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Chapter Text

“Are you really going to keep sulking the whole way back?”

No answer.

Mo Ran lets out a sigh, nudging his heels against his horse's side. The little bay mare breaks into a heavy-footed trot, only to skitter sideways as another rumble of thunder ripples through the woods. Mo Ran gives her dark mane a quick pat, then turns his attention to his cousin.

“Hey. Mengmeng.”

Xue Meng's glare remains fixed on the path in front of him. His fingers are wrapped so tightly around the reins that his knuckles have long since turned white, his face as dark and stormy as the clouds above. He might have painted a different picture if he was on a smaller and steadier mount, but right now all Mo Ran can think about is how he looks like a stubborn child, tiny compared to the muscled, majestic dapple gray gelding.

"Aiyah, when will you learn you can't just keep picking fights with everyone?” Mo Ran shoots Xue Meng a sideways glance, his voice sliding into a teasing tone. "Little peacock."

Xue Meng's glare only deepens, and his voice drops to a mutter. "You don't get it."

Little peacock indeed, and one that has just suffered a great ruffling of its feathers.

"Oh, so you and Lu Wuxin were just discussing sect matters? What was it you called him? A steamed pile of shit who wouldn't know standards if they hit him in the nose?"

Xue Meng kicks his horse, and the startled animal bursts into a canter, only slowing once they are a good distance ahead.

This time Mo Ran doesn't bother to catch up, if only to spare Xue Meng's horse another kick. His eyes drift to the darkening sky, his own brows furrowing. They are making good time, but the storm is rolling in fast, faster than Mo Ran would like. There is no time to soothe the little peacock's bruised pride. Xue Meng will stew, as he always does, until his anger eventually burns out and he pretends he has never gotten upset in the first place.

It hadn’t been a terrible meeting. At least not until Xue Meng had opened his mouth.

Xue Zhengyong had practically begged them to be the ones to pay a visit to Bitan Manor. Between the fall of Rufeng Sect and the collapse of the Golden Drum Tower, Sisheng Peak had been swarmed with both cultivators and spirits. Xue Zhengyong couldn’t answer Bitan Manor’s request himself, so he'd sent Mo Ran and Xue Meng in his place, remarking how it would be good practice for Xue Meng.

Mo Ran hadn’t heard the beginning of the argument, but it wasn’t hard to pick up what most likely started it. Lu Wuxin making some underhanded comment about Xue Meng, or perhaps Sisheng Peak. Xue Meng getting offended.

Even now, several shichen later, he looks miserable, like the words Lu Wuxin pelted him with are still stinging.

Why can't he just let these things go?

Mo Ran sighs, a prickle of annoyance rising in his chest. He nudges his own horse forward, hunching over her mane as the wind whips his face.

Even with the darkening sky, the air remains hot and heavy, but he knows how fast a storm can hit in the mountains.

“Come on, let's hurry up," Mo Ran says. "I'd rather not get caught up in the storm.”

Xue Meng looks up, the glare on his face faltering. A few sharp pellets of rain splatter against his face, and he wrinkles his nose before muttering his agreement.

Both horses leap into a gallop, their hooves pounding over the rocky path. In a few moments, they turn onto a muddy deer path that winds through a little valley, and slow to a trot. Trees sway all around them. Mo Ran's horse trips, nearly yanking the reins out of his hands, just as Xue Meng's horse jumps sideways, head thrown up into the air, gray ears flicking back and forth. They both stop, struggling to get the animals back under control.

Xue Meng's body tenses, tightening his hold on the reins as his horse paws at the ground. “Maybe we should—”

He never finishes the sentence. The dapple gray gelding cuts him off with a squeal, then a buck, twisting his body and throwing out his back legs.

Mo Ran's hand flies out—uselessly, as if it could do something—then Xue Meng hits the ground hard. The horse takes off, ears pinned, hooves pounding against the ground as he gallops off the path into the thickening trees. Mo Ran would have leapt off to help him, but it is all he can do to keep his own little bay mare from taking off after the gelding. She prances in place, jerking her head against the bit.

Mo Ran strokes her neck and speaks softly for a moment before turning his attention to Xue Meng.

He glares up at Mo Ran from where he sits, mud soaking into his robes. “Don't tell Shizun. Or I'll murder you.”

"Wouldn't dream of it," Mo Ran says, allowing himself a small chuckle. He swings his leg over the mare's back and drops down beside Xue Meng, holding out his hand.

Of course, Xue Meng ignores it, hauling himself to his feet. He strains his neck, trying to see where his horse has gone, his movements jerky with irritation, but not pain. It appears as if the little peacock’s pride has been hurt more than his body.

"Stupid piece of… dog meat—defective—I’ve been riding since I was five years old, and he just—ugh!”

"Something must have scared him," Mo Ran says, absentmindedly patting his own mare's neck as she jerks her head against the bit again. “Horses can be unpredictable. Even the best riders fall sometimes—”

“I didn’t fall off! I was thrown off!”

Mo Ran bit back the urge to roll his eyes. “Okay, fine, thrown—ah!”

A burning pain rips across Mo Ran’s hand, and he’s yanked to the side. A moment later, the reins fly from his grasp.

"Shit—no—" Mo Ran swipes at the reins, but the mare is already galloping away. Half a moment later, her dark brown coat disappears into the gray-green trees.

“Great,” Xue Meng says, but his voice is a little more subdued now, as if a part of him is secretly glad he’s suddenly not the only one without a horse.

Mo Ran droops. “Guess Shizun’s got a reason to murder both of us now.”

“…maybe we just don’t tell him.”

“What? Shizun’s darling disciple, lying to him?”

“Well—I—as long as you don’t tell him about how I fell off!”

“Thrown off?”

Xue Meng’s face goes red. “Whatever. They’re gone… stupid…”

Mo Ran feels the furrow between his brows deepen. Something is nagging at his gut. The wind stirs uneasily through the trees, but this time, the quiet feels heavier—unnatural, as if the forest itself is holding its breath.

Then a faint sound—a slow rumble, barely audible at first. Xue Meng starts to speak again, but Mo Ran holds up his hand, shushing him.

It is the sound of rushing water.

Within seconds, the rumble becomes a roar. The ground begins to tremble beneath their feet.

Then—before either of them can react, Mo Ran sees a wall of water charging towards them. It crashes through the trees, a churning mess of mud, branches, and debris. The path is swallowed in an instant, and Mo Ran’s nose is filled with the sharp tang of wet earth.

"Move!" Xue Meng yells, his voice cutting through the roar. Mo Ran blinks, but by that time Xue Meng already has him by the arm, dragging him towards higher ground.

The ground beneath them is slick with rain, the mud sucking at their boots. Xue Meng hauls him upward, but the ground they climb onto is barely stable—chunks of dirt and shale already giving way under their weight.

Mo Ran sucks in his breath. He braces a foot against the slope, trying to spring into the air, to use his qinggong, but something goes wrong— his footing slips on the slick mud, his qi surges chaotically—and his body tumbles backward into empty air.

He feels the sickening drop, the weightlessness of falling, body plummeting downwards.

A hand clamps around his wrist, nearly jerking his shoulder out of its socket. For a moment he hangs there, suspended mid-air.

Xue Meng’s feet are braced against a narrow ledge of shale jutting from the slope, his body angled precariously over the rushing water below. Pieces have already begun crumbling beneath his boots, but he doesn't seem to care. He reaches with his other hand, locking both around Mo Ran's wrist and hauling him upward with a strength Mo Ran hadn't realized those scrawny arms had.

"Help me..." Xue Meng gasps.

Mo Ran scrambles, dirt and shale sliding under his hands and knees, until he manages to pull himself onto the embankment. The water roars louder, closer, battering the slope and sending vibrations through the ground.

"Jump!"

Mo Ran doesn't hesitate this time. He shoves off with his feet, but the muddy incline steals some of his momentum. Then Xue Meng's hands find his boot and shove, hard, sending him the last few inches to a ledge just above the embankment. He claws at the ledge with his hands, his nails scraping against the slick stone, until, finally, he manages to drag himself over and onto solid ground.

He rolls onto his back, before twisting around and extending a hand down toward Xue Meng.

"Come on--" he wheezes. "Your turn."

But Xue Meng never gets the chance.

