[ Like a certain fable involving three bowls of porridge, this master and disciple pair were faced with a "too hot, too cold" conundrum when it came to where they should reside. Cang Qiong Mountain was overflowing with inlaws who gave them neither respite nor the kind of privacy that shouldn't be interrupted by unexpected visitors. The Demon Realm was less amenable to setting up a quiet married life. The lingering tension between Northern and Southern demon tribes meant so long as they were stationed in the Underground Palace, the pair were susceptible to all manner of the potential threats. And while Binghe could ward off direct attacks with ease, the looming concern Shen Qingqiu's life may be placed in danger was motivation enough to choose a third option.
A temporary solution had been to travel across the land while Mobei Jun looked after things in his place. It'd been his idea to plan a similar trajectory as Shen Qingqiu had taken during his explorations after the Immortal Alliance Conference. Binghe had wished to experience a part of Shen Qingqiu's life he'd only heard rumors of and share it a second time when he'd missed out on the first.
For the sake of making this an uneventful journey, maintaining some level of anonymity was a must. Which meant blending in, much as two otherworldly faces could, to prevent drawing undesired attention. Despite all their caution the pair are forced to waylay their journey in such a city, where Shen Qingqiu's previous visit had left enough impact to spoil an anonymous stay, and recent trade routes had been established with the rebellious Southern demon tribe. Thinking they're safe enough among the masses of this bustling city, the pair don't expect an attempt on Shen Qingqiu's life the first night of their arrival.
Only with much persuasion does Binghe put down his culinary duties for the day and let the another's hands prepare something while they canoodle. So a meal is taken within the private room of a healing hot springs resort, full of soft cushions and full blooms surrounding a wall-sized window overlooking the water below. That's how something is slipped into their food; a powerful toxin that's meant to leave Luo Binghe to watch his partner suffer in front of his very eyes. There's no antidote save for the afflicted to admit every repressed belief, every hidden secret lying dormant within his heart. The 'Thousand Cuts' poison leaves the skin of whoever is infected to slice open under the pressure of withholding these thoughts until the numerous small wounds reach high enough to prove fatal from infection or loss of blood.
Unaware of the danger, Binghe has been feeding Shen Qinggiu overflowing chopsticks full of glistening cuts of beef and sauce coated greens till half the plate is empty. Only when he takes his own bite does Binghe freeze with the utensils in hand as perceptive demonic senses register the abnormality. His blood goes cold once he perceives their dinner is the cause, once his body instinctively goes on the attack to rid the foreign substance from his system. But even with Binghe's blood coursing through his master's veins, it can't combat an entire meal's worth of unknown toxins. ]
Shizun- [ Binghe surges up from the seating cushions, dropping his chopsticks to shove their plates off to one side in a disorderly mess of clattering porcelain and spilled dishes. ]
Don't take another bite!
[ With a growing sense of dread Binghe realizes he unintentionally almost delivered his husband to death's door by his own hand. A fact the assassin must have planned to make this all the more painful. ]
The food they've made us; it's been laced with some kind of poison!
[Despite Shen Qingqiu's oath to never leave his side again, despite him opening his heart (amongst other things) in way he never thought he would to another man, despite all the progress the two have made in understanding each other...there are still many, many things Luo Binghe does not know about his husband.
One of them is this: that Shen Qingqiu has, more or less, been expecting this turn of events. Why, you ask? Two words: wife plots. Wife plots everywhere!
Yes, it didn't take long for him to realize that the consequence to being the stallion protagonist's one and only spouse was that every single one of the insipid storylines once belonging to his former harem now fell onto Shen Qingqiu's extremely tired shoulders. Even with all the precautions they've taken to minimize threats as much as possible, he still finds himself having to deal with an all too familiar damsel-in-distress scenario every so often. He's yet to tell Binghe of these encounters for a couple of reasons: one, he doesn't wish to cause Binghe any more distress than he already has if he can't help it, and two...it's embarrassing! It's embarrassing having to be rescued by his own disciple! Luo Binghe might have surpassed his teacher in every way possible, but that doesn't mean Shen Qingqiu doesn't have some pride left as an accomplished cultivator in his own right!
Luckily, Airplane-bro's laziness and sheer lack of creativity meant that wife plots could usually be sorted into four extremely predictable categories: kidnappings, monster attacks, papapa plants, and poison. The first was easy enough to handle; most of the scoundrels willing to abduct an innocent maiden hesitated when it came to a Cang Qiong peak lord, and the ones that didn't quickly found out that Shen Qingqiu didn't need a demon lord behind him to be dangerous. The second one he actually looked forward to (and may have dragged Binghe into deliberately triggering more than a few of them so they could hunt down cool monsters). The third could be avoided by carrying a botany compendium and rerouting their travels to steer clear of any suspiciously large meadows of flowers. As for the fourth, why would he bother eating food from anywhere else when he had the greatest chef in the known universe cooking for him on a daily basis?
Unfortunately, his overconfidence from having successfully dodged so many wife plots led to him letting his guard down at the worst point possible. Shen Qingqiu hadn't even thought about poison when ordering the food, not in this luxurious bubble of anonymity and with their previous...activities...having left him famished. He did nearly refuse to eat when Binghe insisted on feeding him by hand, but the teary eyes had put an end to that protest quickly enough.
See? This is what he gets for indulging in such shameless displays of affection! The next time Luo Binghe begs for something embarrassing, he's going to remember this moment and firmly refuse! Firmly!
At any rate, it's this over-preparation for the worst outcomes possible - a hard habit to break even after he's avoided the scum villain's predestined ending - that explains Shen Qingqiu's unnaturally calm reaction. Without a single break in his even expression, he smoothly reaches for the nearest wastebasket and just as smoothly jams his fingers down his throat, bringing up as much of the food he just ate as he can. It's not exactly a dignified look on him, but Binghe's seen his body in more undignified states than this.
(Without a Cure. He's thinking of Without a Cure and nothing else.)]
Calm down, Binghe. Can you tell what sort of poison it is from the taste? [For someone who's just been poisoned, he doesn't seem too concerned yet - mostly because he knows that 99% of the poisons in this world can be cured by judicious application of Luo Binghe's heavenly pillar.
[ There's nothing inherently appealing about anyone revisiting what had been a preciously delightful meal. Yet such a swift and even keel response brings to the surface a wash of Binghe's admiration for a man he will always look up to in some facet or another. Even in the face of danger Shen Qingqiu remains a man whom Luo Binghe had come to love in part for his unwavering strength of character.
They balance once another in this when his husband's outward calm meets Luo Binghe's instinctive torrent of raging emotions. At the forefront is his need to be protective yet equally heartsick for his partner, even as a fierce wish for retribution towards the culprit takes hold. All of it now threatening to spill over when the one person he can never lose manages to fall into harm's way.
Much as he's of the mind to listen if only to not further aggravate a poison with unknown properties, there's no feasible way he can sit still. Agitation rolls off Binghe's tense form, with stiff shoulders and furrowed brows. This palpable itch to move has him shifting from one side of the low serving table to the other; kneeling in front of his husband until the waste basket is no longer needed. Without missing a beat he reaches around Shen Qingqiu until both hands can gently stroke a back hunched in temporary sickness.
If there's ever a time to feel panicked, it's over the idea that no place can be their safe haven and home. Not even at Luo Binghe's side can Shen Qingqiu avoid the consequences of sharing his life with a man with so many enemies.
Foes he'd rather charge off to end, wherever they might be lurking. But that would mean leaving Shen Qingqiu's side. A feat which is impossible in the here and now. ]
How can I be calm when you've been poisoned by my own hand?
[ The nearest approximation is a sense of focus Shen Qingqiu's orders always give. With the crux of his formative years spent at his teacher's side, it's a want to adhere to his wishes and oblige his commands which motivates and moves him even when Binghe feels frozen to the point of inaction. Though all the drive in the world to please still takes a backseat to momentary flashes of guilt, barely disguised behind a slow shake of his head and eyes downcast in recollection and remorse. ]
I don't use such things, so I couldn't tell what it was even by tasting it.
[ The deep ravine between his brows refuses to settle, even when hands that itch to do more surrender themselves to a suitable occupation. The rich ocean-colored wine bottle upon their table had been chosen on a partial whim. Its colors were used to flatter the man at his side upon its selection, but the rich flavor had been its primary selling point. Such a delicacy is now hastily unwrapped, then uncorked and sampled with even less decorum. ]
I'm only familiar with common symptoms of the more widely used varieties. And on occasion, I've heard of some rare poisons rumored for their strange phenomena.
[ Binghe spares only a second to fill his wine cup before tossing it back to test whether the vendor had been in cahoots with tonight's would-be assassin or not.
Cool spirits slide down with a hard bob of an adam's apple, thankfully causing not even a twinge of reaction to his system. Only after passing this test is it deemed fit in his eyes for Shen Qingqiu's consumption. A suggestion made less with words than by the way Binghe presses a full cup into Shen Qingqiu's hand to wash away the taste of bile. ]
None of this is suitable for helping Shizun, when he needs a physician right now, not guessing games.
[ Except that their options are next to none, when the best doctor in the land is thousands of li away on Cang Qiong Mountain, while those residing within this city may not be able to identify a demonic pathogen let alone have the means to treat it. ]
'By my own' - Binghe! [A fan smacks against Binghe's forehead, though the reprimand in the gesture is immediately lost when he runs his hand gently across the same spot, trying to smooth out that furrow in his brow.] Don't be ridiculous. Did Binghe put the poison into the food himself? Did he hold his husband down and force the food into his mouth? This master won't hear any such foolishness come out of his disciple's mouth!
[The guilt in Binghe's eyes makes his insides churn with something that has nothing to do with the poison in his system. He's so used to thinking that the protag's OP halo can conquer all obstacles - but this Binghe isn't the wish-fulfillment hero of a badly written stallion novel. He's Shen Qingqiu's sticky disciple, his maiden-hearted crybaby of a husband, and it isn't fair to place such expectations on him as he would a fictional character.
To cover up his disquiet, he takes the cup of wine and slowly drinks from it. He can't exactly enjoy the flavor with the taste of bile still in his mouth, but the warmth that flows through his limbs after he empties it gives him enough courage to slide his hand from Binghe's hair to cup his chin gently, a soft look in his eyes.]
It's good that you don't resort to such tactics. No matter, your old shizun isn't so useless that he won't be able to narrow it down.
[...or so he says, but truth be told he doubts his foggy recollection of Airplane's hundreds of poison plots will be of much help here either. It's not his fault the vast majority of his memory space has been taken up by monster facts, okay! Most of the poisons were super generic anyway! Probably the best strategy to take here is to wait an hour to see if any unusual symptoms show up, and if not, convince Binghe that "dual cultivation" has a good chance of being the cure.
A small red stain on the sleeve of his robe where the fabric is thinnest catches his eye. Funny, he doesn't think he spilled any of the wine.... He lifts up his hand to examine the stain and the fabric slides down, revealing a small cut on his wrist that had gone unnoticed thanks to this body's high pain tolerance and his own distraction. Shen Qingqiu's eyebrows draw together in confusion.]
A cut...? [That was odd. For all the hundreds of different names and types, PIDW's poisons usually followed one universal rule: preserving the body in a pristine enough state for titillating 'papapa'. This meant no vomiting, no diarrhea, and no blood save for perhaps a few drops trickling out of the mouth to maximize vulnerability. He watches as another one opens up along his arm, skin parting as if being sliced by an invisible scapel, before the realization hits him like a ton of bricks.]
The Thousand Cuts poison--! [Now the calm veneer finally cracks; Shen Qingqiu's fan whips up to cover his face as his automatic response to anything upsetting, but it's too late to hide the widening of his eyes, the sudden paleness of his skin.
Shit shit shit! He thought this was just a standard 'papapa to live' poison, embarrassing but not anything actually dangerous! This was the worst possible poison for him to be hit by! Having to reveal his innermost feelings is bad enough, but he's also hiding several Big Secrets that could result in being instantly ejected into a corpse if they were to ever get out! He's definitely going to die!]
[ At the swat Luo Binghe's voice pitches upward to the tune of his master's name; his voice aggrieved as it is pitiable. All this whining would be comical in any other circumstance and his momentarily wounded pride a justified loss. While the stirrings of other emotions, roused to life by a taste for discipline, would be swiftly indulged. Much as he enjoys small shows of Shen Qingqiu's domineering side, acted out in painless swats such as these, now is not the time to luxuriate in where that often leads.
Which is easier said than done when not an instant later any sense of being wronged is swept aside as Shen Qingqiu's touch lands upon him. A dark head of hair bows lowers to nudge up against Shen Qingqiu's fingers, leaning forward into that touch. It's an obedient display better suited for a pet than a warlord who had overthrown Huan Hua Palace and wrangled two opposing demonic territories into a nearly stable unification. But when has he ever fit any conventional mold placed upon him?
Even more distracting is the touch of fingers lifting his face. He follows their simple instruction, but cannot resist the urge to reach out to cradle that hand in return. Lips find the crux of Shen Qingqiu's palm after he's nosed into it like something small seeking warmth and comfort. And there Binghe stays, pressing small kisses to that space, then up against knuckles and across the back of that hand. They're a hundred thousand apologies spelled out against bare skin, written with nothing more than his lips. ]
Figuring out what it is won't be easy. We still don't know what this type of poison does. Unless- ....Shizun, you're bleeding!
[ Speak of the devil. A slash of skin and its newly acquired twin do the job of answering one question while leaving a dozen more in its wake. Quick to action Binghe wastes no time to cover the slice in pale skin with a cloth napkin pilfered from the table; wrapping it over the wound after doubling the material once. A shoddy tourniquet of sorts, the material is more decorative than practical. It may be a napkin, but not one for cleaning up spills of drink or lost blood with the kind of efficacy comparable to gauze. For now, it's all they have to use.
