth senior head disciple, who doesn’t even twitch. 

“He’s okay, right?” Liu Qingge — doesn’t ask. It’s more of a demand for a positive answer. 

Yue Qingyuan draws a hand up and down Shang Qinghua’s back, and his lips curl into a smile when his shidi shifts even closer at the touch. He presses a hand to the boy’s cheek. 

“I believe that his fever is breaking.” Yue Qingyuan says. He purses his lips together with a bit of humor, and says, “In that case, shidi, I actually do think that a fresh pot would do him some good, when he wakes again.”

Liu Qingge stares at him. He glances over to Shen Qingqiu, whose face retains a blank look that gives away nothing, and back at Yue Qingyuan before his face twists with disgruntlement. 

“I’m only making tea for Qinghua-shixiong.” He tells them dourly, stepping out of the room. “If you two want any, you make it yourselves.”

A beat, and then comes a quick, “Respectfully. Shixiong.” 

Liu Qingge leaves the door wide open behind him, a clear indication that they really were expected to go and brew themselves their own pot. 

Yue Qingyuan and Shen Qingqiu look at one another. For a brief moment, they are once again lost for words — 

And then his brother cracks the smallest grin that he’s ever seen. 

“I suppose I have some water to boil, since your hands are full.” Shen Qingqiu says, stepping toward the door. 

Yue Qingyuan huffs a laugh, shaking his head. He glances down at the shidi fast asleep against him and smiles. 

“I don’t think I’m going anywhere any time soon.” He replies.