The shale beneath Xue Meng’s feet gives way, crumbling with a sickening crunch, and the flood slams into him like a wall. Water and debris explode upward, engulfing him, and for one terrifying moment, he disappears beneath the surge.

But then, just barely, Xue Meng's hand shoots out, fingers gripping a jagged outcropping of stone sticking out from the slope. Muddy water surges around him. His lips part in a choked gasp, but the sound is swallowed by the roaring water.

Mo Ran lunges forward, flattening himself against the ledge, his hand straining downward. "Mengmeng! Grab on!"

Xue Meng's face twists in concentration; his teeth grit as he clings to the outcropping with one hand. The other reaches, fingers stretching toward Mo Ran. Their tips brush, once, twice—

A gnarled branch, thick as a man’s torso, slams into Xue Meng’s ribs with a sickening crunch. The impact tears him from the outcropping, his eyes widening in shock before—

And Xue Meng disappears under the churning waves.

“No! XUE MENG!”

The sound tears from his throat instinctive and useless. He strains forward, his fingers clawing at the air where Xue Meng had been, just seconds before. The brown water continues to churn below, indifferent and unaware of the destruction it's tearing through the landscape.

For several terrifying heartbeats, Mo Ran sees nothing but the muddy torrent. Then—there—a flash of armor breaks through the surface downstream, a shoulder, an arm, a hand.

Mo Ran launches himself along the flood’s edge with his qinggong, his eyes locked on that spot. He watches as Xue Meng's head appears above the water for an instant, dark hair plastered to his skull, coughing and struggling as water washes into his mouth. The steel plate of his shoulder guard catches against the light as he struggles against the flow, the blue of his outer robes a streak of color in the brown chaos.

Then—his hand again, scrabbling fingers catching hold of a broken tree branch.

Mo Ran forces himself to move, launching forward with his qinggong, but his eyes never leave that spot where Xue Meng struggles.

 “Hang on—I'm coming—”

For a moment, Mo Ran thinks he might pull himself up.

The branch snaps. Xue Meng is yanked under again.

Shit—Mo Ran stumbles to a halt, scanning the churning water desperately. There—downstream—a brush of fingertips clawing through the surface. He races forward again, his heart hammering against his ribs. The flood is sweeping Xue Meng away faster than Mo Ran can follow, even with qinggong. He pushes harder, his feet barely touching the muddy ground as he leaps from rock to fallen log.

Then nothing.

Mo Ran stops again, chest heaving, eyes burning as he searches the empty brown water. His little shidi—

No—no, no, no—wait—

A flash of blue fabric—caught against a cluster of rocks jutting up from the flood.

There he is.

His limp body is shoved against a cluster of rocks, limbs tangling with broken sticks and white froth. A wave crashes over his face just as Mo Ran half-drops into the water, one hand closing around the rock, the other twisting into the back of Xue Meng's robes.

He feels the sharp edge of the rock split his palm, feels blood welling up, feels the wet surface grow even more slick, but he only tightens his grip. He gets one hand, then the other under Xue Meng's arms, his feet slipping against the muddy terrain as he drags Xue Meng’s limp body up onto ground that hasn't yet been overtaken by the floodwaters.

Xue Meng's head lolls forward, eyes closed, blood mixing with the water that streams from his hair. Mo Ran lays him down and presses his fingers to the pulse point on Xue Meng's neck. It thuds under his fingertips, weak, much too slow.

Too slow.

He's not breathing.

Xue Meng isn't breathing.

Mo Ran curses under his breath and places a hand against Xue Meng's chest, fingers curling against the wet cloth that covers the still chest.

"Hey—hey, don't be like this, come on, come on—"

For one wild moment, Mo Ran's mind blanks out, instinct taking over. Spiritual energy crackles at his fingertips, and he thrusts it into Xue Meng's meridians. Xue Meng's body jolts from the sudden surge, and a heartbeat later he's rolling over onto his side, choking and coughing up brown river water.

Mo Ran lets out a shaky breath, his hand going to Xue Meng's back and beginning to rub small circles as Xue Meng heaves up the water that made its way down into his stomach, as well as the remnants of the dinner Lu Wuxin had provided.

"You must really hate Lu Wuxin," Mo Ran murmurs, though his words don't carry their usual teasing tone. "Couldn't even keep down his food. Okay, easy there… easy…"

Xue Meng collapses back against the dirt, his body shaking as he stares at nothing. For several long moments he can do nothing but gasp, deep shudders running through his body with every breath. A small trickle of blood slips from a cut near his eye.

Rain continues to dump down on them both.

“W-what…” His voice comes out as a rasp.

Mo Ran lets out a shaky breath. "You scared the hell out of me, that's what happened."

Xue Meng tries to sit up but winces, his hand moving to his bruised side. "I… I saved you.”

Mo Ran huffs, a crooked smile breaking through his fear. "Yeah, and look where it got you."

Xue Meng just scowls. Mo Ran reaches out to press his hand along his ribs, and Xue Meng immediately pulls away with a hiss.

Mo Ran barely notices, his jaw clenching as he continues to check Xue Meng's ribs for fractures. None appear to be cracked, no thanks to Xue Meng's stubbornness.

Xue Meng had been the one to catch him. He had been the one to push Mo Ran up to higher ground.

Not that Mo Ran is ungrateful, he just…

Why is Xue Meng always like this? Trying to make a name for himself even when no one else is around.

Mo Ran squeezes his shoulder. "Next time, let me be the idiot who gets hit by a tree, okay?" His tone is an attempt at lightheartedness, but underneath, his voice shakes.

Xue Meng doesn't bother with a response, simply lets out a wet wheeze. The river still roars behind them, churning in its banks, swollen with the downpour, lapping at both of their feet.

"Here," Mo Ran says finally, standing and offering a hand. Xue Meng ignores it, pushing himself up with a wince and a scowl. “Let's try and find the horses before the rain washes them into the next province.”

Xue Meng mumbles something incoherent, his jaw clenched.

Typical. Even soaked and shivering, the little peacock has too much pride to admit how much pain he is in.

And Mo Ran feels a trickle of unease pool in his stomach.

Because Xue Meng sways slightly when he takes a step forward. His breathing still sounds wrong, and he moves gingerly, like someone trying very hard not to fall apart.

But to bring attention to it would just bring another snapping remark of “I’m fine,” so Mo Ran settles for keeping his footsteps close, his eyes watching for the inevitable stumble that will force Xue Meng to admit what they both already know.

Chapter Text

It starts as a small tickle in Xue Meng’s chest. A tickle that swells as it pushes its way up his throat, so that by the time it reaches his mouth, it’s a full-blown hacking cough, one tinged with wet, salty mucus.

He doubles over, clutching at his ribs, trying not to groan as the shocks of pain radiate through the bruised bones.

Mo Ran shoots him a look from over his shoulder, his dark eyes sharp as he takes in the state of Xue Meng.

“Hey—”

“I’m fine,” Xue Meng says through teeth that are clenched tight to keep from chattering. And he is, really. He's a cultivator. His core is based in fire, he doesn’t get sick from a little cold and damp.

“ ‘M just… clearing out the gross water.”

It’s not entirely a lie. There is still the faint taste of muddy water coating his tongue, grit in his teeth.

The press of something heavy against his chest.

The rain comes in sharp lines that speckled his face with cold. Another cough rises in his chest, but this time he manages to trap it behind his teeth and swallow it back down. It’s perfectly normal to cough a bit after nearly drowning, but he just… Mo Ran will worry.

Yeah.

That settled, Xue Meng turns his attention to his feet. The ground is slick with mud and wet leaves, the light slowly dimming as twilight closes in. They’ve been walking for what feels like a shichen or two, and by this point, Xue Meng is paying more attention to staying upright than where they’re going, simply trailing after Mo Ran and trying not to think about hot baths and warm blankets.

When he stumbles a third time, Mo Ran grabs his arm. The worry in his eyes is obvious, and Xue Meng feels a flush of heat creeping up his neck.

“I said I'm fine,” Xue Meng mumbles, knocking away the hand that Mo Ran holds out, clearly with the intent to press it against his forehead. “Stop hovering.”

Mo Ran shoots him a crooked smile in response. “Sure, because that bruise covering your face is the mark of someone that’s ‘totally fine.’”