With his memory jogged by a name meant to evoke vivid images of its victim's suffering, Binghe recalls the times he's run across such a thing in his perusal of any number of books. It's something of a blessing that the poison in Shen Qingqiu's system was infamous across the lands. This meant it as this was recorded in texts aplenty, including those a prolific reader such as Binghe had come across in his endless absorption of records both old and new. There's little surprise Shen Qingqiu, with his worldly knowledge and experience as a Peak Lord, has knowledge of it too.
One of the numerous toxins which scholars across the land recorded for its machinations against the bodies of those it had poisoned, the 'Thousand Cuts" poison was much like the brutal torture from whence it acquired the name. Used in gruesome interrogations, an executioner never had to dirty his hands to wring out the innermost thoughts of the most hardened traitor or spy. With a suitable dose of the Thousand Cuts drug, it slowly made their prisoner bleed under the onslaught of endless slices until the last little bit of information was extracted from their head. ]
That's something I've only heard of being used to interrogate prisoners, not to kill them outright. It doesn't make sense that they'd poison you this way.
[ With his husband's wrist bandaged and presently covered with a protective hand that still applies pressure, Binghe can finally pull his focus away from one looming matter to another. Just a moment is all it takes to absorb the not so subtle changes in Shen Qingqiu's demeanor which tell him something's wrong. ]
In any case, shouldn't it be easy to cure when it's something like this? Yet Shizun looks so displeased.
[As Binghe's wrapping up his wrist, Shen Qingqiu's mentally rifling through his own recollection of the Thousand Cuts poison - albeit from a very different source than his husband's. In the novel, the poison had been used by Sha Hualing against a newcomer in the harem she suspected of being a spy. Bingge had been infuriated up until the point where - surprise, surprise - it was revealed Sha Hualing had been right all along; cue tears, drama, threats, the gentle treatment of wounds contrasting against the mental anguish of betrayal, etc etc etc.
'A thousand cuts for a thousand secrets,' the description had read. Theoretically, the victim had to confess a secret for each cut in order to heal them; of course, Airplane-bro was far too lazy to actually come up with that many and so created the loophole that really big secrets could be worth hundreds of little ones. Wife #389 finally cured herself by confessing her biggest secret, that she had - surprise fucking surprise - fallen deeply in love with the protagonist, thus closing all of her wounds just in time for papapa.
This was about the point where Peerless Cucumber had thrown his laptop across the room.]
Mm, Binghe brings up a good point. Whoever did this may be using a talisman to listen in, hoping to draw information out of this master about you or Cang Qiong. [Could be, but not likely. In any case, what exactly were they trying to find out? That Binghe's greatest weakness was being a trembling M? How Liu Qingge took his tea? Shen Qingqiu's knowledge lay in monsters and the scholarly arts, not in classified information!
No, the more probable scenario was that the perpetrator knew about Shen Jiu's past and believed he'd die before confessing...which in a twisted way could be seen as true, just coming from the opposite direction. All of the original goods' sins and shames won't do jackshit for current version here, not when they don't belong to him! As for how the poison was cured in the novel -- useless! He's already let the protagonist do this and that to him, not to mention actual marriage, how much clearer can his feelings get?!
But to say this to Binghe, Binghe his maiden-hearted black lotus, Binghe who already has to deal with a boatload of trust issues thanks in no small part to himself, to tell him that his husband still keeps secrets that he cannot share...Shen Qingqiu swallows.]
It isn't that simple. You...you know this master has difficulty expressing himself sometimes. That there are things about himself he hasn't told you - hasn't told anyone. Binghe, when it comes to secrets....[He spreads his hands helplessly, a hopeless light in his eyes and a wry smile on his lips.] I don't even know where to start.
[ Their room's windows, overlooking this town's beloved healing spring, lie veiled in expansive privacy shutters. Intricate carvings of all manner of flora and fauna, mystical and ordinary alike, form a delicate web of wood that shields those within from the prying eyes of those beyond. An accouterment such as this is essential for any establishment involving intimate dining or any other privacies which patrons may indulge in. But even the blessed shielding of long-bodied dragons or winged cranes in flight don't completely block out the sounds from within. Words and noises alike could be easily heard should any be listening even without an amplifying talisman but merely a naked ear, should it be enhanced with superhuman hearing.
With his fingers itching to act in retaliation, Binghe smoothly rises in a flurry of midnight robes to fling open those shutters. As he leans halfway out of the frame, eyes search the moonlit grounds below their second-story window for the barest hints of a lurking shadow. Yet none fall beneath the narrowed gaze of eyes anxious for the sight of anyone to blame.
Hackles rise at the idea that someone may have been invading their privacy like a fly on the wall; listening to every word spoken tonight and left privy to each intimate action.
Any sensible assassin would be dozens of li away by now. If their own tormenter knew what was good for them, they too should have fled before this suggestion tips the scales of his paper-thin restraint, leaving Luo Binghe succumbing to the urge to hunt them down. Truthfully, despite his want for retribution, little could feasibly coax him into departing the side of a husband now injured and poisoned. That doesn't mean they don't have other options.
With their window opened to all the world, it looks more like an avenue for escape than anything else. And that's the next best solution that comes to mind; for the pair of them to get away from a room that had been as tainted tonight as Shen Qingqiu's blood. ]
Then let's get out of here, even if it only means leaving this accursed room.
Once we find somewhere else this disciple could block his ears, so not a word could be heard. Or stand out of earshot while Shizun whispers. We could try, in every way there exists, to circumvent this poison. And-
[ Binghe's anxious tirade, the jittery nervousness over an ailment that touches on his deepest fear, dies on his lips. Quiet engulfs him as he turns to witness the sight of Shen Qingqiu's helpless gesture, wreathed by words that sound just as powerless.
He recalls the last time Shen Qingqiu's past had been forcibly exposed. On that day when a woman had proclaimed a broken engagement and a series of crimes at the feet of both friend and foe, the humiliation his master must have felt was likely unbearable.
And Binghe himself still harbors his own secrets. These span from thoughts as innocent as the new bloom of a childish affection, before his heart had even known what being in love was, to the sheer pitiable state he'd been trapped in for two thousand days of grief. Days where meals had been made and conversations held for a body without its soul.
Secrets are not things to be wrestled away from anyone's heart. Reluctant as he is to admit it, doing so would only be revisiting past mistakes. Things acted on because they were driven by a fear of losing Shen Qingqiu and the dread of being apart from him in any way. No matter his intentions, and regardless of his boundless love, forcing anything had only done more damage. In the here and now, dragging these secrets out of Shen Qingqiu, even for the sake of his own health, would only bring more of the same.
Binghe swallows away the dryness in his throat as he pads back over. Step by hesitant step, he moves toward a man he only wishes to protect. Not taking the reins or sweeping himself into action is one of the hardest things he's ever done. But just like those five years where only Shen Qingqiu could decide to return to a body that wouldn't revive, despite all that Binghe had done, Binghe once again needs to await Shen Qingqiu's decision to move forward.
For a moment his shadow eclipses that slender upright figure; sitting with absolute grace as though not a thing could touch him. Up until then, the full moon's glow casts him in such a pale light that he appears nearly intangibly ethereal as the moonbeams themselves. And perhaps that's what prompts him to action. That small, illogical, fleeting idea that Shen Qingqiu might fade with the morning light, like so much moonshine.
Because Binghe leans down to fold Shen Qingqiu into his embrace. There are tears in his eyes, a thickness lodged in his throat, and a tightness to a voice that whispers along the slope of a neck he's memorized with his teeth, his tongue, and every inch of his lips in moments far happier than this. ]
This husband cannot bear for you to suffer further hurt. He couldn't survive losing you. But these secrets are Shizun's, not mine...
[ The blood under that napkin isn't his. And neither are the secrets that lay untold; rightfully unspoken and unshared without Shen Qingqiu's willing blessing to place them into his husband's trust. ]
[For a brief heart-stopping second, he thinks that Binghe's about to jump out the window to chase after an invisible enemy - but he should have known better. Between the two of them, Binghe's not the one with the track record of running away from emotionally charged situations. Thankfully the fresh air from outside serves to wake him up from his stupor, his mind going through the tried-and-true routine of cutting through the panic to try to formulate some sort of plan for survival.
He plays with the fan in his hands for a few moments, then lets it drop to the floor. He might not have a concrete plan right now, but he knows one thing: he's done running away from Luo Binghe, both physically and emotionally. No point in holding on to something that'll only tempt him to hide.]
It's no use. The poison will only dissipate once the victim's confessions have been heard by someone with no prior knowledge of them.
[How a poison can somehow know whether this happens or not is truly a plothole that will never be answered. But it means that he can't simply cheat his way out of this, nor find Shang Qinghua and safely spill his secrets to the only person in this world who already knows them. Not that he even wants to, not when he hears what Binghe says next.
He's ashamed to admit it, but he'd been expecting tears and wounded protests at his refusal to give up his secrets, not this quiet acceptance. It can't be easy, not for the sticky disciple who so shamelessly monopolizes all his time and constantly demands his attention to know there's still a part of his husband's heart guarded off from him. Shen Qingqiu's well aware - too aware - that Binghe would die for him, kill for him, do pretty much anything he asks. But this is something new, and the pure sacrifice in the gesture makes his throat close up and bury his face in his husband's shoulder to try to close out the world around them.
It takes his breath away sometimes, how much Binghe loves him. It makes him feel awed. It makes him feel small. On the good days, it makes him feel as though he can take on anything this world can possibly throw at him, that he's finally found a vital part of his life he didn't even know was missing. On the bad days...on the bad days, it makes him wonder what exactly it is about himself that Binghe adores so much. If it's the effortlessly graceful body that isn't his, the elegant skills he never learned, the wisdom and composure he's been forced to fake ever since his arrival. If in a twisted way, they're both just chasing after the shadows Shen Jiu left in his wake.
(there are more bad days than he cares to admit)]
This master...I want to get out of here. I want Binghe to take us somewhere where it's just the two of us. I want to tell Binghe all the things he ever wanted to know about me. [He closes his eyes and tightens his grip around Binghe's waist, heedless of the blood dripping from the freshly opened cuts onto his robes.] I...can't promise it'll actually happen. But I want to try.
[If he's going to die, it won't be in this anonymous room smelling of bile and leftover subpar food. And if by some miracle he doesn't die, if this poison simply strips him of all his pretenses...then let Binghe see him for who he really is out in the open and under the bare moonlight, with nothing else standing in the way.]
[ He stills upon hearing a promise that Shen Qingqiu will reveal all which Binghe has ever wished to know, to bring closure to questions left unspoken or unanswered alike. This is a boon greater than any treasure trove; a gift atop one life-saving oath. Swearing to him that Shen Qingqiu will do his best to not merely fold, stubborn and defiant to the end, but open hidden chapters of himself yet unread.
The wash of relief it brings about, swooping over him hard and fast, leaves the last supports holding back Binghe's dam of emotions to buckle along with legs suddenly left shaky. Given gravity's effects, all he can do is permit them to take hold and drag him crumpling down into a kneel. ]
Shizun... You really will?
[ Tears break through in a torrent of emotional release given physical form. Those which don't roll down fat and heavy like a summer's rain beneath the hem of Shen Qingqiu's robes hug the curve of Binghe's face. Features inherited from his mother yet weathered with time and testosterone into something more masculine and decidedly his own. Yet a broken look wedged deep between the crevice of brows knotted together in pain and relief, are prone to give way to a resemblance of his youth. Not that it matters how rare a display tears had been back then compared to now. ]
I was so afraid. That there was a chance you would refuse. And I might lose you, all over again... For a moment I thought-
[ He dares to let slip the hold he has upon Shen Qingqiu, but only with one hand. The very same does a valiant attempt at shooing away obvious tear tracks. One clue among a growing congregation of signs that he's been crying all this time.
When that palm is done clearing the warm, wet proof of his relief away it returns to stroke down Shen Qingqiu's throat in a similar effort. If not for the threat of assassins, the poison shuttling his husband closer to death's door with every heartbeat, or eavesdroppers that may be listening in hopes of stealing secrets, the sight of his own hand against Shen Qingqiu's bare skin would be arousing enough divest him of interest in anything else tonight but so much more of this.
Instead, Binghe's hand finds Shen Qingqiu's face to swipe a thumb there lazily to and fro in contrast to an atmosphere fraught with tension. It paints a story of adoration across the span of one cheek and beneath eyes which his seek out. Those full of wisdom as deep and dark as endless irises that only Shen Qingqiu can possess, which his blurry-eyed sight clears up enough to finally see with the same clarity as knowing what to do next. ]
All right. [ A shaky breath skitters into his lungs. ] Shizun can slowly tell me everything he wishes to say, once we're far away from here.
[ Like so much else in this world of cultivation, sword signatures are ostentatious beacons of energy. They practically demand the notice of any with eyes in their head. Escaping by sword flight would be equivalent to painting a target on their back for anyone nearby who had a hand in what was intended to be Shen Qingqiu's demise, as well as any townsfolk who may have been bribed to keep an eye out for them.
Using their qinggong is hardly much better, given the fact bursts of qi drag behind each step, illuminating their every motion the way tides of fireflies take flight upon a sweltering summer night. Taking the path less traveled, Binghe chooses to depart by foot and manpower alone, to stave off leaving a trail of proverbial breadcrumbs leading to their new location.
While Binghe hasn't placed the same attachment Shen Qingqiu has to a fan which is eternally at his side, there's no hope of it slipping his notice where it now lies upon the floor. Once gathered up in his firm grip, its wooden body feels lighter than he last recalls. Though it makes a sound of protest in the places where wooden slats slide together beneath the curl of strong fingers, those complaints are soothed once it comes home to roost within the fabric band of Shen Qingqiu's belt.
His husband whole as can be, all circumstances considered, Binghe draws him into both arms in less of what's meant to be an embrace than a method of carrying him off. One arm hooks beneath long, slender legs while the other draws around Shen Qingqiu's back; holding onto him only tight enough to ensure nothing short of a skirmish could pull his husband away.
What had once been a room full of promise, their quiet if perhaps temporary haven from a world not entirely welcome or understanding towards what they share, becomes only a recent memory once Binghe sweeps them out and away into the night.
One short drop from the wide-open windows finds them standing where he'd once been searching for a spy or assassin that's still nowhere to be found. Though they may yet be lurking, here or behind a door in a room they've left behind. It's a thought which propels him forward; walking swiftly past the back courtyard of the inn, following the first inklings of what makes up the layout of the establishment's private healing spring.
But this secluded space is only runoff from the main source. Binghe can smell the water with his senses, hear it faintly trickling just under their feet, below a street paved with dirt. All of it draining down from the forests this city, newly born compared to the ancient stone it rests atop, has grown up around.
Without jostling the precious cargo in his arms Binghe quietly slips off into the night. Steady footfalls take them towards the outskirts of town in hopes their would-be-assassin expects a dying man to seek refuge within the city, not flee into the woods. Not that either location matters. Ultimately, all that does is the privacy and sense of seclusion needed to tap into the antidote that lies within Shen Qingqiu's own words. A place away from prying eyes or listening ears, where Binghe is sure no one has expected their arrival and therefore set neither traps nor listening talismans in wait. ]
[Ah, there's the tears he'd been expecting. Shen Qingqiu graciously allows Binghe to weep into his robes for a few moments before getting flustered and trying to push him off.]
All right, all right, how old are you again? Stop crying, my robes are already wet enough as it is.
[He tries to wipe the glittering tear tracks away, frowning when his thumb leaves a smear of blood behind. Further attempts to clean Binghe's face only results in more blood dripping down from the fresh cuts hidden by his sleeves. They're running out of time.
It's why he doesn't protest when Binghe swoops him into his arms like the cover of a bad romance novel, even though it rankles his pride to have to be carried around like some swooning maiden. Besides, while he would rather die than say it out loud (which is a looming possibility in the near future), a not insignificant part of him does enjoy being held against his husband's ridiculously large chest this way. There's something both exhilarating and comforting about that easy display of strength, the way his arms remain steady even as they're flying through the air and across the ground....
...look, he can't help it, okay?! Anyone would feel a little weak-kneed in the presence of the OP protagonist! Besides, he's always been a little lazy, of course he's going to enjoy anything that cuts down on the amount of work he needs to put in!
Still, he does have an image to keep up, so when they reach their destination he slides out of Binghe's arms with only a little regret, clearing his throat and straightening his robes.]
Before we go any further, this master needs to test something.
[He takes a deep breath, opens his mouth...closes it, shuffles in place awkwardly for a few seconds, takes another breath, opens his mouth again...closes it once more, swallows, looks down at Binghe's feet then up at the moon. After another long moment, he finally comes to a decision and slams his hand over Binghe's eyes, cheeks glowing red. This is hard enough already to say without someone looking at him, okay!]
Sometimes...when a disciple asks me a question I have no idea how the hell to answer, I think to myself 'what would Yoda do?' and bullshit a response based on that. It really makes me worried for the future of Qing Jing peak that no one's called me out on it yet.
[The secret's embarrassing enough to close up one of his cuts, but that's not why he says it. He says it because it's a secret Shen Qingqiu would never have, packaged in language he would never use, using references to pop culture he would never know. Every word of that confession is pure Shen Yuan - not a serious enough violation to automatically eject him from this world, but certainly enough to warrant a warning and major points deduction...assuming the system's still awake. He holds his breath, body tense enough that his hand trembles as it presses hard against Binghe's eyes as he waits for the dreaded chime of that Google Translate voice. A minute of silence passes, then two, before he finally allows himself to sag in relief.
He isn't naive enough to think that the system's miraculously left him for good. For one thing, Shang Qinghua's told him about his own system's offer to let him go back home; Shen Qingqiu's yet to receive any such message (not that he would take it), so he knows that his system must still be lurking somewhere in the back of his mind. But if it's in hibernation mode...then perhaps it can only be activated by certain keywords - words like 'Shen Yuan' and 'Proud Immortal Demon Way'. In which case, as long as he's ambiguous enough in his phrasing, he may stand a chance of surviving this poison after all.
He lets go of Binghe's face and takes a step back, pulling on the regal bearing of Shen Qingqiu the dignified peak lord again like a familiar cloak. One hand instinctively goes to the fan that's been placed back in his robes, flicking it open, though he doesn't pull it up to his face yet.]
Very well. You may ask this master whatever you wish.
[ The incongruity of Shen Qingqiu's speech, in any other moment, would serve the role it should now. Indisputable evidence that points to one of all the ways a body and mouth can misalign: Qi-deviation. Drunkenness. Throes of a passion even greater than they've known, enough to walk nonsense and explicatives hand in hand out from the depths of Shen Qingqiu's mouth. Or possession; most commonly by demons that crave to claim a body in ways which differ from how Luo Binghe already has.
Under the veil of what acts essentially as a truth-telling serum, this is the one instance where the more reasonable the answer is, the further suspicion it would garner when labeled as a secret. While the more outlandish, the farther off-field from normalcy that his Shizun's answers become, the greater sense it makes to have kept quiet on such facts.
Ignorance fills this slot wholesale. Of course, Shen Qingqiu would take to the grave his failure to have answers at the ready for disciples under his care. How shameful would it be for his pride, already pummeled through the years by means of slander and demonic affiliation, to have any know of such shortcomings? One can only guess the dire consequences at hand if this seemingly benign news spread like wildfire in the way rumors travel. It would diminish his image as one of Cang Qiong Mountain's infallible Peak Lords. If not put in question his suitability for the role. If Shen Qingqiu was unable to fulfill the simplistic task of teaching, many would likely inquire how he was expected to deal with matters more difficult than schooling children.
But to draw a blank when fishing for answers is to be human. No different than it is to err and suffer. Many times throughout Binghe's life, his own search to draw conclusions from the questions he's had only left him emptyhanded. When beaten by strangers, or the townsfolk's young masters, and even a man who now encompasses every corner of Binghe's life; the reason "Why" had never come no matter the innumerable times he begged the Heavens or his own heart for answers.
So, after a lifetime of his own uncertainties, of years without reasons for all the good or ill he'd known laid at his feet, can he not spare Shen Qingqiu a level of understanding in this too? Luo Binghe would reverse the course of day and night if Shen Qingqiu so much as requested it. A little sympathy is a small trifle in comparison.
More important than secrets that would no more lessen his love, even if Shen Qingqiu announced crimes of murder or passion, resides in the trembling press of fingers which cuts off Binghe's sight. Under the veil they pull across his eyes, within two minutes bereft of words from either man, passing seconds give the illusion of stretching out as if each heartbeat of time might be moldible as dough.
On and on he waits, simply breathing warmth through a nose that nudges wordless adoration like something companionable against its owner's hand; or around questions that only slide out in the shape of Shen Qingqius title: "Shizun?" All of it mouthed, not spoken, as if shattering the quiet around them is a crime he cannot bear to commit once Shen Qingqiu set such a president. Only once the shivering fingers recede from his skin, when Binghe can no longer try to nuzzle against them in wordless comfort, does he regain a desire to return to his possession both sight and an ability to speak.
There is a world of wanting deep within Luo Binghe's heart when it comes to knowing this man who now stands like a being made of star beams and moonlight, white-cast upon already pale robes and skin. Lurking within are his own insecurities, miles long and compounded with all which has been misunderstood and every given slight across the years. He could ask "Why do you love me, Shizun?" or even, more pitiable, if Shen Qingqiu truly does, when the rest of the world had tried for the length of Luo Binghe's life to remind just how unlovable he really is.
But what falls from his lips, bouncing rabbit-fast like a heart suddenly spurred into thrumming to an anxious tempo, is objectively perhaps the most absurd of all questions. Not to Luo Binghe's easily envious maiden heart. Hardly so for a man who has lost Shen Qingqiu time and again, like all that he'd ever loved before him. For Luo Binghe, no answer matters more than revealing the identity of the interloper whose name hangs on Shen Qingqiu's cupid's bow lips like a prayer for salvation. ]
...Who is this Yoda which Shizun speaks of?
[ Of all the things to fixate upon its Binghe's innate instinct to dwell upon the mention of another whom Shen Qingiu implies a certain level of reliance on. Naturally, to gauge their importance and weight within Shen Qingqiu's life is suddenly of the utmost interest.
It's a petty thing, really. Compounded by a sweeping lack of answers; unusual when his information network between Huan Hua Palace and the Demon Realm's Northern territories remain privy of anyone of note. Including those select few who might be inspirational cultivators and gurus of ancient wisdom worthy of Shen Qingqiu's study. ]
I've never heard of such a soul. Yet he must be a talent of his generation to harbor Shizun's high esteem to the point of emulation.
[He'd been bracing himself for the obvious: 'why did you push me into the abyss?'. Or 'what made you change all those years ago?'. Or perhaps 'how could you have been so terrified of me for so long when I'd done nothing to deserve it?'. All questions that Binghe should have had answers to long ago if there were any justice in this world and if Shen Qingqiu wasn't such a goddamn coward. That his husband's been able to put up with the silence for so long is proof alone of the extent of his devotion - or perhaps a sign of how badly Shen Qingqiu's actions have fucked up his self-esteem. He doesn't really like to think about it either way.
And yet...when he hears the words coming off of Binghe's tongue, the first thing this overpowered demon lord can think of asking his far too secretive teacher....]
Pft!
[His hand rises to his lips, but it's far too late to hide the crass and inelegant snort that comes bursting out. Shen Qingqiu stares for a moment, mouth trembling hard, before he can't help it anymore and bursts out into laughter.]
Aha! Ahahahaha!
[It isn't the usual gentle chuckle that emerges from his lips, or the elegant bells of mirth that he occasionally lets out when particularly amused. No, this sound can only be described as a cackle, coarse and unrefined, coming from deep within the belly and shaking his entire body with convulsions. Shen Qingqiu laughs until he's bent over with the force of it, uncaring of the way it pulls at his wounds, slapping at his knees in a move so crude that the original goods would have killed him for it if he could see it now.
When he finally feels like he can breathe again, like a massive weight he's been carrying for nearly a decade has been lifted off his shoulders, he straightens up again wiping tears away from the corner of his eyes.
Ah, this man. This overly sensitive, vinegar-chugging, ridiculously devoted puppy-eyed pure maiden of a demon lord. Shen Qingqiu really...he really....]
Binghe. Yoda's a fictional character from a play I used to watch in my childhood. He's no more real than a fairy tale.
[ Laughter cuts through the surrounding woodlands softer than an oncoming storm; yet continues rolling on and on as thunder should all the same. It startles in the first few breaths that he doesn't take. But Binghe tells himself, this too is another shade of a man he discovers all the more of with each passing day. One unabashed and occasionally uninhibited when he's certain the whole world isn't looking.
Any other from their past would sink into a pit of distress; frantically suspicious that Shen Qingqiu has succumbed to the aforementioned ails that plague cultivators like hellhounds braying upon bare heels. The figure within reach of Shen Qingqiu's figure succumbs to it for not an instant. Startlement, yes. Concern, a bit. But at long last, he adjusts until the peals of laughter sound less like a break in Shen Qingqiu's sanity but a wall between them.
Belly laughs, unbecoming of lofty titles or high standing, now only ring of honesty. Like something infinitesimal has shifted, deep down in the earth's tectonics or their very souls, permitting more honesty even than what's found in the shedding of robes or countless tear-soaked confessions between them.
The laughter sounds like "I trust you". It whispers promises of "I'll open my heart."
That gush of gleeful noise sweeps him along to smile in turn. Like a fool, or perhaps someone with their own cross to bear. He knows relief when he hears it. Something spoken in the tongue of sheer laughter brought to life only by sloughing off the mountain-high weights that have clung on long enough to grow roots. Binghe recalls his own particular take on this drainage of emotion, though it'd been a vintage not so full-bodied and vibrant but soured and bitten off as though letting it run rampant might never see an end. ]
I thought... That there might be someone else Shizun was constantly thinking of from afar. But I'm glad that's not the case.
[ A head full of dark hair dips down, barely concealing his own uptick of lips to the tune of his own smoke-soft laughter. Proving that shame is rarely a word that wrests control of one Luo Binghe. ]
On occasion, it feels very good to be proven wrong.
[ Unnecessary fears he leaves behind with one step then two. Until there are just enough to cross the distance between them. Therein that small haven of space Binghe can brush the glistening pearls of tears clinging to red-rimmed eyes then the skin itself there; stroking down a cheek even after it's dried. ]
Shizun has come to understand so much about my life before Cang Qiong Mountain, but I know very little of his.
[ Would a tour through Shen Qingqiu's past qualify as unraveling the hidden truths locked within his heart? The answer to that is one found through trial and error. ]
I'd like to hear about these things. The plays you've seen, and what else you enjoyed in your youth. Maybe they would count as secrets too.
[In another world, another dimension, Shen Qingqiu closes his eyes as he falls off of the tallest roof in an ancient city, the blaze of the rising sun etched behind his eyelids the last thing he sees.