He reaches out again and this time his fingers make contact with the curve of bone around Xue Meng’s eye, delicately pressing against the skin with his fingers. Then he hits a particularly tender spot, and Xue Meng stumbles back with a hiss.

His head swims. The ground shudders underneath him, just like it did before it all crumbled away and he fell into the surging, chaotic mess of water and—

“Woah, hey, easy… easy…”

Then there are two hands on him, one on each shoulder, guiding him down into a sitting position. This time Xue Meng doesn’t try and pull away. A shudder runs through his body and he lifts a shaking hand to press against his forehead.

“H-head… messed up…” Xue Meng says. His voice comes out embarrassingly weak. “Just… dizzy.”

He looks away for a moment, taking in a breath. Holding it. Letting it out. Trying not to think about the way the ground is continuing to rock underneath him, or the pressure building behind his eyes, or the cold shivers running through his body.

Trying not to think about how Mo Ran is looking at him with ever-increasing concern.

No—no, don’t worry about me, I'm fine—I’m a cultivator—

Mo Ran’s gaze flicks away, then he squints, looking at something in the distance. He says something, but its drowned out by a boom of thunder, and Xue Meng is only able to make out the last word.

“…cave.”

“What?”

“I think I see a cave. Up there.”

He points, and Xue Meng follows the fingertip up the side of the mountain, where a dark smudge stands out against the rock.

“Come on. I know you’re cold. I’ll make a fire and we can eat some dinner.”

Xue Meng squints at the apparent cave, shivering softly. To him, it looks like nothing more than a shadow, but that could just be because his vision is beginning to blur around the edges. Cold. He tries to curl the toes crammed into his soggy boots, but they barely twitch in response.

The thought of standing made him feel sick.

“No thanks,” he mutters. “I’ll take my chances down here.”

Mo Ran glances down at him, the smallest smirk playing at his lips. “Hey, aren’t you always going off about how you outshone everyone else in the Phoenix Mountain Competition. And now you’re just giving up? Aiyah, do you think Nangong Si or Mei Hanxue would be done in by a little rain?”

“You!”

Almost before the words are out of his mouth, Xue Meng is on his feet, heat surging in his chest. Then the world swims and he stumbles, only saved by Mo Ran grabbing his arm. Again.

“Alright,” Mo Ran says, his voice gentler now. He pulls Xue Meng’s arm over his shoulder, and Xue Meng hates himself for how he immediately sags against his cousin's solid form. “There we go. Just lean on me. You’ll feel better when you’re out of the rain.”

The climb up the slope is nasty. Rain cascades down the rough shale, turning it slick, each step followed by a short slip backwards.

By the time they’re halfway up, Mo Ran is practically dragging his dead weight up the mountain. Despite the hardened muscles Mo Ran gained during the five years of their Shizun’s absence, he’s beginning to flag, no thanks to Xue Meng.

Such a burden.

Weakling.

It's just a bit of rain.

Mo Ran, having to save your sorry ass again—

Again—

Ag—

Flash.

BOOM .

Xue Meng lets out a yelp. He nearly lets go of Mo Ran, one hand instinctively clamping over his ear. The sound sends vibrations thrumming through his collarbone and into his teeth, making them chatter slightly. The smell of ozone fills his nose, and joins the throbbing pain pushing behind his skull.

“We need to get out of here, come on, come on, just a little bit more.”

Xue Meng tries. He slips and stumbles, clumsy as a newborn fawn trying to stand, and Mo Ran is the only reason he hasn’t fallen, Mo Ran who is basically carrying him at this point.

I wonder if this is what it was like, he thinks blearily. For Shizun. After the heavenly rift.

He hated Mo Ran for it. For being the reason Shizun died; if Mo Ran hadn’t been such a burden—

No. That's not—he can't think like that. Not now. Not when Mo Ran is the one keeping him upright, the one dragging him through this nightmare when it would be so much easier to leave him behind.

“There,” Mo Ran says, his voice coming in a short, huffing breath. His arm tightens around Xue Meng’s waist. “Almost there. Just hold on.”

Hold on. As if Xue Meng was somehow contributing to their ascent, instead of just barely dragging his feet underneath him with each step, trying to hold up his own body weight.

His rain-drenched pants cling to his legs, like sheets of ice, making the muscles squeeze painfully as shivers continue to roll through his body.

Another step.

He doesn't know how Mo Ran keeps stepping forward with such a surefooted gait. Between the heavy stormclouds and gathering darkness of night, he can barely make out anything anymore.

Another.

His teeth chatter more and more violently until his vision begins to shake, smearing away what little he’d been able to make out.

The last few steps are a blur of scrambling hands and scraped knees. Mo Ran has to grab his hand to haul him over the edge. By the time they reach the outcrop, he's gasping for air, his whole body shaking.

His gaze drags itself toward the cave, only  land upon a slightly concave slab of rock, shaded with a few inches of overhang.

Oh.

"Shit." Mo Ran's voice sounds like it’s coming through a tunnel. “It's not—"

Xue Meng doesn't care. He can't care. He slides down against the back wall of the shallow space, his legs finally giving out completely. The stone is cold and wet against his back, but it's solid, and that's all that matters right now.

“I just need—” The words come out in a whisper. “Just a...” His voice trails off, the words replaced with a soft groan.

"We can't stay here," Mo Ran says, but there's something different in his tone now. Gentler. “This isn't going to protect us from anything.”

“I… know.” His tongue feels thick and clumsy in his mouth, like he’s forgotten how to shape words. He knows what he wants to say. But by the time he finds it, it’s already slipped away. “Jus…”

Cold.

No, not just the cold — it’s like something lodged behind his ribs, tugging like a hook, trying to pull him out of his own body.

“Meng, your lips are turning blue. Come on, just stand up, I’ll help you—”

From above them, comes a sound.

Soft. Persistent. Like sand slipping through fingers.

Bits of shale and dirt begin to fall, pattering against his shoulders, catching in his hair. A few small stones bounce across the ledge.

Xue Meng shakes his head, irritated — though even that small movement feels delayed, like it took too long to happen after the thought.

“Xue Meng.” There's something sharp and concerned in Mo Ran's tone, something that almost cuts through the fog in his head. “Can you hear me?”

He tries to nod, but the movement makes the world spin. When he opens his mouth to respond, nothing comes out but a weak sound that might have been meant to be words.

He knows he has to move, he knows, but his body feels so heavy, so unresponsive.

Xue Meng pushes himself away from the wall, his nails scraping against the rough surface as he tries to get his feet under him. His fingers don’t work right.

Something yanks him the rest of the way up.

The world tilts sickeningly. His legs shake as his feet stumbles sideways, but they hold.

“That's it,” Mo Ran says, and Xue Meng can see him reaching out, can see the pale blur of his hand in the darkness, and he can feel something gripping his arm and yet—Mo Ran is so far— “Just grab my arm—”

The rain of shale and dirt continues. Xue Meng stumbles, disoriented by the darkness and the way his vision keeps sliding in and out of focus. He raises a hand to his head, then stumbles sideways.

His foot stumbles over a wet piece of shale—it slips, shoots out from underneath him.

He falls.

No--for a moment he isn't falling, the world is turning, grabbing at his body, tearing his organs free while gravity yanks at his limbs.

Hurts.

The world goes dark.

The last thing he registers is Mo Ran's voice, sharp with panic, before he's pulled into the muddy waters of unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

It’s been clear for a while that Xue Meng is flagging. The weight leaning again Mo Ran has slowly grown heavier as muscles slowly give up the fight. Breaths turns raspy and strained.

By the time they're scrambling up the slope, Mo Ran’s nearly every thought has turned to just getting Xue Meng up, getting him onto that small outcropping of rock, into shelter, warm—

“Shit, it’s not—”

He turns away, dragging a hand through his hair, pushing the heavy, wet strands away from his face.

Xue Meng just slumps against the wall, legs folding like a broken automaton’s as he collapses into a sitting position.

“I just need—”

Another raindrop slips from his tangled forelock down the bridge of his nose.

“Just a…”

“We can’t stay here,” Mo Ran says, taking a step forward. “This isn’t going to protect us from anything.”

“I… know.” Xue Meng closes his eyes. “Jus…”

The word trail off into nothing. Mo Ran crouches down beside him, close enough to see the tremors running through Xue Meng's frame. His skin has taken on a waxy, grayish pallor, and Mo Ran's stomach clenches.