In this one, Shen Yuan opens his eyes to the sound of machinery, the blaze of fluorescent hospital lights burning into his retinas the first thing he sees.
A modern-day medical miracle, they call him. Apparently he'd been comatose and near brain dead for six months - another week and his family would have pulled the plug. That he's able to form coherent thoughts at all, let alone walk and talk, is an astounding feat.
Of course he would have a few neurological issues, given his condition. It's not surprising that his dying brain would create a dream based on the last thing his conscious mind was aware of, a desperate grasp to continue existence. And didn't it all make sense with enough distance and analysis? Ning Yingying was obviously based on his little sister, Yue Qingyuan and Mu Qingfang on his doctor and businessman older brothers. In Liu Qingge, his sad and pathetic mind had created the kind of cool and loyal best friend he'd never had before; in Luo Binghe, he'd found the purpose and fulfillment he'd given up on ever having in life.
They're just figments of your mind, his therapist tells him reassuringly. Like dreams. They'll disappear with time. He smiles back and says that he can already feel them fading.
(He's lying. He's gotten a lot better at lying with a smile since he's woken up. He isn't sure if it's terror or relief that clogs his throat every time he searches his memories and finds the delusions as crystal clear as ever.)
Anyway! Bizarrely, somehow his life seems to have gotten better after his brush with death? In the sixth months following his return to the living world, he's managed to accomplish more than he has in the past twenty-four years of his life. He now exchanges texts with his siblings daily instead of monthly, and his parents actually seem genuinely interested in his affairs instead of just occasionally checking in to see if he's still alive (ha ha). He unsubscribes from all the web novel sites he'd been obsessed with, deleting PIDW off of his phone with only a twinge of regret - it isn't as if the author's updated at all in the past year anyway. Besides, he finds himself a lot less interested in xianxia stories these days - they all seem so unrealistic and stale, and hating on them doesn't bring him the same vitriolic joy it used to.
He's also somehow become an incredible prodigy at the guqin? Certainly a lot better than the half-hearted lessons he'd taken as a child can explain. There's a lot of excited chatter about the implications of the subconscious mind picking up blah blah blah. All Shen Yuan knows is that his covers of pop songs have amassed millions of hits on Youtube and that he's even being offered teaching positions at various music schools. Maybe he'll take one up.
In other words, life is fine. Life is great, especially considering the alternative that is death. He tells himself this as he stares at his reflection in the window of the subway car. One hand comes up to slowly trace the lines of his face (ordinary, pale, still gaunt from his long sleep) and his hair (short, messy, hasn't seen a comb in years let alone any sort of decoration). The corner of his lip quirks up in a wry smile. God, how low must his self-esteem be that he couldn't even stand to be in his body in his own dream and instead created one half a foot taller with features that belonged to an Instagram model? Well no one's about to mistake him for an immortal beauty now, not with the bags under his eyes and a body that still shows signs of six months in bed even with his physical therapy. He closes his eyes with a sigh and leans his forehead against the coolness of the glass.
So Shen Yuan, here's a question for you. You've been given a second chance at life, a gift that many people will never see. You're blessed with plenty of money, a family that you've reconnected with, even skills that you never thought you'd had before. You're now the protagonist of your own story, the kind of feel-good redemption arcs so popular in movies.
What will it take for you to stop feeling lost in your own skin?]
a pale figure that sways like a ghost fire, poised, on the very edge of the rooftop before he falls, falls, like a star, like a speck of flame that drops off the tip of the burning wood. he falls.
liu qingge calls up his sword that streaks zigzag through the air leaving bright afterimages like lightning. he somersaults into the air, alighting on cheng luan, and races toward the figure. out of the corner of his eye, liu qingge sees a similar streak, black and red, like a spear falling from the sky toward the pale figure as well.
please, a voice says, echoes from the frantic beating of his heart, the racing of his pulse. the voice is tiny, unrecognisable. please.
his hand closes around a tattered, bloodstained robe.
it is empty.
--
it is years later. liu qingge is in the lingxi caves, settled within one of the offshoot paths that link many chambers into one. the cool, calm aura of the place surround him, like submerging in water, and liu qingge closes his eyes, breathes.
it has been exactly three years, since shen qingqiu had died.
died, not even leaving a strand of hair, a piece of his nail. died, never to return to cang qiong, never to be laid at rest. all that liu qingge had been able to bring back had been that blood stained robe, torn to shreds with the force of the spiritual energy that burned him inside out.
luo binghe is still out there. he coils like a serpent within the palace of huanhua, with the miasma of lesser demons surrounding him.
he had been of cang qiong, as loathe as liu qingge is to admit it. he had been of shen qingqiu.
therefore, it is their job to bring him to heel.
liu qingge fights. that is the only path he has opted to take, and he has no regrets; he is the sword and the shield of cang qiong. he is the first and the last barrier to the sloping mountains and the waterfalls, to the pale green bamboos that look so much like him.
he had resembled the peak that he is in charge of, the same way that liu qingge is of bai zhan, the sharp sting of needle pines seemingly embedded in his skin. shen qingqiu had been pale green, swaying gently but with a hidden, tight core of strength that was all too deceptive.
liu qingge breathes.
--
another two years later, he defeats that demon bastard. it had been almost too easy, too suspiciously easy, to kick him down off his high throne made of black stone and jade, to point the edge of his sword against his throat, pale and thin like a human's.
luo binghe had laughed, tired and dark. liu qingge had been silent.
he is locked under nine layers of spells and curses, under the base of ku xing. they watch over him day and night, the peak disciples chanting endlessly, to cease his suffering and suppress his demonic qi.
even then, liu qingge does not feel better. his hand is heavy as he unsheathes cheng luan and flies, as far and as fast as he could see, but it does not lighten his heart as it once did.
--
liu qingge had felt this once before.
it had been like this, when shen qingqiu had saved him all those years ago.
but he is not here now, and all he can do is to grit his teeth against the fire in his veins, burning up all along his meridians, along the blood and bile that rises in his throat. his qi splutters, backfiring on his own body and squeezing through the tattered paths of his body.
cheng luan in his lap shivers, rattles like a beast in a cage. he can feel its roar like a reverberation through his skin, crawling up into his heart like a scream, as he takes it and plunges it, still screaming, into his heart.
--
he wakes up to screaming.
it is not in pain, but in anger. a man with a strange contraption ( all metal and paint, with two bright lanterns affixed to the front of it ) is standing not a little way from him and yelling, unfamiliar accent ringing in his ears.
liu qingge stands up, slowly. nothing feels broken, though there are minor cuts and scraps on his skin that nevertheless does not account for the rip across his chest, the amount of dried blood down the front of his robes. the man's yelling intensifies, and he gestures for liu qingge to move. curiously dazed, he obligingly moves to the sidewalk, away from the carriage, and they soon disappear from sight.
there are many other carriages like the one he had just seen. there are lights everywhere, not fire, not lanterns but brighter than that, and liu qingge grimaces, raising an arm to shield his eyes from it. the people, too, who give wide berth to the blood stained cosplayer standing there as if in a daze, are wearing clothes that are starkly different to what he knows.
[There's a man standing in the middle of the road covered in blood.
There's a man. He has his hair drawn up into a high ponytail. He's wearing white cosplay robes with disturbingly realistic bloodstains. There's a beauty mark underneath his right eye. He - he --
Distantly, Shen Yuan realizes his breathing has gone harsh and fast, the sound of frantic gasping in his ears. Ah. He must be having a relapse. The neurologists had warned him this was possible, that his brain might not have healed yet from those long months of inactivity. That it may never fully heal. He knows that if his hallucinations ever manifest in reality that he needs to call the hospital for a CT scan immediately. His hand curls around his cellphone.
There are other people around with their own cellphones out, taking photos of the bloodstained cosplayer. They stare at him and whisper, not so subtly pointing him out to each other.
...maybe he's not hallucinating?
There's a long dormant instinct rising up within him, putting all of his weight on his back leg. It says run. Flee. Get out of here as fast as you can, Shen Yuan, because there will be no turning back if you don't. Whatever's coming, you must not let it catch up to you. If you run fast enough, you'll never have to face the consequences of your actions.
The man is bleeding. He looks bewildered, lost. Alone in a strange world.
Shen Yuan takes one shaky step forward, then two. Somehow he manages to make it to the man's side without collapsing. He puts a hand on one white-clad arm to get his attention, does not sigh in relief when it meets solid flesh underneath. It doesn't mean anything. None of this can possibly be happening.]
You're hurt. Let me help.
[Ever since his hospitalization, his parents have insisted on him carrying a first aid kit wherever he goes. It's ridiculous really - what are bandages going to do against expired food? - and yet he's grateful for it now as he pulls it out. He does not look up at the man's face.]
[ there are buildings that rise high above him, higher than the tallest trees, and liu qingge follows the line of the structure till it curves, threatening to fall into the sky that is dark and hazy and full of noise. it is not the sky he recognises - somewhere inside him, some starkly animal part of him that is so sharply aware, even while the rest of him is frozen, speaks in a voice much like his own. this is not where we belong.
liu qingge feels ... sick. as if poisoned, the dizziness rises up from the depths of his stomach. the sick feeling does not go away even when liu qingge takes a breath, tries to steady his spiritual energy ... and find that there is nothing.
nothing. it's like grasping at sand, slipping through the tattered remains of his meridians.
he had suffered another qi deviation.
his cultivation has burned out.
liu qingge stares, blankly, down at his hands. cheng luan is gone, and his hands have never felt so empty. he has never felt- ]
You're hurt, [ a voice sounds, close to his shoulder. a light pressure, from a hand, glides along his arm, and liu qingge takes a quiet, shuddering breath. ] Let me help,
[ they are thin fingers. small hands, the bones stretched over the knuckles turning the skin even more pale. liu qingge does not recognise them.
he turns his gaze down, down, down to the figure beside him, the unkempt hair and the soft voice and
and.
he has brown eyes with a touch of greenish gold that is muted in the artificial light of this place. it glimmers in a thousand shattered pieces within his eyes, and liu qingge, his whole body goes quiet, narrowing into the single point, into the golden green flecks in their eyes. ]
Shen...
[ liu qingge doesn't, he doesn't believe it.
he tastes blood in his mouth, his throat. even then, he shifts his arm, his hand (trembling, overstimulated, empty) comes to grab for the hand that rest against it. thin fingers. pale hands.
just before he lets go of whatever consciousness he has been holding onto, he whispers: ]
[This isn't real, he thinks as the man looks down at him. You're just talking to empty air, he thinks as he meets his gaze.
He looks nothing like the way he does in my dreams, he thinks as he stares at that peerlessly beautiful face.
In the dreams he's had every night since reemerging from his coma, Liu Qingge is just...a collection of distinctive features, like all the rest of the people who haunt his delusions. A ponytail, a face like a pretty woman's, a beauty mark, a blazing white sword. He's never been able to recapture the honed strength emanating from his core, the steadiness of his presence, the blaze of determination in those eyes.
The man before him has none of those things. He seems shaken, disturbed in a way Shen Yuan has never imagined he could be. And yet those storm grey eyes crackle with energy, with life that has never been present in any of his delusions.
Don't say it, he thinks. Don't say it. If you say it, you make this real, and it can't possibly be. And yet his traitorous mouth opens anyway.]
Liu...Qingge...?
[And then. The man before him opens his own mouth and says an impossible name. A name belonging to a person that doesn't exist in this world, that can't exist in this world. A name belonging to a person who looks nothing like Shen Yuan.]
H-how did you...?
[And then! And then!! The man faints into his arms! Like a swooning maiden! The invincible war god of Bai Zhan just collapses into his arms like a frail damsel!]
Liu Qingge!
[Hey! Isn't there something wrong with this scenario?! Shouldn't Shen Yuan be the one fainting here, ah?! He's the one questioning his own sanity! He's the one fresh from a six month coma! He's the one with the weak arms who definitely can't carry around a six-foot tall slab of pure muscle!
Shen Yuan stares down at the blood coming from Liu Qingge's mouth, then glares at the crowd of spectators gathering around them.]
Okay, that's enough! Back off and go back to your own lives!
[He wraps his arms around Liu Qingge's waist and attempts to start dragging him to somewhere more isolated. Given that Shen Yuan hadn't exactly been the epitome of physical strength even before spending six months wasting away in bed, they move about...an inch.]
[ Liu Qingge dreams. In his dream, Shen Qingqiu is falling again, backlit against the sun. His white robes shine bright like a star, like a meteor, flecks of spiritual energy leaving a pale, flickering trail like burning.
In his dream, Liu Qingge reaches out, catches his hand. Shen Qingqiu's hands are small, and cool, and narrow.
His eyes flutter open. The myriad of lights shine too bright in his eyes and Liu Qingge turns his head weakly; where is he? Has Mu Qingfang lit too many lanterns again to pore over ancient copies of medical books again? Why is he lying here?
Where is he?
A siren sounds in the distance, and to Liu Qingge it sounds like a distant screech of a Lion-Eagle, and he struggles, pushing at what he thinks are some restraints. Just let him- He needs to-
He remembers; fragmented sights he had never seen, people in strange clothes, the carriages, the -
The bright, wide open eyes, on him. ]
...
[ Liu Qingge has a hand wrapped around the other's arm, what he thought had been some kind of bunched up cloth around him.
A little shakily, he loosens his grip. ]
Shen Qingqiu, [ He says again, for the lack of better things to say. His head is a mess. ]
[Part of him wants to rip his arm away and run. Wants to say 'Shen Yuan' and pretend he'd never heard otherwise. This isn't happening, the logical part of him says. This can't be happening. There's no such thing as transmigration, as other worlds. Liu Qingge is a figment of your imagination. You know this can't be real because if it was, there's no way he would even be able to recognize you.