His hand reaches out to grip Xue Meng’s wrist. It feels icy cold under his touch. “Xue Meng? Can you hear me?”

The only answer is a wet wheeze.

A soft rumble comes from above, and Mo Ran looks up just in time for a few pebbles to spill onto his face. He draws back for a moment, blinking the grit from his eyes and sees more dirt falling into Xue Meng’s hair, sees larger pieces slipping down.

Mo Ran doesn’t wait for Xue Meng to respond this time, just tightens his grip, yanking Xue Meng up and a few steps forward, out of the way of the falling rocks.

Xue Meng makes a low whine at the change in position and stumbles sideways, pulling his wrist from Mo Ran’s grip so he can clutch at his head. His eyes are glassy, staring at nothing. At any other time Mo Ran might have laughed and called him a lightweight, a little drunkard.

Instead, he reaches out for Xue Meng, trying to grab him again, to steady him.

“That’s it. Just grab my arm—”

Then Xue Meng's eyes roll up, lashes dropping like a curtain.

The wet shale slips out from under his feet.

And his body crumples, falling backwards off the ledge.

“NO—Meng!”

Mo Ran lunges forward, trying again to grab him, but his own feet slip, and he flies forward with no control over his body. A second later his shoulder slams into the rock. Something cracks against his temple.

Just for a moment, everything goes white.

When he opens his eyes again, he’s staring up at the dark sky, still covered by storm clouds.

Mo Ran sits up so fast his head spins, and he’s forced to bend his spine forward, taking a few breaths until his vision comes back. He heaves himself to his feet a second later, searching for any sign of Xue Meng.

Wait.

There.

Mo Ran half runs, half stumbles over to the limp form, then drops back down to his knees, letting out a hiss of pain as the bones in his knees slam against the rock.

Xue Meng is sprawled in a muddy little patch of floodwater, shaking. Filthy water has leeched into the rich blue fabric of his clothes, darkening them with patches of black and brown.

Xue Meng hates getting dirty.

“Mengmeng—shit—wake up—” Mo Ran rubs his knuckles against Xue Meng’s chest, using his spiritual energy to push some warmth into him. Or at least, that’s what he’s trying to do.

His hands are trembling.

“You stubborn bastard, you're supposed to be yelling at me right now. You're supposed to be telling me to get my filthy hands off you.” His voice cracks slightly. “Come on, where's all that attitude when I actually need it?”

Water rushes past Xue Meng's limp form, beginning to tug at his hair, his clothes. Mo Ran grabs Xue Meng’s jaw, tilting his head back up from where it has lolled to the side, falling dangerously close to the deepening water.

“Hey—no—I didn't drag you out of a flood just to lose you to a puddle,” Mo Ran says as his fingers tap a frantic staccato against Xue Meng’s cheek. “You gotta wake up. Pl-please.”

But Xue Meng doesn’t wake, and Mo Ran feels that cold trickle in his stomach again. He lets out a shaky breath, fingers stilling against the cold skin of Xue Meng’s face.

“Alright. You get to be the princess today.”

Mo Ran wraps his di’s arm around his shoulders and heaves him up. Xue Meng makes a quiet noise of protest. Just a faint whine before he slips into silence once more, letting Mo Ran maneuver the limp, heavy form onto his back. His arms slip over Mo Ran's shoulders, face pressing into the back of his neck. His breath comes in shallow huffs, hot and damp, tickling against Mo Ran’s skin.

“Stay with me,” Mo Ran says. It’s softer this time.

Water surges around his boots as he begins to walk foreword, threatening to knock him off balance. The cut on his hand gives a sharp, stinging throb, and Xue Meng is so quiet.

He’s seen people die before.

Too many times, two lifetimes full of death. He’s seen his mother die, Chu Wanning, Shi Mei, Xue Zhengyong, Madam Wang—

He’s spent years walking down a path littered with bodies, blood dripping from the heels of his shoes.

But Xue Meng…

His di, his little brother…

Xue Meng survived everything Taxian-jun threw at him.

He always survived.

And Mo Ran—

Mo Ran should have known that the horses were trying to warn them, should have noticed, should have been aware, should have known the cave wasn’t really a cave at all before dragging Xue Meng halfway up a mountain slope.

Should have kept a grip on Xue Meng, should have kept him away from the edge, should have grabbed him when he fell—

He may have once been an emperor, and yet at the end of the day he's nothing more than a dumb dog, uselessly filling the air with barks and growls as he tries to protect the people he cares about.

“’m sorry, ge…"

The words break through the sound of the rain, so quiet Mo Ran isn't sure he actually heard them. Still, his steps slow.

“What?”

He hears a wet, trembling exhale. A voice as soft as a wisp of cattail fluff clinging to the tip of a dried reed.

“S’rry…”

Mo Ran feels his heart give one, tired throb.

“Don't… don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Xue Meng falls silent again, and Mo Ran continues to trudge through the drizzling rain. He doesn't know where he is going, really, just upward, following every small rise in the earth, another step up. His legs burn with each step, his arms ache from carrying the weight of Xue Meng, but he doesn’t let go. Letting go is not an option, not when Xue Meng has all but stopped shivering. Mo Ran has channeled as much spiritual energy into Xue Meng as he dares, trying to keep them both warm, but his head is pounding, his limbs are shaking, and it’s all he can do to keep himself upright.

Seconds fold into shichen.

The forest grows dim, than dark, then black.

Every time Xue Meng’s limp fingers brush against Mo Ran’s hand, there’s a little jolt as he’s once again reminded, he’s too cold. I have to get him warm. He’s way too cold.

He isn’t sure how much time has passed when the path beneath his half-numb feet changes—less mud, more packed earth. Mo Ran takes another step and almost twists his ankle as half of his foot collapses into a small rut. By now Mo Ran’s vision is clouded with exhaustion, and night has fallen, deep and dark, but he can feel a small rut in the ground, similar to the one left by the wheel of an overloaded wagon. He looks up and sees tree stumps—cut clean rather than broken by wind. The underbrush is small and scrubby, as if someone had at one time been clearing it out, one season after another.

His pulse quickens even as his mind warns him not to trust it.

After all, the cave had looked promising too.

Still, Mo Ran narrows his eyes, searching until he sees a small, darkened smudge amongst the trees. He doesn't have a free hand to wipe away the hair plastered to his face, but he rubs it away with his shoulder as best he can, squinting through damp lashes.

It looks like some sort of building.

It could be nothing.

But Xue Meng is getting colder.

Mo Ran adjusts his grip, then quickly heads up the slope, his boots struggling for purchase on the wet, scrubby grass.

It is a building, a small, scrubby house made of stones and thatch. It is nestled between two giant trees, both of which are helping to keep the battered building upright. The window screens are battered and ripped, revealing patches of a darkened interior.

It looks as though no one had lived here for a long, long time.

Still, Mo Ran taps at the door with his foot, listening. When there is no response, he nudges it open, revealing a dusty, but dry interior.

Mo Ran lets out a whispered thanks to the air, then sinks to his knees easking Xue Meng's body off of his back.

Xue Meng stirs slightly as he’s settled in the floor. His nose crinkles for a moment before a harsh sneeze escapes, one that’s followed by a sharp wheeze, his spine curling in on itself, one arm tucked close to his chest.

He looks like a wet kitten.

A small huff of laughter escapes Mo Ran’s throat, and he tucks away the image to tease Xue Meng with.

Later.

So, Mo Ran pulls his gaze away from the crumpled form and presses his lips together. There’s the remains of a kitchen on one side of the room, including a rusty wok and the charred remains of a fire that’s long since died. Still, it only takes a handful of talismans and a spark of energy before a fire is lit, filling the room with a soft orange glow.

There’s a box tucked into one of the corners, and when Mo Ran looks inside, he sees it is filled to the brim with blankets. Old, dusty, with more than a few holes chewed into them, but they are dry and warm.

Perfect.

In a few moments, Mo Ran is back at Xue Meng's side, carefully beginning to coax Xue Meng's heavy, rain-soaked robes away from his body.

Xue Meng would probably have murdered him if he had known what Mo Ran is doing, but he is currently out cold with wet cloth clinging to his skin and snatching away what little body heat he has left.