But there's another part of him, forgotten and dormant until this moment, that's stretching itself out like a predator after a long sleep. It's a part of him that he's realizing now never woke up when he did, a missing piece of himself that's finally found its way back.
It says, stop wasting time being a such a goddamn moron. Whether this is real or not doesn't matter - accept that it's happening anyway and fucking deal with it. You can panic later - right now, you need to act.
In a daze, his hand slowly comes up and uses the bandages to wipe the blood off of his shidi's mouth.]
Don't freak out too much, you'll just make things worse. [He exhales shakily, tries for a smile.] How did the war god of Bai Zhan land himself in such a state, hm?
[It's yet another question on top of what's already a mountain of them. The blood over Liu Qingge's chest and on his mouth reminds him too much of a vision he once had, a nightmare within a dream. He swallows, breathes, tries to remember what it had once felt like to keep outwardly calm in a sea of bewilderment. Whatever he's feeling now, Liu Qingge must have it ten times worse - he needs to keep it together for at least a little bit longer.]
Can you move? My apartment isn't too far from here.
[ If anyone from Cang Qiong could be here now. If they could see Liu Qingge as he is now, his hand barely managing to not grasp at who he knows to be Shen Qingqiu.
Because he couldn't be! There was no way this scrawny man, looking half scared out of his wits, could be the elegant Peak Lord of Qing Jing. He is dressed in shabby clothes, his hair is a mess that falls into his eyes, he is pale and sickly and all of the things that Shen Qingqiu is most decidedly not. They would say, Liu-shidi, you are being delusional. Liu-shidi, you've lost your mind.
But Liu Qingge does not let go. He feels the other raise his free hand, feels the careful, gentle press of the bandage, and something encased within the closure of his ribs shiver and shake as when a hot melted glass dunked into cold water would form hairline cracks. Something in him, the part that cares not about the looks, about the statue, about anything else apart from the cool, clear light that comes off from that gaze, recognises him.
It is him. And if he hadn't been sure before, he is now - hearing the shaky exhale of breath, Liu Qingge realises that he had been just as shaken by the encounter, as well.
With a sigh that can't be disappointment nor relief, Liu Qingge closes his eyes, then opens them again. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cw: poisoning, cut-type injuries and loss of blood.
Date: 2020-09-02 04:34 am (UTC)A temporary solution had been to travel across the land while Mobei Jun looked after things in his place. It'd been his idea to plan a similar trajectory as Shen Qingqiu had taken during his explorations after the Immortal Alliance Conference. Binghe had wished to experience a part of Shen Qingqiu's life he'd only heard rumors of and share it a second time when he'd missed out on the first.
For the sake of making this an uneventful journey, maintaining some level of anonymity was a must. Which meant blending in, much as two otherworldly faces could, to prevent drawing undesired attention. Despite all their caution the pair are forced to waylay their journey in such a city, where Shen Qingqiu's previous visit had left enough impact to spoil an anonymous stay, and recent trade routes had been established with the rebellious Southern demon tribe. Thinking they're safe enough among the masses of this bustling city, the pair don't expect an attempt on Shen Qingqiu's life the first night of their arrival.
Only with much persuasion does Binghe put down his culinary duties for the day and let the another's hands prepare something while they canoodle. So a meal is taken within the private room of a healing hot springs resort, full of soft cushions and full blooms surrounding a wall-sized window overlooking the water below. That's how something is slipped into their food; a powerful toxin that's meant to leave Luo Binghe to watch his partner suffer in front of his very eyes. There's no antidote save for the afflicted to admit every repressed belief, every hidden secret lying dormant within his heart. The 'Thousand Cuts' poison leaves the skin of whoever is infected to slice open under the pressure of withholding these thoughts until the numerous small wounds reach high enough to prove fatal from infection or loss of blood.
Unaware of the danger, Binghe has been feeding Shen Qinggiu overflowing chopsticks full of glistening cuts of beef and sauce coated greens till half the plate is empty. Only when he takes his own bite does Binghe freeze with the utensils in hand as perceptive demonic senses register the abnormality. His blood goes cold once he perceives their dinner is the cause, once his body instinctively goes on the attack to rid the foreign substance from his system. But even with Binghe's blood coursing through his master's veins, it can't combat an entire meal's worth of unknown toxins. ]
Shizun- [ Binghe surges up from the seating cushions, dropping his chopsticks to shove their plates off to one side in a disorderly mess of clattering porcelain and spilled dishes. ]
Don't take another bite!
[ With a growing sense of dread Binghe realizes he unintentionally almost delivered his husband to death's door by his own hand. A fact the assassin must have planned to make this all the more painful. ]
The food they've made us; it's been laced with some kind of poison!
no subject
Date: 2020-09-02 08:03 am (UTC)One of them is this: that Shen Qingqiu has, more or less, been expecting this turn of events. Why, you ask? Two words: wife plots. Wife plots everywhere!
Yes, it didn't take long for him to realize that the consequence to being the stallion protagonist's one and only spouse was that every single one of the insipid storylines once belonging to his former harem now fell onto Shen Qingqiu's extremely tired shoulders. Even with all the precautions they've taken to minimize threats as much as possible, he still finds himself having to deal with an all too familiar damsel-in-distress scenario every so often. He's yet to tell Binghe of these encounters for a couple of reasons: one, he doesn't wish to cause Binghe any more distress than he already has if he can't help it, and two...it's embarrassing! It's embarrassing having to be rescued by his own disciple! Luo Binghe might have surpassed his teacher in every way possible, but that doesn't mean Shen Qingqiu doesn't have some pride left as an accomplished cultivator in his own right!
Luckily, Airplane-bro's laziness and sheer lack of creativity meant that wife plots could usually be sorted into four extremely predictable categories: kidnappings, monster attacks, papapa plants, and poison. The first was easy enough to handle; most of the scoundrels willing to abduct an innocent maiden hesitated when it came to a Cang Qiong peak lord, and the ones that didn't quickly found out that Shen Qingqiu didn't need a demon lord behind him to be dangerous. The second one he actually looked forward to (and may have dragged Binghe into deliberately triggering more than a few of them so they could hunt down cool monsters). The third could be avoided by carrying a botany compendium and rerouting their travels to steer clear of any suspiciously large meadows of flowers. As for the fourth, why would he bother eating food from anywhere else when he had the greatest chef in the known universe cooking for him on a daily basis?
Unfortunately, his overconfidence from having successfully dodged so many wife plots led to him letting his guard down at the worst point possible. Shen Qingqiu hadn't even thought about poison when ordering the food, not in this luxurious bubble of anonymity and with their previous...activities...having left him famished. He did nearly refuse to eat when Binghe insisted on feeding him by hand, but the teary eyes had put an end to that protest quickly enough.
See? This is what he gets for indulging in such shameless displays of affection! The next time Luo Binghe begs for something embarrassing, he's going to remember this moment and firmly refuse! Firmly!
At any rate, it's this over-preparation for the worst outcomes possible - a hard habit to break even after he's avoided the scum villain's predestined ending - that explains Shen Qingqiu's unnaturally calm reaction. Without a single break in his even expression, he smoothly reaches for the nearest wastebasket and just as smoothly jams his fingers down his throat, bringing up as much of the food he just ate as he can. It's not exactly a dignified look on him, but Binghe's seen his body in more undignified states than this.
(Without a Cure. He's thinking of Without a Cure and nothing else.)]
Calm down, Binghe. Can you tell what sort of poison it is from the taste? [For someone who's just been poisoned, he doesn't seem too concerned yet - mostly because he knows that 99% of the poisons in this world can be cured by judicious application of Luo Binghe's heavenly pillar.
(somewhere on him, a cut begins to open)]
no subject
Date: 2020-09-05 08:14 am (UTC)They balance once another in this when his husband's outward calm meets Luo Binghe's instinctive torrent of raging emotions. At the forefront is his need to be protective yet equally heartsick for his partner, even as a fierce wish for retribution towards the culprit takes hold. All of it now threatening to spill over when the one person he can never lose manages to fall into harm's way.
Much as he's of the mind to listen if only to not further aggravate a poison with unknown properties, there's no feasible way he can sit still. Agitation rolls off Binghe's tense form, with stiff shoulders and furrowed brows. This palpable itch to move has him shifting from one side of the low serving table to the other; kneeling in front of his husband until the waste basket is no longer needed. Without missing a beat he reaches around Shen Qingqiu until both hands can gently stroke a back hunched in temporary sickness.
If there's ever a time to feel panicked, it's over the idea that no place can be their safe haven and home. Not even at Luo Binghe's side can Shen Qingqiu avoid the consequences of sharing his life with a man with so many enemies.
Foes he'd rather charge off to end, wherever they might be lurking. But that would mean leaving Shen Qingqiu's side. A feat which is impossible in the here and now. ]
How can I be calm when you've been poisoned by my own hand?
[ The nearest approximation is a sense of focus Shen Qingqiu's orders always give. With the crux of his formative years spent at his teacher's side, it's a want to adhere to his wishes and oblige his commands which motivates and moves him even when Binghe feels frozen to the point of inaction. Though all the drive in the world to please still takes a backseat to momentary flashes of guilt, barely disguised behind a slow shake of his head and eyes downcast in recollection and remorse. ]
I don't use such things, so I couldn't tell what it was even by tasting it.
[ The deep ravine between his brows refuses to settle, even when hands that itch to do more surrender themselves to a suitable occupation. The rich ocean-colored wine bottle upon their table had been chosen on a partial whim. Its colors were used to flatter the man at his side upon its selection, but the rich flavor had been its primary selling point. Such a delicacy is now hastily unwrapped, then uncorked and sampled with even less decorum. ]
I'm only familiar with common symptoms of the more widely used varieties. And on occasion, I've heard of some rare poisons rumored for their strange phenomena.
[ Binghe spares only a second to fill his wine cup before tossing it back to test whether the vendor had been in cahoots with tonight's would-be assassin or not.
Cool spirits slide down with a hard bob of an adam's apple, thankfully causing not even a twinge of reaction to his system. Only after passing this test is it deemed fit in his eyes for Shen Qingqiu's consumption. A suggestion made less with words than by the way Binghe presses a full cup into Shen Qingqiu's hand to wash away the taste of bile. ]
None of this is suitable for helping Shizun, when he needs a physician right now, not guessing games.
[ Except that their options are next to none, when the best doctor in the land is thousands of li away on Cang Qiong Mountain, while those residing within this city may not be able to identify a demonic pathogen let alone have the means to treat it. ]
no subject
Date: 2020-09-06 12:52 am (UTC)[The guilt in Binghe's eyes makes his insides churn with something that has nothing to do with the poison in his system. He's so used to thinking that the protag's OP halo can conquer all obstacles - but this Binghe isn't the wish-fulfillment hero of a badly written stallion novel. He's Shen Qingqiu's sticky disciple, his maiden-hearted crybaby of a husband, and it isn't fair to place such expectations on him as he would a fictional character.
To cover up his disquiet, he takes the cup of wine and slowly drinks from it. He can't exactly enjoy the flavor with the taste of bile still in his mouth, but the warmth that flows through his limbs after he empties it gives him enough courage to slide his hand from Binghe's hair to cup his chin gently, a soft look in his eyes.]
It's good that you don't resort to such tactics. No matter, your old shizun isn't so useless that he won't be able to narrow it down.
[...or so he says, but truth be told he doubts his foggy recollection of Airplane's hundreds of poison plots will be of much help here either. It's not his fault the vast majority of his memory space has been taken up by monster facts, okay! Most of the poisons were super generic anyway! Probably the best strategy to take here is to wait an hour to see if any unusual symptoms show up, and if not, convince Binghe that "dual cultivation" has a good chance of being the cure.
A small red stain on the sleeve of his robe where the fabric is thinnest catches his eye. Funny, he doesn't think he spilled any of the wine.... He lifts up his hand to examine the stain and the fabric slides down, revealing a small cut on his wrist that had gone unnoticed thanks to this body's high pain tolerance and his own distraction. Shen Qingqiu's eyebrows draw together in confusion.]
A cut...? [That was odd. For all the hundreds of different names and types, PIDW's poisons usually followed one universal rule: preserving the body in a pristine enough state for titillating 'papapa'. This meant no vomiting, no diarrhea, and no blood save for perhaps a few drops trickling out of the mouth to maximize vulnerability. He watches as another one opens up along his arm, skin parting as if being sliced by an invisible scapel, before the realization hits him like a ton of bricks.]
The Thousand Cuts poison--! [Now the calm veneer finally cracks; Shen Qingqiu's fan whips up to cover his face as his automatic response to anything upsetting, but it's too late to hide the widening of his eyes, the sudden paleness of his skin.
Shit shit shit! He thought this was just a standard 'papapa to live' poison, embarrassing but not anything actually dangerous! This was the worst possible poison for him to be hit by! Having to reveal his innermost feelings is bad enough, but he's also hiding several Big Secrets that could result in being instantly ejected into a corpse if they were to ever get out! He's definitely going to die!]
Sorry for the delay! Things got a bit busy.
Date: 2020-09-09 12:14 am (UTC)[ At the swat Luo Binghe's voice pitches upward to the tune of his master's name; his voice aggrieved as it is pitiable. All this whining would be comical in any other circumstance and his momentarily wounded pride a justified loss. While the stirrings of other emotions, roused to life by a taste for discipline, would be swiftly indulged. Much as he enjoys small shows of Shen Qingqiu's domineering side, acted out in painless swats such as these, now is not the time to luxuriate in where that often leads.
Which is easier said than done when not an instant later any sense of being wronged is swept aside as Shen Qingqiu's touch lands upon him. A dark head of hair bows lowers to nudge up against Shen Qingqiu's fingers, leaning forward into that touch. It's an obedient display better suited for a pet than a warlord who had overthrown Huan Hua Palace and wrangled two opposing demonic territories into a nearly stable unification. But when has he ever fit any conventional mold placed upon him?
Even more distracting is the touch of fingers lifting his face. He follows their simple instruction, but cannot resist the urge to reach out to cradle that hand in return. Lips find the crux of Shen Qingqiu's palm after he's nosed into it like something small seeking warmth and comfort. And there Binghe stays, pressing small kisses to that space, then up against knuckles and across the back of that hand. They're a hundred thousand apologies spelled out against bare skin, written with nothing more than his lips. ]
Figuring out what it is won't be easy. We still don't know what this type of poison does. Unless- ....Shizun, you're bleeding!
[ Speak of the devil. A slash of skin and its newly acquired twin do the job of answering one question while leaving a dozen more in its wake. Quick to action Binghe wastes no time to cover the slice in pale skin with a cloth napkin pilfered from the table; wrapping it over the wound after doubling the material once. A shoddy tourniquet of sorts, the material is more decorative than practical. It may be a napkin, but not one for cleaning up spills of drink or lost blood with the kind of efficacy comparable to gauze. For now, it's all they have to use.
With his memory jogged by a name meant to evoke vivid images of its victim's suffering, Binghe recalls the times he's run across such a thing in his perusal of any number of books. It's something of a blessing that the poison in Shen Qingqiu's system was infamous across the lands. This meant it as this was recorded in texts aplenty, including those a prolific reader such as Binghe had come across in his endless absorption of records both old and new. There's little surprise Shen Qingqiu, with his worldly knowledge and experience as a Peak Lord, has knowledge of it too.
One of the numerous toxins which scholars across the land recorded for its machinations against the bodies of those it had poisoned, the 'Thousand Cuts" poison was much like the brutal torture from whence it acquired the name. Used in gruesome interrogations, an executioner never had to dirty his hands to wring out the innermost thoughts of the most hardened traitor or spy. With a suitable dose of the Thousand Cuts drug, it slowly made their prisoner bleed under the onslaught of endless slices until the last little bit of information was extracted from their head. ]
That's something I've only heard of being used to interrogate prisoners, not to kill them outright. It doesn't make sense that they'd poison you this way.
[ With his husband's wrist bandaged and presently covered with a protective hand that still applies pressure, Binghe can finally pull his focus away from one looming matter to another. Just a moment is all it takes to absorb the not so subtle changes in Shen Qingqiu's demeanor which tell him something's wrong. ]
In any case, shouldn't it be easy to cure when it's something like this? Yet Shizun looks so displeased.
haha it's all good, no worries!
Date: 2020-09-11 03:04 am (UTC)'A thousand cuts for a thousand secrets,' the description had read. Theoretically, the victim had to confess a secret for each cut in order to heal them; of course, Airplane-bro was far too lazy to actually come up with that many and so created the loophole that really big secrets could be worth hundreds of little ones. Wife #389 finally cured herself by confessing her biggest secret, that she had - surprise fucking surprise - fallen deeply in love with the protagonist, thus closing all of her wounds just in time for papapa.
This was about the point where Peerless Cucumber had thrown his laptop across the room.]
Mm, Binghe brings up a good point. Whoever did this may be using a talisman to listen in, hoping to draw information out of this master about you or Cang Qiong. [Could be, but not likely. In any case, what exactly were they trying to find out? That Binghe's greatest weakness was being a trembling M? How Liu Qingge took his tea? Shen Qingqiu's knowledge lay in monsters and the scholarly arts, not in classified information!
No, the more probable scenario was that the perpetrator knew about Shen Jiu's past and believed he'd die before confessing...which in a twisted way could be seen as true, just coming from the opposite direction. All of the original goods' sins and shames won't do jackshit for current version here, not when they don't belong to him! As for how the poison was cured in the novel -- useless! He's already let the protagonist do this and that to him, not to mention actual marriage, how much clearer can his feelings get?!
But to say this to Binghe, Binghe his maiden-hearted black lotus, Binghe who already has to deal with a boatload of trust issues thanks in no small part to himself, to tell him that his husband still keeps secrets that he cannot share...Shen Qingqiu swallows.]
It isn't that simple. You...you know this master has difficulty expressing himself sometimes. That there are things about himself he hasn't told you - hasn't told anyone. Binghe, when it comes to secrets....[He spreads his hands helplessly, a hopeless light in his eyes and a wry smile on his lips.] I don't even know where to start.
no subject
Date: 2020-09-14 03:18 am (UTC)With his fingers itching to act in retaliation, Binghe smoothly rises in a flurry of midnight robes to fling open those shutters. As he leans halfway out of the frame, eyes search the moonlit grounds below their second-story window for the barest hints of a lurking shadow. Yet none fall beneath the narrowed gaze of eyes anxious for the sight of anyone to blame.
Hackles rise at the idea that someone may have been invading their privacy like a fly on the wall; listening to every word spoken tonight and left privy to each intimate action.
Any sensible assassin would be dozens of li away by now. If their own tormenter knew what was good for them, they too should have fled before this suggestion tips the scales of his paper-thin restraint, leaving Luo Binghe succumbing to the urge to hunt them down. Truthfully, despite his want for retribution, little could feasibly coax him into departing the side of a husband now injured and poisoned. That doesn't mean they don't have other options.
With their window opened to all the world, it looks more like an avenue for escape than anything else. And that's the next best solution that comes to mind; for the pair of them to get away from a room that had been as tainted tonight as Shen Qingqiu's blood. ]
Then let's get out of here, even if it only means leaving this accursed room.
Once we find somewhere else this disciple could block his ears, so not a word could be heard. Or stand out of earshot while Shizun whispers. We could try, in every way there exists, to circumvent this poison. And-
[ Binghe's anxious tirade, the jittery nervousness over an ailment that touches on his deepest fear, dies on his lips. Quiet engulfs him as he turns to witness the sight of Shen Qingqiu's helpless gesture, wreathed by words that sound just as powerless.
He recalls the last time Shen Qingqiu's past had been forcibly exposed. On that day when a woman had proclaimed a broken engagement and a series of crimes at the feet of both friend and foe, the humiliation his master must have felt was likely unbearable.
And Binghe himself still harbors his own secrets. These span from thoughts as innocent as the new bloom of a childish affection, before his heart had even known what being in love was, to the sheer pitiable state he'd been trapped in for two thousand days of grief. Days where meals had been made and conversations held for a body without its soul.
Secrets are not things to be wrestled away from anyone's heart. Reluctant as he is to admit it, doing so would only be revisiting past mistakes. Things acted on because they were driven by a fear of losing Shen Qingqiu and the dread of being apart from him in any way. No matter his intentions, and regardless of his boundless love, forcing anything had only done more damage. In the here and now, dragging these secrets out of Shen Qingqiu, even for the sake of his own health, would only bring more of the same.
Binghe swallows away the dryness in his throat as he pads back over. Step by hesitant step, he moves toward a man he only wishes to protect. Not taking the reins or sweeping himself into action is one of the hardest things he's ever done. But just like those five years where only Shen Qingqiu could decide to return to a body that wouldn't revive, despite all that Binghe had done, Binghe once again needs to await Shen Qingqiu's decision to move forward.
For a moment his shadow eclipses that slender upright figure; sitting with absolute grace as though not a thing could touch him. Up until then, the full moon's glow casts him in such a pale light that he appears nearly intangibly ethereal as the moonbeams themselves. And perhaps that's what prompts him to action. That small, illogical, fleeting idea that Shen Qingqiu might fade with the morning light, like so much moonshine.
Because Binghe leans down to fold Shen Qingqiu into his embrace. There are tears in his eyes, a thickness lodged in his throat, and a tightness to a voice that whispers along the slope of a neck he's memorized with his teeth, his tongue, and every inch of his lips in moments far happier than this. ]
This husband cannot bear for you to suffer further hurt. He couldn't survive losing you. But these secrets are Shizun's, not mine...
[ The blood under that napkin isn't his. And neither are the secrets that lay untold; rightfully unspoken and unshared without Shen Qingqiu's willing blessing to place them into his husband's trust. ]
So what does he want to do?
no subject
Date: 2020-09-18 05:08 am (UTC)He plays with the fan in his hands for a few moments, then lets it drop to the floor. He might not have a concrete plan right now, but he knows one thing: he's done running away from Luo Binghe, both physically and emotionally. No point in holding on to something that'll only tempt him to hide.]
It's no use. The poison will only dissipate once the victim's confessions have been heard by someone with no prior knowledge of them.
[How a poison can somehow know whether this happens or not is truly a plothole that will never be answered. But it means that he can't simply cheat his way out of this, nor find Shang Qinghua and safely spill his secrets to the only person in this world who already knows them. Not that he even wants to, not when he hears what Binghe says next.
He's ashamed to admit it, but he'd been expecting tears and wounded protests at his refusal to give up his secrets, not this quiet acceptance. It can't be easy, not for the sticky disciple who so shamelessly monopolizes all his time and constantly demands his attention to know there's still a part of his husband's heart guarded off from him. Shen Qingqiu's well aware - too aware - that Binghe would die for him, kill for him, do pretty much anything he asks. But this is something new, and the pure sacrifice in the gesture makes his throat close up and bury his face in his husband's shoulder to try to close out the world around them.
It takes his breath away sometimes, how much Binghe loves him. It makes him feel awed. It makes him feel small. On the good days, it makes him feel as though he can take on anything this world can possibly throw at him, that he's finally found a vital part of his life he didn't even know was missing. On the bad days...on the bad days, it makes him wonder what exactly it is about himself that Binghe adores so much. If it's the effortlessly graceful body that isn't his, the elegant skills he never learned, the wisdom and composure he's been forced to fake ever since his arrival. If in a twisted way, they're both just chasing after the shadows Shen Jiu left in his wake.
(there are more bad days than he cares to admit)]
This master...I want to get out of here. I want Binghe to take us somewhere where it's just the two of us. I want to tell Binghe all the things he ever wanted to know about me. [He closes his eyes and tightens his grip around Binghe's waist, heedless of the blood dripping from the freshly opened cuts onto his robes.] I...can't promise it'll actually happen. But I want to try.
[If he's going to die, it won't be in this anonymous room smelling of bile and leftover subpar food. And if by some miracle he doesn't die, if this poison simply strips him of all his pretenses...then let Binghe see him for who he really is out in the open and under the bare moonlight, with nothing else standing in the way.]
no subject
Date: 2020-09-25 06:48 am (UTC)The wash of relief it brings about, swooping over him hard and fast, leaves the last supports holding back Binghe's dam of emotions to buckle along with legs suddenly left shaky. Given gravity's effects, all he can do is permit them to take hold and drag him crumpling down into a kneel. ]
Shizun... You really will?
[ Tears break through in a torrent of emotional release given physical form. Those which don't roll down fat and heavy like a summer's rain beneath the hem of Shen Qingqiu's robes hug the curve of Binghe's face. Features inherited from his mother yet weathered with time and testosterone into something more masculine and decidedly his own. Yet a broken look wedged deep between the crevice of brows knotted together in pain and relief, are prone to give way to a resemblance of his youth. Not that it matters how rare a display tears had been back then compared to now. ]
I was so afraid. That there was a chance you would refuse. And I might lose you, all over again... For a moment I thought-
[ He dares to let slip the hold he has upon Shen Qingqiu, but only with one hand. The very same does a valiant attempt at shooing away obvious tear tracks. One clue among a growing congregation of signs that he's been crying all this time.
When that palm is done clearing the warm, wet proof of his relief away it returns to stroke down Shen Qingqiu's throat in a similar effort. If not for the threat of assassins, the poison shuttling his husband closer to death's door with every heartbeat, or eavesdroppers that may be listening in hopes of stealing secrets, the sight of his own hand against Shen Qingqiu's bare skin would be arousing enough divest him of interest in anything else tonight but so much more of this.
Instead, Binghe's hand finds Shen Qingqiu's face to swipe a thumb there lazily to and fro in contrast to an atmosphere fraught with tension. It paints a story of adoration across the span of one cheek and beneath eyes which his seek out. Those full of wisdom as deep and dark as endless irises that only Shen Qingqiu can possess, which his blurry-eyed sight clears up enough to finally see with the same clarity as knowing what to do next. ]
All right. [ A shaky breath skitters into his lungs. ] Shizun can slowly tell me everything he wishes to say, once we're far away from here.
[ Like so much else in this world of cultivation, sword signatures are ostentatious beacons of energy. They practically demand the notice of any with eyes in their head. Escaping by sword flight would be equivalent to painting a target on their back for anyone nearby who had a hand in what was intended to be Shen Qingqiu's demise, as well as any townsfolk who may have been bribed to keep an eye out for them.
Using their qinggong is hardly much better, given the fact bursts of qi drag behind each step, illuminating their every motion the way tides of fireflies take flight upon a sweltering summer night. Taking the path less traveled, Binghe chooses to depart by foot and manpower alone, to stave off leaving a trail of proverbial breadcrumbs leading to their new location.
While Binghe hasn't placed the same attachment Shen Qingqiu has to a fan which is eternally at his side, there's no hope of it slipping his notice where it now lies upon the floor. Once gathered up in his firm grip, its wooden body feels lighter than he last recalls. Though it makes a sound of protest in the places where wooden slats slide together beneath the curl of strong fingers, those complaints are soothed once it comes home to roost within the fabric band of Shen Qingqiu's belt.