As he tries to pull the sleeve over Xue Meng’s left arm, the latter suddenly jerks, his eyes snapping open. He scrambles away from Mo Ran, pulling the arm to his chest in a quick, almost reflexive movement. He shoves himself up with the others hand, snapping his head to the side as he tries to take in the room.

“Wh…” Xue Meng’s voice trails off before he can even finish the word, lashes fluttering as he struggles to keep his eyes open. “Wh… where…”

The word trails off as he sways. He almost falls sideways, but Mo Ran grabs his shoulder, then gently pushes him back down so he’s laying flat.

“Stay down, dummy,” Mo Ran says. He flicks a finger against Xue Meng’s forehead. “You’re going to faint if you keep trying to sit up on me.”

Xue Meng groans, and blinks up at Mo Ran, his eyes dull and bleary despite the firelight flickering off the pupils.

“Arm,” he mumbles. “D’un tush it.”

There's fear flickering in those half-lidded eyes, and Mo Ran hesitates for a moment, before brushing a damp strand of hair away from Xue Meng’s forehead. “You’re soaking wet, Mengmeng. I gotta get these robes off you.”

His hands go to the robes, gentler this time, but Xue Meng still flinches and lets out a hiss.

“My arm—hurts—th-think—I think it’s broke—”

Another wet cough rattles through his body.

“Alright. Alright, I’ll be gentle,” Mo Ran says. He pulls out a small knife from where its hidden in his bracer and begins gently cutting the fabric away. His forearm is swollen, the skin mottled dark with bruises. Hurt in the fall, when he’d been first swept away, he isn't sure. Mo Ran probes at it gently until Xue Meng pulls away, swatting at him with his good hand. He’s begun shivering again, and what little words come out are barely coherent, switching between “ ‘m fine,” and “don’t leave.”

Mo Ran answers each one with “I know,” and “I won’t,” as he continues stripping off the rest of his wet clothes. He leaves the innermost layers to preserve a little of Xue Meng’s dignity, then wraps him in one of the old blankets, tucking it around him as snugly as he can.

“There we go. Nice and warm,” Mo Ran says, his voice soft as he settles the blanket under Xue Meng's chin. His hands gently press the fabric against Xue Meng's arms, trying to soak up what little water is left. “Darling of the heavens, right? You’ll be okay.”

Xue Meng merely shivers softly, his nose pink and twitching like a rabbit’s, his lips still slightly tinged with blue.

He reaches down and rubs a hand over Xue Meng’s chest, feeling it shudder as Xue Meng draws in a breath. When he leans down, when he listens, he hears a faint rattling sound.

Mo Ran goes still. Ice curdles in his stomach.

There is fluid gathering in Xue Meng’s lungs.

Chapter Text

The first thing Xue Meng hears is the sound of water. A low burble, the faint hiss of steam escaping a lid, and the muted crackle of fire beneath it. For a moment, he thinks he’s still in the middle of the storm—rain and floodwater pouring down, soaking through him, dragging him under. 

But when he forces his eyes open, he finds a ceiling above him. Wooden beams warp and bend in his vision, colored by the soft orange glow of a fire. His body is all one tired ache, his ribs, his arms, his fingers. He can feel each bruise throbbing in time with the beat of his heart, reminiscent of when he was ten and trying to master qigong. 

He’d fallen. 

A lot. 

Xue Meng tries to draw in a breath, and feels something like sludge shift in his chest. He shifts onto his side and coughs until it feels like his ribs might crack. 

By the time the coughing ebbs, a pounding ache has overtaken his head. He groans and raised a hand to his temples, only for his cold fingers to brush against bandages—rough, but secure. Something cool lingers against his temple and cheek, and he rubs at that too. It’s sticky, smeared over the cuts on his face. Salve.  

“Finally awake, huh?” 

He startles, snaps his head to the side, and sees Mo Ran crouching by the fire, grinning that idiotic grin at him, his dark hair damp and disheveled. A teapot rests among the coals of the fire, trails of steam escaping through the cracks in slow, lazy curls. 

Xue Meng tries to push himself up, but white-hot pain shoots through one of his arms. It’s startling in his sharpness, and he falls back with a small gasp. He looks down and sees his forearm bound up with bandages, splinted between two small pieces of wood.  

Falling. Tumbling down the slope, reaching out blindly.   

Palm connecting with the rock.  

Feeling the snap of the bone.  

“M-my arm…” 

“I did a pretty good job splinting it up, huh?”  

Xue Meng doesn’t answer at first. He’s staring at his hand, at the bright red fingers. His arm, broken. Fingers, most likely frostbitten.  

That’s my sword arm.  

And Mo Ran had splinted it—what if he’d done it wrong? What if the bone healed wrong, rendering his arm useless? He’d be able to relearn with his other hand, sure, but it would take time—he’d fall behind— 

A hand prods his shoulder, and Xue Meng whips his head to the side, ready to snap at Mo Ran. 

Then he sees Mo Ran’s expression and the words die away in his throat. He opens his mouth to form new ones, but by then his older cousin is slipping a hand behind Xue Meng’s back, helping him sit up. “Here.” 

He presses a cup into Xue Meng’s hand.  

“Didn’t have much tea supplies, but I did the best I could. Drink up.” 

Xue Meng wraps his trembling fingers around the warm cup, but it tries to slip through his fingers anyway, and Mo Ran has to steady it, has to help Xue Meng bring it up to his lips. 

Each swallow scrapes against his throat like broken pottery, the hot liquid sinking into a stomach that is already queasy. Still, he keeps going, sip, swallow, until some of the tightness bleeds out of Mo Ran’s expression. 

When Mo Ran pulls out a cold bao and presses it into his palm, Xue Meng almost refuses. 

His stomach hurts. He can feel the warm tea churning in his stomach, threatening to come back up, a sensation that intensifies as he stares at the small, sticky bao bun. 

But Mo Ran is watching him. His lips are quirked upwards, but his eyes are rimmed with exhaustion, dark hollows beneath them like bruises. One hand is wrapped in bandages, the other littered with small scrapes and cuts. 

He’s always worn his emotions so brightly, all the way from the time he’d arrived at Sisheng Peak, wide-eyed and trembling like a rabbit in a hoard of wolves. He may have learned to curl his lips in a smile, but his dark purple eyes will always give him away. 

And right now, those eyes are filled with a quiet worry. 

So, Xue Meng raises the food to his mouth, nipping off a small bit with his teeth. He lets it soften in his mouth, lets the taste of the spiced ground meat spread over his tongue, and he sees Mo Ran’s shoulders relax. 

“You should've just focused on getting yourself out of there,” Mo Ran murmurs. “I mean, aiyah, you wouldn't be in this mess if you weren't so stubborn about trying to rescue me.” 

He reaches out and lightly punches Xue Meng’s shoulder. Xue Meng almost chokes. 

“Well… you…” he turned his head to scowl at Mo Ran. “You’re… dramatic.” 

“And you...” Mo Ran says. “You were turned into a black chess piece just a few weeks ago. You should be taking it easy.” 

The piece of bao he’d just swallowed sticks in his throat, and Xue Meng swallows again, harder. He knows he’d had no control over his actions during the time, knew that it wasn’t his fault, but still—he’d caused trouble for his Shizun and his cousin. His eyes slip over to Longcheng. Swallows again, even though there’s no food left in his mouth. 

“Stop treating me like a baby,” he mumbles. “I’m only two years younger than you, not twenty.” 

He hears Mo Ran chuckle and shoves the rest of the bun into his mouth. He feels his stomach turn over but swallows the sensation down with another gulp of water. 

The storm gives a quiet grumble outside, the sound soft and oddly soothing, and a wave of exhaustion washes over him. The world blurs around the edges, and the next thing he knows, he’s curled up on the floor, the blanket tucked around him. Warm nausea creeps up his throat, but he swallows it down. 

A moment later he feels another body slip under the blanket. His ge wraps an arm around that soft spot between rib and hip bone and pulls close.  

It’s just to share body heat, Xue Meng knows this, and yet he feels himself relaxing into the soft touch. Mo Ran’s body curls around him, protective and warm. 

He listens to the crackling of the fire, the howling of the wind as it beats against the walls and feels warmth creep through the brittle edges of his body. 

…

The night passes in a slow haze.  

At one point Xue Meng wakes up with acid burning in his throat, and a stomach that’s trying to flip over. A moment later he’s jerked himself away from Mo Ran and the tangle of blankets and vomits into a nearby bucket. His good arm holds him up, while the broken one remains pressed against his chest, fingers clutching weakly at his robes. 

Of course, Mo Ran wakes at the sound. His gentle fingers pull Xue Meng’s hair away from his sweaty face, murmuring soft nonsense until Xue Meng manages to stop gagging. 

When it’s over, Xue Meng slumps against the wall and draws his knees close, shivering. Mo Ran drapes a blanket over him, over his stupid, wrecked body, then presses his hand against Xue Meng’s forehead again. His teeth worry against his lower lip. He tucks the blanket closer, then pulls Xue Meng’s shaking form into his lap. A moment later, Xue Meng feels the soft trickle of spiritual energy flowing into his meridians. 

It takes a long time before Xue Meng’s breathing steadies, before the ragged hum of his spiritual energy evens out from its uneven stutter. 

At some point, he falls asleep. 

The next day is dull and gray. Rain continues to drum against the roof of the cabin. On occasion, small droplets work their way through holes in the roof to drip down onto the floor, gathering in small puddles. 

Xue Meng wakes on the floor, his robes damp with sweat. 

He tries to get up, and coughs instead. He coughs and coughs until his chest feels like a knife is being driven through his lung and his ribs creak, and his head pounds. He pulls his arm away from where it's been pressed up against his mouth and sees a few flecks of blood.  

He hugs it to his torso and hopes Mo Ran doesn’t see. 

Later, Mo Ran presses a steaming cup into his hands. The medicine reeks—bitter enough to sting his nose—and Xue Meng grimaces before swallowing it in small, jerky gulps. He chokes once, scowls the whole way through, but manages to get most of it down. Mo Ran praises him as though he were a child, and though Xue Meng rolls his eyes, something in him is too tired to snap back. 

He lays back down and tries to sleep. 

He wakes an unknown amount of time later to Mo Ran beside him, holding a bowl and murmuring about how he has to eat something, 

Xue Meng pushes the bowl out of his face and tells Mo Ran to get the hell away, before a sudden churn in his stomach has him pressing his fingers against his mouth. 

A moment later, he’s hunched back over the bucket, while Mo Ran rubs his back and apologizes. 

The worried look in his eyes is growing worse. 

…

“Mengmeng… Hey. Wake up for a minute, okay? I got something for you.” 

The words swim through the haze of sickness and heat clogging his mind, the syllables melting into one another. His breath hitches, brows pinching together. His eyes slit open just enough to see a familiar figure hovering over him.  

Medicine. He can smell it. 

Xue Meng buries his face back into the blanket and turns his face against the floor. 

“F’ck off…” 

He’s already fading out once more when something tugs and pulls at the blanket, letting in a rush of cold air that raises goosebumps all over his skin. He tries to shift away, but fingers press against his forehead, their touch light, but holding him down all the same. 

“Still burning up.” 

“ ‘M fine,” Xue Meng retorts, even though he knows he’s not.  

A finger curls around a lock of his hair, gently tugging. “Just a little bit of medicine. I made it sweet. Just like you used to be.” 

Xue Meng unburies himself just to glare at Mo Ran, only to weakly realize this was exactly what his insufferable cousin wanted, because a moment later Mo Ran’s arm has slipped around his back, gently urging him up until Xue Meng is leaning against the sturdy chest, head spinning.  

He turns his face away. “It won’t help. I’ll just—” His chest seizes on the words. The sentence shatters as another cough tears through him, leaving his ribs aching. 

A hand catches his chin—not rough, but unyielding enough to stop him from hiding. 

“It might help,” Mo Ran says, low, insistent. There’s no teasing left now. “And even if it doesn’t, I’m not letting you give up on me. Open your mouth.” 

The porcelain edge of the spoon slips past his lips, and bitterness blooms at the tip of his tongue. He tries to swallow, but it clings to the back of his throat, thick and sticky. A cough jerks through his chest. Then another. Xue Meng lurches forward, his good hand fisting in his robes as his body collapses into a hacking fit. He coughs until iron stings his mouth.  

“Hey, breathe—” he hears Mo Ran says and reaches out blindly until he feels his cousin, or something like it, and smacks him because he is trying — 

One gasp of air. Not enough. His lungs seize, crushing inward. His throat locks. Riverwater floods his memory—lungs, drowning. 

Then, somewhere in the haze, Mo Ran’s arms press a little closer around him. “Don’t try and fight it too hard. If you choke; if you pass out, I’ll help you, okay? I'm right here.” 

Words keep tumbling against his ear, soft and steady. Fingers trace circles into his back until the coughs taper into ragged gasps. Tears sting at his eyes. Xue Meng slumps against his ge, trembling, clutching weakly at dark robes. 

He feels sick. 

So, so sick. 

Mo Ran lets him rest for a moment, waits while the shivers die down, but then the cold edge of the spoon is at his lips again, and Mo Ran is saying something about trying again. 

Fingers grip tighter. A faint shudder. 

“Nn… ch-choke…” 

“Just a few drops.” 

Xue Meng presses his face against Mo Ran’s robes. Sickness crawls through his belly. His head swims, the world around him rocks back and forth. 

“ Ge …” 

“Your gege won't let you choke.”  

The words come hesitantly, as if Mo Ran doesn’t quite believe them himself.  

“Please, Meng.” The voice is low and pleading now, trembling around the edges. “Just a sip.” 

This time half the medicine gets into his mouth, and half dribbles out from the corners, only to be wiped away by Mo Ran’s thumb before it can cool on his skin. 

Xue Meng shudders, and swallows. 

“That's it. Just like that.” 

Another swallow. 

“Just a little more. One more sip, and then you can rest. You're doing so well.” 

His breath hitches. His stomach squeezes in protest. He parts his lips, then swallows, a motion that leaves his body trembling. 

“There you go,” Mo Ran says, and the words are followed by a long, trembling exhale. There’s a clink as he sets the cup aside, then pulls Xue Meng closer, wiping away the bit of damp with the corner of his sleeve. “You did so good.” 

Xue Meng doesn’t answer at first. He can’t. Every breath feels like dragging air through sodden cloth; every gasp is thin, shallow, inadequate.  

“I don’t…” His voice is a mere wheeze at this point, broken and afraid. He hates the sound of it. His hand squeezes Mo Ran’s robes again, before even that feels like too much. 

“G-ge… I d-don’t wanna die.” 

Warm arms draw him closer. Xue Meng’s body shudders. He feels a trickle of Mo Ran’s spiritual energy threading into his meridians, but Mo Ran isn’t good at healing illness, neither of them are.  

“Your ge has gotten you this far, hasn’t he?” 

Xue Meng lets out a mumbled noise and lets his head fall against that steady chest, eyes slipping shut. Mo Ran is warm, and steady. His spiritual energy is soothing, and for half a breath, Xue Meng thinks he feels something loosen in his chest.  

Almost.  

But then the dark presses in, dragging his consciousness down like murky water, filling his mouth, his lungs.  

He slips under. 

...

Chapter Text

Every breath comes a little more strained.

Each one is accompanied by a wet, almost gurgling sound as Xue Meng struggles to draw in air. His body has not stopped trembling, though it’s occasionally dispersed with a larger shudder, followed by a soft, strained noise. His skin is fiery to the touch, fever heat rolling off him in waves, robes soaked through with sweat, his nose and cheeks flushed red.

Mo Ran has not stopped holding him. From the moment he coaxed the last of the medicine down Xue Meng’s throat until now, he's cradled his little cousin in his arms, gently rocking him when he stirs.

His cousin.

The word stings in the back of his mind, and he swallows.

His shidi.

His little brother.

A little brother who gave him sweets, a little peacock who spread his tail feathers to shield Mo Ran while he huffed and argued with a full crowd of the feathered tribe. A little brother who was only recently turned into a black chess piece, and yet still insisted on getting Mo Ran to safety before himself.

It’s too much.

All of it—the box of sweets, the stubborn loyalty, the home that should never have been his. He doesn’t know where to keep it. He’s never known where to keep it.