His husband whole as can be, all circumstances considered, Binghe draws him into both arms in less of what's meant to be an embrace than a method of carrying him off. One arm hooks beneath long, slender legs while the other draws around Shen Qingqiu's back; holding onto him only tight enough to ensure nothing short of a skirmish could pull his husband away.
What had once been a room full of promise, their quiet if perhaps temporary haven from a world not entirely welcome or understanding towards what they share, becomes only a recent memory once Binghe sweeps them out and away into the night.
One short drop from the wide-open windows finds them standing where he'd once been searching for a spy or assassin that's still nowhere to be found. Though they may yet be lurking, here or behind a door in a room they've left behind. It's a thought which propels him forward; walking swiftly past the back courtyard of the inn, following the first inklings of what makes up the layout of the establishment's private healing spring.
But this secluded space is only runoff from the main source. Binghe can smell the water with his senses, hear it faintly trickling just under their feet, below a street paved with dirt. All of it draining down from the forests this city, newly born compared to the ancient stone it rests atop, has grown up around.
Without jostling the precious cargo in his arms Binghe quietly slips off into the night. Steady footfalls take them towards the outskirts of town in hopes their would-be-assassin expects a dying man to seek refuge within the city, not flee into the woods. Not that either location matters. Ultimately, all that does is the privacy and sense of seclusion needed to tap into the antidote that lies within Shen Qingqiu's own words. A place away from prying eyes or listening ears, where Binghe is sure no one has expected their arrival and therefore set neither traps nor listening talismans in wait. ]
no subject
Date: 2020-09-29 07:36 am (UTC)All right, all right, how old are you again? Stop crying, my robes are already wet enough as it is.
[He tries to wipe the glittering tear tracks away, frowning when his thumb leaves a smear of blood behind. Further attempts to clean Binghe's face only results in more blood dripping down from the fresh cuts hidden by his sleeves. They're running out of time.
It's why he doesn't protest when Binghe swoops him into his arms like the cover of a bad romance novel, even though it rankles his pride to have to be carried around like some swooning maiden. Besides, while he would rather die than say it out loud (which is a looming possibility in the near future), a not insignificant part of him does enjoy being held against his husband's ridiculously large chest this way. There's something both exhilarating and comforting about that easy display of strength, the way his arms remain steady even as they're flying through the air and across the ground....
...look, he can't help it, okay?! Anyone would feel a little weak-kneed in the presence of the OP protagonist! Besides, he's always been a little lazy, of course he's going to enjoy anything that cuts down on the amount of work he needs to put in!
Still, he does have an image to keep up, so when they reach their destination he slides out of Binghe's arms with only a little regret, clearing his throat and straightening his robes.]
Before we go any further, this master needs to test something.
[He takes a deep breath, opens his mouth...closes it, shuffles in place awkwardly for a few seconds, takes another breath, opens his mouth again...closes it once more, swallows, looks down at Binghe's feet then up at the moon. After another long moment, he finally comes to a decision and slams his hand over Binghe's eyes, cheeks glowing red. This is hard enough already to say without someone looking at him, okay!]
Sometimes...when a disciple asks me a question I have no idea how the hell to answer, I think to myself 'what would Yoda do?' and bullshit a response based on that. It really makes me worried for the future of Qing Jing peak that no one's called me out on it yet.
[The secret's embarrassing enough to close up one of his cuts, but that's not why he says it. He says it because it's a secret Shen Qingqiu would never have, packaged in language he would never use, using references to pop culture he would never know. Every word of that confession is pure Shen Yuan - not a serious enough violation to automatically eject him from this world, but certainly enough to warrant a warning and major points deduction...assuming the system's still awake. He holds his breath, body tense enough that his hand trembles as it presses hard against Binghe's eyes as he waits for the dreaded chime of that Google Translate voice. A minute of silence passes, then two, before he finally allows himself to sag in relief.
He isn't naive enough to think that the system's miraculously left him for good. For one thing, Shang Qinghua's told him about his own system's offer to let him go back home; Shen Qingqiu's yet to receive any such message (not that he would take it), so he knows that his system must still be lurking somewhere in the back of his mind. But if it's in hibernation mode...then perhaps it can only be activated by certain keywords - words like 'Shen Yuan' and 'Proud Immortal Demon Way'. In which case, as long as he's ambiguous enough in his phrasing, he may stand a chance of surviving this poison after all.
He lets go of Binghe's face and takes a step back, pulling on the regal bearing of Shen Qingqiu the dignified peak lord again like a familiar cloak. One hand instinctively goes to the fan that's been placed back in his robes, flicking it open, though he doesn't pull it up to his face yet.]
Very well. You may ask this master whatever you wish.
no subject
Date: 2020-10-04 11:21 pm (UTC)Under the veil of what acts essentially as a truth-telling serum, this is the one instance where the more reasonable the answer is, the further suspicion it would garner when labeled as a secret. While the more outlandish, the farther off-field from normalcy that his Shizun's answers become, the greater sense it makes to have kept quiet on such facts.
Ignorance fills this slot wholesale. Of course, Shen Qingqiu would take to the grave his failure to have answers at the ready for disciples under his care. How shameful would it be for his pride, already pummeled through the years by means of slander and demonic affiliation, to have any know of such shortcomings? One can only guess the dire consequences at hand if this seemingly benign news spread like wildfire in the way rumors travel. It would diminish his image as one of Cang Qiong Mountain's infallible Peak Lords. If not put in question his suitability for the role. If Shen Qingqiu was unable to fulfill the simplistic task of teaching, many would likely inquire how he was expected to deal with matters more difficult than schooling children.
But to draw a blank when fishing for answers is to be human. No different than it is to err and suffer. Many times throughout Binghe's life, his own search to draw conclusions from the questions he's had only left him emptyhanded. When beaten by strangers, or the townsfolk's young masters, and even a man who now encompasses every corner of Binghe's life; the reason "Why" had never come no matter the innumerable times he begged the Heavens or his own heart for answers.
So, after a lifetime of his own uncertainties, of years without reasons for all the good or ill he'd known laid at his feet, can he not spare Shen Qingqiu a level of understanding in this too? Luo Binghe would reverse the course of day and night if Shen Qingqiu so much as requested it. A little sympathy is a small trifle in comparison.
More important than secrets that would no more lessen his love, even if Shen Qingqiu announced crimes of murder or passion, resides in the trembling press of fingers which cuts off Binghe's sight. Under the veil they pull across his eyes, within two minutes bereft of words from either man, passing seconds give the illusion of stretching out as if each heartbeat of time might be moldible as dough.
On and on he waits, simply breathing warmth through a nose that nudges wordless adoration like something companionable against its owner's hand; or around questions that only slide out in the shape of Shen Qingqius title: "Shizun?" All of it mouthed, not spoken, as if shattering the quiet around them is a crime he cannot bear to commit once Shen Qingqiu set such a president. Only once the shivering fingers recede from his skin, when Binghe can no longer try to nuzzle against them in wordless comfort, does he regain a desire to return to his possession both sight and an ability to speak.
There is a world of wanting deep within Luo Binghe's heart when it comes to knowing this man who now stands like a being made of star beams and moonlight, white-cast upon already pale robes and skin. Lurking within are his own insecurities, miles long and compounded with all which has been misunderstood and every given slight across the years. He could ask "Why do you love me, Shizun?" or even, more pitiable, if Shen Qingqiu truly does, when the rest of the world had tried for the length of Luo Binghe's life to remind just how unlovable he really is.
But what falls from his lips, bouncing rabbit-fast like a heart suddenly spurred into thrumming to an anxious tempo, is objectively perhaps the most absurd of all questions. Not to Luo Binghe's easily envious maiden heart. Hardly so for a man who has lost Shen Qingqiu time and again, like all that he'd ever loved before him. For Luo Binghe, no answer matters more than revealing the identity of the interloper whose name hangs on Shen Qingqiu's cupid's bow lips like a prayer for salvation. ]
...Who is this Yoda which Shizun speaks of?
[ Of all the things to fixate upon its Binghe's innate instinct to dwell upon the mention of another whom Shen Qingiu implies a certain level of reliance on. Naturally, to gauge their importance and weight within Shen Qingqiu's life is suddenly of the utmost interest.
It's a petty thing, really. Compounded by a sweeping lack of answers; unusual when his information network between Huan Hua Palace and the Demon Realm's Northern territories remain privy of anyone of note. Including those select few who might be inspirational cultivators and gurus of ancient wisdom worthy of Shen Qingqiu's study. ]
I've never heard of such a soul. Yet he must be a talent of his generation to harbor Shizun's high esteem to the point of emulation.
no subject
Date: 2020-10-13 08:22 pm (UTC)And yet...when he hears the words coming off of Binghe's tongue, the first thing this overpowered demon lord can think of asking his far too secretive teacher....]
Pft!
[His hand rises to his lips, but it's far too late to hide the crass and inelegant snort that comes bursting out. Shen Qingqiu stares for a moment, mouth trembling hard, before he can't help it anymore and bursts out into laughter.]
Aha! Ahahahaha!
[It isn't the usual gentle chuckle that emerges from his lips, or the elegant bells of mirth that he occasionally lets out when particularly amused. No, this sound can only be described as a cackle, coarse and unrefined, coming from deep within the belly and shaking his entire body with convulsions. Shen Qingqiu laughs until he's bent over with the force of it, uncaring of the way it pulls at his wounds, slapping at his knees in a move so crude that the original goods would have killed him for it if he could see it now.
When he finally feels like he can breathe again, like a massive weight he's been carrying for nearly a decade has been lifted off his shoulders, he straightens up again wiping tears away from the corner of his eyes.
Ah, this man. This overly sensitive, vinegar-chugging, ridiculously devoted puppy-eyed pure maiden of a demon lord. Shen Qingqiu really...he really....]
Binghe. Yoda's a fictional character from a play I used to watch in my childhood. He's no more real than a fairy tale.
no subject
Date: 2020-10-14 05:05 am (UTC)Any other from their past would sink into a pit of distress; frantically suspicious that Shen Qingqiu has succumbed to the aforementioned ails that plague cultivators like hellhounds braying upon bare heels. The figure within reach of Shen Qingqiu's figure succumbs to it for not an instant. Startlement, yes. Concern, a bit. But at long last, he adjusts until the peals of laughter sound less like a break in Shen Qingqiu's sanity but a wall between them.
Belly laughs, unbecoming of lofty titles or high standing, now only ring of honesty. Like something infinitesimal has shifted, deep down in the earth's tectonics or their very souls, permitting more honesty even than what's found in the shedding of robes or countless tear-soaked confessions between them.
The laughter sounds like "I trust you". It whispers promises of "I'll open my heart."
That gush of gleeful noise sweeps him along to smile in turn. Like a fool, or perhaps someone with their own cross to bear. He knows relief when he hears it. Something spoken in the tongue of sheer laughter brought to life only by sloughing off the mountain-high weights that have clung on long enough to grow roots. Binghe recalls his own particular take on this drainage of emotion, though it'd been a vintage not so full-bodied and vibrant but soured and bitten off as though letting it run rampant might never see an end. ]
I thought... That there might be someone else Shizun was constantly thinking of from afar. But I'm glad that's not the case.
[ A head full of dark hair dips down, barely concealing his own uptick of lips to the tune of his own smoke-soft laughter. Proving that shame is rarely a word that wrests control of one Luo Binghe. ]
On occasion, it feels very good to be proven wrong.
[ Unnecessary fears he leaves behind with one step then two. Until there are just enough to cross the distance between them. Therein that small haven of space Binghe can brush the glistening pearls of tears clinging to red-rimmed eyes then the skin itself there; stroking down a cheek even after it's dried. ]
Shizun has come to understand so much about my life before Cang Qiong Mountain, but I know very little of his.
[ Would a tour through Shen Qingqiu's past qualify as unraveling the hidden truths locked within his heart? The answer to that is one found through trial and error. ]
I'd like to hear about these things. The plays you've seen, and what else you enjoyed in your youth. Maybe they would count as secrets too.
( who's to say the sun will find the moon )
Date: 2020-10-13 09:30 pm (UTC)In this one, Shen Yuan opens his eyes to the sound of machinery, the blaze of fluorescent hospital lights burning into his retinas the first thing he sees.
A modern-day medical miracle, they call him. Apparently he'd been comatose and near brain dead for six months - another week and his family would have pulled the plug. That he's able to form coherent thoughts at all, let alone walk and talk, is an astounding feat.
Of course he would have a few neurological issues, given his condition. It's not surprising that his dying brain would create a dream based on the last thing his conscious mind was aware of, a desperate grasp to continue existence. And didn't it all make sense with enough distance and analysis? Ning Yingying was obviously based on his little sister, Yue Qingyuan and Mu Qingfang on his doctor and businessman older brothers. In Liu Qingge, his sad and pathetic mind had created the kind of cool and loyal best friend he'd never had before; in Luo Binghe, he'd found the purpose and fulfillment he'd given up on ever having in life.
They're just figments of your mind, his therapist tells him reassuringly. Like dreams. They'll disappear with time. He smiles back and says that he can already feel them fading.
(He's lying. He's gotten a lot better at lying with a smile since he's woken up. He isn't sure if it's terror or relief that clogs his throat every time he searches his memories and finds the delusions as crystal clear as ever.)
Anyway! Bizarrely, somehow his life seems to have gotten better after his brush with death? In the sixth months following his return to the living world, he's managed to accomplish more than he has in the past twenty-four years of his life. He now exchanges texts with his siblings daily instead of monthly, and his parents actually seem genuinely interested in his affairs instead of just occasionally checking in to see if he's still alive (ha ha). He unsubscribes from all the web novel sites he'd been obsessed with, deleting PIDW off of his phone with only a twinge of regret - it isn't as if the author's updated at all in the past year anyway. Besides, he finds himself a lot less interested in xianxia stories these days - they all seem so unrealistic and stale, and hating on them doesn't bring him the same vitriolic joy it used to.