He has only a little basket, a small, fragile thing, and it can’t hold very much. Not gold, not riches—just the scraps of kindness he’s been given; fragile flowers wilting in the sun. His auntie’s hand on his arm. His uncle’s booming laughter. His shizun’s voice. Shi Mei’s quiet companionship.

But the basket is too small. The flowers keep spilling out, tumbling into the dirt where he can’t stop them from being crushed. And it’s his fault — he was never meant to hold them in the first place.

Now Xue Meng—his shidi, his brother—is sliding from his hands too, and he’s frantic, fumbling, trying to keep the basket from spilling empty.

And so, he holds his little brother, rocking him in his arms even as his back aches and his muscles cramp. He holds him with a gentleness he’d thought long lost, careful not to jar the broken arm, not to upset the fragile balance of things. If Xue Meng vomits again, there’s every chance he will choke to death.

Sometime during the haze of the night, Xue Meng breaks into a small string of whimpering cries, trying to burrow closer. Mo Ran lets him. His fingers thread through the soft strands of his little brother’s hair, gathering it, pulling it away from Xue Meng’s face.

It’s begun to rain again.

The sound of it drums steady on the broken roof, a constant reminder of how thin the barrier is between them and the night. Even the fire in the hearth burns low, throwing more shadow than light, as if it too is struggling to hold on.

Mo Ran presses his cheek to Xue Meng’s hair and whispers, the his little brother—“It’s alright. I’m here. Shhh… it’s alright.”

He doesn't know if what little medicine he brewed was enough. He doesn’t know if he used strong enough herbs, brewed them correctly, measured the dosage correctly. All he knows is that it’s too late to go and look for help—not now, not in the dark and rain, not when Xue Meng’s breathing is so fragile.

The only thing he can do now is hold Xue Meng close and pray to whoever might be listening that his little brother will make it through the night.

Another whimper, weaker than the last.

Mo Ran’s chest squeezes.

“Shhh, didi…” he says. “Pain, pain, go away…”

Once Xue Meng has settled, Mo Ran shifts, pressing a hand against Xue Meng's chest, feeling the shudder underneath. He reaches out with his spiritual energy, trying to probe, tracing the shallow rattle of lungs that refuse to fill. Xue Meng’s face pinches. He coughs, his chest falling as air slips out in a wheezing sigh.

Mo Ran waits. He watches for the inevitable rise, murmurs encouragement under his breath.

It doesn’t come.

No—

Mo Ran shifts, lifting a hand to rub against Xue Meng’s chest, as if that can somehow clear out his little brother’s lungs. Cold trickles into his stomach.

No, don’t stop—

For a moment, he’s back at the riverbank, shaking Xue Meng’s body and feeling each pulse of Xue Meng’s blood coming weaker.

Then a harsh, jerking cough. A string of phlegm spills over his lips, then his chest lifts. Collapses with a whistling wheeze. Lifts once more.

And a horrible idea nestles into the back of Mo Ran’s mind.

For a moment he goes still, his own breath shuddering. It’s risky. Xue Meng’s body is fragile, his lungs already full of infection and fluid. There is every chance Mo Ran will end up damaging his body more than the pneumonia ever could.

Mo Ran lets out a long shaky breath of his own, brushing away the bit of sick from Xue Meng’s hot, fevered lips.

“I’m sorry. This is going to hurt.”

Work-roughened fingertips press against Xue Meng’s chest, spiritual energy threading into the congested lungs. It feels like sliding into thick, swampy water, ripples spreading across the surface with each gasping breath.

He squeezes. Spiritual energy pushes against the fluid that’s trying to drown Xue Meng from inside out, breaking it apart, coaxing it upward toward Xue Meng’s throat. The body in his arms jerks, a deep, instinctual reaction to the foreign energy invading his lungs. A rapid heartbeat hammers against Mo Ran’s palm; harsh little gasps rasp against his ears.

Squeeze.

By now, Xue Meng is fighting to get away. He writhes with the frantic weakness of a trapped animal, all instinct and no strength, clawing and beating at Mo Ran with his good arm. He tries to fight with the broken arm too, but Mo Ran pins it down, prompting a strangled sort of scream from Xue Meng.

“L-let go—ah—”

Mo Ran tries not to flinch.

He tries not to think about all the time he and Xue Meng spent trying to kill each other in their previous lifetimes.

How easy it would be, in this moment.

He squeezes again.

Xue Meng’s thrashing is getting weaker. His lashes flicker, revealing dulled eyes, and beats at Mo Ran with a trembling hand, still struggling to get free. When that doesn’t work, he bites down on Mo Ran’s arm, just like he did when he was fourteen and Mo Ran said something particularly nasty about Chu Wanning.

The pain barely registers. Mo Ran only drives his energy deeper, coaxing, crushing.

Then—

Xue Meng gags. For a moment he’s choking on his own breath, then he begins to cough. A mixture of phlegm and bile spills over his lower lip, dripping off of his chin. He gasps for air between his violent, choking heaves, each one sounding clearer than the last.

Mo Ran keeps one arm wrapped around Xue Meng's chest, supporting him as Xue Meng collapses forward, coughing so hard that his body shakes.

“Good… that's it. Good.”

Finally, Xue Meng's body gives a violent shudder. His coughing turns to dry heaves as his exhausted lungs struggle to keep up with the effort. He is trembling all over, breath short and sharp and clear.

“There we go,” Mo Ran says, his voice soft. He rubs slow circles on Xue Meng's back, trying to soothe the tremors that wrack his didi's body. “Shh… it's over now. You're okay. I've got you.”

Xue Meng's body sags against Mo Ran's chest, his fingers tangling into Mo Ran's robes, gripping them like it’s the only thing keeping him from shaking apart. His eyes flutter open, dazed and unfocused.

Then, a single, rasping word.

“…f-fuck.”

Mo Ran huffs out a laugh, a small, helpless twist of a smile. “I know. I’m sorry.”

The fire snaps in answer — a log giving way, collapsing with a crack that scatters sparks across the hearth. For a moment the light flares, warm and bright, before sinking back into the coals.

This time, Mo Ran doesn’t flinch. He just holds his trembling little brother, listening to the fragile rhythm of his breath, feeling the heat radiating off his fevered skin. Thunder rolls in the distance, but it’s nothing more than a quiet mutter. The world has gone so quiet compared to the violence of moments ago that Mo Ran almost doesn’t want to break it.

But Xue Meng’s mouth is a mess, his chin wet. Gently, Mo Ran shifts him back against the wall, away from the mess on the floor, and reaches for the cloth and water.

Xue Meng flinches when the damp rag touches his lips, looking up with bleary, fever-bright eyes — raw, unbearably young.

Mo Ran pauses, the breath catching in his chest.

This isn’t the Xue Meng who bared his teeth at him in another lifetime, the one who carried the ashes of his parents and his sect in his heart until it turned to fire and hate. That Xue Meng was sharp and furious, a weapon honed by grief.

But this one—this didi—still has all his fire, but none of the scars. He’s young enough to believe the world will stay whole, that their shizun will always be there, that the mountain will always shelter them. He’s young enough to snarl and bite and swing his fists without knowing what real loss feels like.

Mo Ran brushes the cloth gently over his lips, sweeping away the sick. Xue Meng’s lashes flutter, his grip on Mo Ran’s sleeve slackening, and for a moment Mo Ran feels it like a weight pressing against his ribs: the difference between the brother in his arms and the man who tried to kill him.

He doesn’t deserve Xue Meng’s trust, Xue Meng's stubborn loyalty. He doesn’t deserve any of it. And yet here Xue Meng clings to him, trembling, fever-hot, as if Mo Ran were the only solid thing left in the world.

But his basket is too small.

Mo Ran swallows hard, then forces a small smile for him. “There. Better, hm?”

Xue Meng blinks up at him, dazed, his lips parting as if to answer. But no words come. His grip slackens, his body sagging into Mo Ran’s arms.

Mo Ran stiffens. “Meng?” His voice is sharp again, too sharp, fear spiking through the brief calm. He shakes him lightly, searching for the rise of his chest. For one suspended heartbeat he thinks he’s lost him.

Then a shallow breath stirs against his collarbone. Weak, but steady. Xue Meng has only slipped into sleep.

The relief hits so hard it makes Mo Ran dizzy. Warmth gathers at the corners of his eyes as he gathers his didi closer, tucking the damp strands of hair away from his flushed face, rubbing slow, steady circles into his back.

Outside, the storm drones on, but in here the fire casts a low, stubborn glow. Its warmth seeps into their bodies, wrapping around them like a fragile promise.

Mo Ran rests his chin gently on top of Xue Meng’s head. The flood stole his breath along with Xue Meng.

Now, finally, it returns to him.

Chapter Text

Dawn comes quietly. The world outside still drips with the remnants of last night’s storm, and the smell of damp hangs thick in the air. In the cottage, the scent turns bitter and sharp, sweat laced with the bitter tang of medicine. Sunlight pokes though the small holes in the paper windows, prodding at the remnants of last night’s sickness with gentle fingers.

Xue Meng stirs first, drifting from unconsciousness into a haze of pain. His chest aches with every shallow rise and fall, and when he tries to draw a deeper breath, it snags halfway, breaking into a cough. The sound is wet, weak, and it rattles through him until his ribs hurt.

And yet, he’s warm. It’s no longer the burning fire of fever, but a softer, gentler glow, like a warm blanket on a snowy night.

He tries to straighten, but a wave of dizziness washes over him, and his head lolls sideways, thudding against something solid. Something that shifts underneath him and murmurs something incoherent.

Gritty eyes blink open to find a blurred world, smears of color and light with nothing distinguishable.

“What…”

His voice comes out barely audible.

What happened?

What little memories he has of of last night are melted together like sticky candy. He can only recall flashes. Heat. Coughing. Bitter medicine that burned all the way down his throat. Cold. A sharp, throbbing pain in his arm, throbbing, throbbing—

The feeling of the air being squeezed out of his chest.

That thing underneath him shifts again, head tipping forward to nuzzle into his hair with a soft, contented sigh.

Xue Meng goes still.

Mo Ran?

He’s nestled snugly into his older cousin’s lap, held tight by a pair of steady arms, pressed up against a wide chest with a quiet heartbeat.

Xue Meng lets out a startled yelp that cracks apart halfway in his throat and scrambles away, landing in a heap of tangled and sore limbs on the floor. Mistake. Mistake—mistake—

His head spins in time with the room, and he presses a hand to his mouth, trying not to vomit.

When his vision steadies, Mo Ran is mid-yawn, stretching long arms in front of him. His eyes are shadowed with fatigue, but a lazy smirk finds its way across his face.

“Guess you’re feeling better.”

“Don’t even start. What—” Xue Meng lowers his hand, beginning to rub at his throat. “What did you—koff—do to me last night? I don’t—”

He coughs again, the action tearing against his throat so deeply that it nearly brought tears to his eyes.

Water. Xue Meng drags himself over to the bucket and scoops out a handful, letting it flood down his throat. It tastes like dirt and rain, but it soothes the dryness in his throat, dulls the rusty blades.

“You mean you don’t remember me saving your life?”

Xue Meng gulps down another swallow of water, trying to conceal the shudder that those words send through him. “What?”

“You were drowning in your own lungs. I helped clear them out.” The smirk that doesn’t quite reach Mo Ran’s eyes wavers. “Almost crushed them in the process, but hey. You’re welcome.”

Xue Meng wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still breathing in shallow, uneven pulls.

“Tch. Should’ve just gotten lost in the woods with Shi Mei instead. At least he knows healing magic.”

Mo Ran’s smile falters. For a beat, his gaze drops down to the floor. His hand flexes against his knee, restless.

“Yeah,” Mo Ran says quietly. “Maybe you should’ve.”

Something unsettles in Xue Meng’s chest. He coughs again, softer this time, and when the fit passes, he rasps out, “I’m sorry. I didn’t—I didn’t mean that.”

That pulls Mo Ran’s gaze back to him, and smiles, one that reveals the dimples in his cheeks. He’s like a dog who’s just been praised, ears perked, tail wagging.

“Don’t—ugh—don’t look at me like that. You got me breathing again. You—good job.” The words come out clipped and awkward, and he feels heat flood over his face.

For a long moment, Mo Ran just looks at him, as if trying to decide whether he’s serious. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth lifts — small, crooked, fragile.

“…Thanks, Mengmeng.”

Xue Meng cracks one eye open, scowls faintly. But he doesn’t pull away when Mo Ran’s cool hand settles over his forehead again.

After Mo Ran is done fussing over him, Xue Meng moves to get up. He shifts against the wall, bracing his hand to push himself upright. He manages to get to his feet, but his legs tremble with the effort, his chest already heaving from the shallow breaths it costs him. He manages to get halfway up before the room tilts violently, black spots pricking at the edges of his vision.

“Xue Meng—”

Mo Ran is already there, steadying him with strong hands, catching him before he pitches sideways. The grip is firm, unyielding, but not rough.

Xue Meng should shove him away. He should. But his body is betraying him, shaking with exhaustion, his throat thick and tight. For a heartbeat he lets himself sag into his ge’s hold, lets the warmth steady him. It feels too good—too safe—after days of feeling like he’s dying, truly dying.

“Hey, hey—” Mo Ran’s voice comes low, almost pleading. “Your fever is still high. Don’t overdo it.”

Xue Meng’s breath hitches. He swallows hard, forcing back the sting in his eyes, the lump in his throat. He straightens as best he can, tugging himself a fraction away from Mo Ran’s chest.

“I’m fine,” he says, but the words shake, thin and unconvincing.

Mo Ran doesn’t argue. He just looks at him for a long, quiet moment, eyes steady, hands still wrapped around Xue Meng’s shoulders in case he wavers again. Then Xue Meng feels his legs give, and they both sink down to the floor, Mo Ran still holding onto him.

There’s something so damn tender and protective in those dark purple eyes, and Xue Meng bites his lip, hard, to fight back the heat at the corners of his eyes. When he speaks, his voice catches, the words dragging themselves out of him like they’re splintered. “It just… h-hurts.”

Mo Ran stills. His grip on Xue Meng doesn’t loosen, but his tone softens. “What hurts?”

“Every—” Xue Meng’s breath hitches, just once. “Everything.”

The word crumples at the edges. His face buries against Mo Ran’s shoulder for the briefest moment, heat and dampness smudging into worn fabric. His body trembles, and not just from fever.

Mo Ran tightens his arms around him, slow and steady, rocking him once as if to anchor him. “I’ve got you,” he says. “Just breathe. That’s all you need to do.”

For a few fragile breaths, Xue Meng allows it. Allows the weight of his body to sag into Mo Ran’s chest, his fists curling into his cousin’s robes.

Then he sucks in a sharp breath, pulling back as if the closeness burned.

“…I’m fine.” The words scrape, unsteady.

Mo Ran doesn’t contradict him. He only steadies Xue Meng, careful, patient, as if nothing had happened.

This time, Xue Meng doesn’t pull away quite so quickly.

“The rain’s let up.” His voice is quiet, practical. “If we can find the main road, we should be able to reach a town before nightfall. Get a doctor to look at your arm, and…” He hesitates, then adds, “…and send word to Uncle. Or Shizun.”

Xue Meng makes a faint noise in his throat — not quite agreement, not quite protest — and tips his head back against the wall. His lashes are still damp, his face pale except for the fever’s flush at his cheeks.

Mo Ran doesn’t push. He busies himself with the small tasks of leaving: coaxing a few last embers into smoke, gathering their damp cloaks from the corner, checking the contents of his travel pouch. The little abandoned house groans around them, its roof dripping into shallow puddles, its walls sagging with mildew and neglect. For all that it kept them alive, it still smells of sickness.

“Come on,” Mo Ran says gently. “I'll help you.”

He crouches at Xue Meng’s side, then slips an arm around his waist to help him to his feet. Xue Meng stiffens—habit, pride—but when his knees buckle, he grips Mo Ran’s sleeve, knuckles white.

Mo Ran doesn’t say anything, just adjusts his grip, until Xue Meng actually feels a little steadier.

The door creaks, wood boards bowing under Mo Ran's push, but it slides open a moment later, then Xue Meng is out, breathing in the cool, damp air. The forest is still dripping but bright and sun dappled, the storm scrubbed clean from the sky.

He takes a step, and then another, guided by Mo Ran’s arm, grumbling under his breath, but not pulling away.

Behind them, the house creaks in the breeze, already sinking back into ruin.