He's also somehow become an incredible prodigy at the guqin? Certainly a lot better than the half-hearted lessons he'd taken as a child can explain. There's a lot of excited chatter about the implications of the subconscious mind picking up blah blah blah. All Shen Yuan knows is that his covers of pop songs have amassed millions of hits on Youtube and that he's even being offered teaching positions at various music schools. Maybe he'll take one up.
In other words, life is fine. Life is great, especially considering the alternative that is death. He tells himself this as he stares at his reflection in the window of the subway car. One hand comes up to slowly trace the lines of his face (ordinary, pale, still gaunt from his long sleep) and his hair (short, messy, hasn't seen a comb in years let alone any sort of decoration). The corner of his lip quirks up in a wry smile. God, how low must his self-esteem be that he couldn't even stand to be in his body in his own dream and instead created one half a foot taller with features that belonged to an Instagram model? Well no one's about to mistake him for an immortal beauty now, not with the bags under his eyes and a body that still shows signs of six months in bed even with his physical therapy. He closes his eyes with a sigh and leans his forehead against the coolness of the glass.
So Shen Yuan, here's a question for you. You've been given a second chance at life, a gift that many people will never see. You're blessed with plenty of money, a family that you've reconnected with, even skills that you never thought you'd had before. You're now the protagonist of your own story, the kind of feel-good redemption arcs so popular in movies.
What will it take for you to stop feeling lost in your own skin?]
no subject
Date: 2020-10-13 10:30 pm (UTC)a pale figure that sways like a ghost fire, poised, on the very edge of the rooftop before he falls, falls, like a star, like a speck of flame that drops off the tip of the burning wood. he falls.
liu qingge calls up his sword that streaks zigzag through the air leaving bright afterimages like lightning. he somersaults into the air, alighting on cheng luan, and races toward the figure. out of the corner of his eye, liu qingge sees a similar streak, black and red, like a spear falling from the sky toward the pale figure as well.
please, a voice says, echoes from the frantic beating of his heart, the racing of his pulse. the voice is tiny, unrecognisable. please.
his hand closes around a tattered, bloodstained robe.
it is empty.
--
it is years later. liu qingge is in the lingxi caves, settled within one of the offshoot paths that link many chambers into one. the cool, calm aura of the place surround him, like submerging in water, and liu qingge closes his eyes, breathes.
it has been exactly three years, since shen qingqiu had died.
died, not even leaving a strand of hair, a piece of his nail. died, never to return to cang qiong, never to be laid at rest. all that liu qingge had been able to bring back had been that blood stained robe, torn to shreds with the force of the spiritual energy that burned him inside out.
luo binghe is still out there. he coils like a serpent within the palace of huanhua, with the miasma of lesser demons surrounding him.
he had been of cang qiong, as loathe as liu qingge is to admit it. he had been of shen qingqiu.
therefore, it is their job to bring him to heel.
liu qingge fights. that is the only path he has opted to take, and he has no regrets; he is the sword and the shield of cang qiong. he is the first and the last barrier to the sloping mountains and the waterfalls, to the pale green bamboos that look so much like him.
he had resembled the peak that he is in charge of, the same way that liu qingge is of bai zhan, the sharp sting of needle pines seemingly embedded in his skin. shen qingqiu had been pale green, swaying gently but with a hidden, tight core of strength that was all too deceptive.
liu qingge breathes.
--
another two years later, he defeats that demon bastard. it had been almost too easy, too suspiciously easy, to kick him down off his high throne made of black stone and jade, to point the edge of his sword against his throat, pale and thin like a human's.
luo binghe had laughed, tired and dark. liu qingge had been silent.
he is locked under nine layers of spells and curses, under the base of ku xing. they watch over him day and night, the peak disciples chanting endlessly, to cease his suffering and suppress his demonic qi.
even then, liu qingge does not feel better. his hand is heavy as he unsheathes cheng luan and flies, as far and as fast as he could see, but it does not lighten his heart as it once did.
--
liu qingge had felt this once before.
it had been like this, when shen qingqiu had saved him all those years ago.
but he is not here now, and all he can do is to grit his teeth against the fire in his veins, burning up all along his meridians, along the blood and bile that rises in his throat. his qi splutters, backfiring on his own body and squeezing through the tattered paths of his body.
cheng luan in his lap shivers, rattles like a beast in a cage. he can feel its roar like a reverberation through his skin, crawling up into his heart like a scream, as he takes it and plunges it, still screaming, into his heart.
--
he wakes up to screaming.
it is not in pain, but in anger. a man with a strange contraption ( all metal and paint, with two bright lanterns affixed to the front of it ) is standing not a little way from him and yelling, unfamiliar accent ringing in his ears.
liu qingge stands up, slowly. nothing feels broken, though there are minor cuts and scraps on his skin that nevertheless does not account for the rip across his chest, the amount of dried blood down the front of his robes. the man's yelling intensifies, and he gestures for liu qingge to move. curiously dazed, he obligingly moves to the sidewalk, away from the carriage, and they soon disappear from sight.
there are many other carriages like the one he had just seen. there are lights everywhere, not fire, not lanterns but brighter than that, and liu qingge grimaces, raising an arm to shield his eyes from it. the people, too, who give wide berth to the blood stained cosplayer standing there as if in a daze, are wearing clothes that are starkly different to what he knows.
this place .... is not what he recognises. ]
no subject
Date: 2020-10-14 12:01 am (UTC)There's a man. He has his hair drawn up into a high ponytail. He's wearing white cosplay robes with disturbingly realistic bloodstains. There's a beauty mark underneath his right eye. He - he --
Distantly, Shen Yuan realizes his breathing has gone harsh and fast, the sound of frantic gasping in his ears. Ah. He must be having a relapse. The neurologists had warned him this was possible, that his brain might not have healed yet from those long months of inactivity. That it may never fully heal. He knows that if his hallucinations ever manifest in reality that he needs to call the hospital for a CT scan immediately. His hand curls around his cellphone.
There are other people around with their own cellphones out, taking photos of the bloodstained cosplayer. They stare at him and whisper, not so subtly pointing him out to each other.
...maybe he's not hallucinating?
There's a long dormant instinct rising up within him, putting all of his weight on his back leg. It says run. Flee. Get out of here as fast as you can, Shen Yuan, because there will be no turning back if you don't. Whatever's coming, you must not let it catch up to you. If you run fast enough, you'll never have to face the consequences of your actions.
The man is bleeding. He looks bewildered, lost. Alone in a strange world.
Shen Yuan takes one shaky step forward, then two. Somehow he manages to make it to the man's side without collapsing. He puts a hand on one white-clad arm to get his attention, does not sigh in relief when it meets solid flesh underneath. It doesn't mean anything. None of this can possibly be happening.]
You're hurt. Let me help.
[Ever since his hospitalization, his parents have insisted on him carrying a first aid kit wherever he goes. It's ridiculous really - what are bandages going to do against expired food? - and yet he's grateful for it now as he pulls it out. He does not look up at the man's face.]
no subject
Date: 2020-10-14 01:55 am (UTC)liu qingge feels ... sick. as if poisoned, the dizziness rises up from the depths of his stomach. the sick feeling does not go away even when liu qingge takes a breath, tries to steady his spiritual energy ... and find that there is nothing.
nothing. it's like grasping at sand, slipping through the tattered remains of his meridians.
he had suffered another qi deviation.
his cultivation has burned out.
liu qingge stares, blankly, down at his hands. cheng luan is gone, and his hands have never felt so empty. he has never felt- ]
You're hurt, [ a voice sounds, close to his shoulder. a light pressure, from a hand, glides along his arm, and liu qingge takes a quiet, shuddering breath. ] Let me help,
[ they are thin fingers. small hands, the bones stretched over the knuckles turning the skin even more pale. liu qingge does not recognise them.
he turns his gaze down, down, down to the figure beside him, the unkempt hair and the soft voice and
and.
he has brown eyes with a touch of greenish gold that is muted in the artificial light of this place. it glimmers in a thousand shattered pieces within his eyes, and liu qingge, his whole body goes quiet, narrowing into the single point, into the golden green flecks in their eyes. ]
Shen...
[ liu qingge doesn't, he doesn't believe it.
he tastes blood in his mouth, his throat. even then, he shifts his arm, his hand (trembling, overstimulated, empty) comes to grab for the hand that rest against it. thin fingers. pale hands.
just before he lets go of whatever consciousness he has been holding onto, he whispers: ]
Shen Qingqiu?
no subject
Date: 2020-10-14 05:12 am (UTC)He looks nothing like the way he does in my dreams, he thinks as he stares at that peerlessly beautiful face.
In the dreams he's had every night since reemerging from his coma, Liu Qingge is just...a collection of distinctive features, like all the rest of the people who haunt his delusions. A ponytail, a face like a pretty woman's, a beauty mark, a blazing white sword. He's never been able to recapture the honed strength emanating from his core, the steadiness of his presence, the blaze of determination in those eyes.
The man before him has none of those things. He seems shaken, disturbed in a way Shen Yuan has never imagined he could be. And yet those storm grey eyes crackle with energy, with life that has never been present in any of his delusions.
Don't say it, he thinks. Don't say it. If you say it, you make this real, and it can't possibly be. And yet his traitorous mouth opens anyway.]
Liu...Qingge...?
[And then. The man before him opens his own mouth and says an impossible name. A name belonging to a person that doesn't exist in this world, that can't exist in this world. A name belonging to a person who looks nothing like Shen Yuan.]
H-how did you...?
[And then! And then!! The man faints into his arms! Like a swooning maiden! The invincible war god of Bai Zhan just collapses into his arms like a frail damsel!]
Liu Qingge!
[Hey! Isn't there something wrong with this scenario?! Shouldn't Shen Yuan be the one fainting here, ah?! He's the one questioning his own sanity! He's the one fresh from a six month coma! He's the one with the weak arms who definitely can't carry around a six-foot tall slab of pure muscle!
Shen Yuan stares down at the blood coming from Liu Qingge's mouth, then glares at the crowd of spectators gathering around them.]
Okay, that's enough! Back off and go back to your own lives!
[He wraps his arms around Liu Qingge's waist and attempts to start dragging him to somewhere more isolated. Given that Shen Yuan hadn't exactly been the epitome of physical strength even before spending six months wasting away in bed, they move about...an inch.]
no subject
Date: 2020-10-14 10:46 pm (UTC)In his dream, Liu Qingge reaches out, catches his hand. Shen Qingqiu's hands are small, and cool, and narrow.
His eyes flutter open. The myriad of lights shine too bright in his eyes and Liu Qingge turns his head weakly; where is he? Has Mu Qingfang lit too many lanterns again to pore over ancient copies of medical books again? Why is he lying here?
Where is he?
A siren sounds in the distance, and to Liu Qingge it sounds like a distant screech of a Lion-Eagle, and he struggles, pushing at what he thinks are some restraints. Just let him- He needs to-
He remembers; fragmented sights he had never seen, people in strange clothes, the carriages, the -
The bright, wide open eyes, on him. ]
...
[ Liu Qingge has a hand wrapped around the other's arm, what he thought had been some kind of bunched up cloth around him.
A little shakily, he loosens his grip. ]
Shen Qingqiu, [ He says again, for the lack of better things to say. His head is a mess. ]
no subject
Date: 2020-10-15 03:06 am (UTC)But there's another part of him, forgotten and dormant until this moment, that's stretching itself out like a predator after a long sleep. It's a part of him that he's realizing now never woke up when he did, a missing piece of himself that's finally found its way back.
It says, stop wasting time being a such a goddamn moron. Whether this is real or not doesn't matter - accept that it's happening anyway and fucking deal with it. You can panic later - right now, you need to act.
In a daze, his hand slowly comes up and uses the bandages to wipe the blood off of his shidi's mouth.]
Don't freak out too much, you'll just make things worse. [He exhales shakily, tries for a smile.] How did the war god of Bai Zhan land himself in such a state, hm?
[It's yet another question on top of what's already a mountain of them. The blood over Liu Qingge's chest and on his mouth reminds him too much of a vision he once had, a nightmare within a dream. He swallows, breathes, tries to remember what it had once felt like to keep outwardly calm in a sea of bewilderment. Whatever he's feeling now, Liu Qingge must have it ten times worse - he needs to keep it together for at least a little bit longer.]
Can you move? My apartment isn't too far from here.
no subject
Date: 2020-10-15 01:13 pm (UTC)Because he couldn't be! There was no way this scrawny man, looking half scared out of his wits, could be the elegant Peak Lord of Qing Jing. He is dressed in shabby clothes, his hair is a mess that falls into his eyes, he is pale and sickly and all of the things that Shen Qingqiu is most decidedly not. They would say, Liu-shidi, you are being delusional. Liu-shidi, you've lost your mind.
But Liu Qingge does not let go. He feels the other raise his free hand, feels the careful, gentle press of the bandage, and something encased within the closure of his ribs shiver and shake as when a hot melted glass dunked into cold water would form hairline cracks. Something in him, the part that cares not about the looks, about the statue, about anything else apart from the cool, clear light that comes off from that gaze, recognises him.
It is him. And if he hadn't been sure before, he is now - hearing the shaky exhale of breath, Liu Qingge realises that he had been just as shaken by the encounter, as well.
With a sigh that can't be disappointment nor relief, Liu Qingge closes his eyes, then opens them again. ]
Yes.