Work Text:
ě̷͕͇͌́̚
p̴̢̢͖̲̲̹̰̓̽͜l̷̢̧̖͇͖̘͕̹̐́̀̋͋̌̔͜ -̶̰͂ -̴̢̛̠͉̏̓̈́͝
-̷̯̬͕̠̎̋̌̿ -̵͙̬͔̍͊̓́̀̒
m̴̢̤͚͎̝̓̾͗͜ỵ̷̨̫̺͉̝̭̇̍ ̸͇̮̟̯͒̇͜͝k̷͖͇͔͙̼͇͠i̸̝̊̑̇̆͝n̴̩̮̒͛̆̏̈́͑͠g̸͓̙͙̖̻̗̙͎̓̊͐̔̋̒̚
m̴̢̤͚͎̝̓̾͗͜ẏ̷ ̸͇̮̟̯͒̇͜͝k̷͖͠i̸̊̑n̴̒͛̆̏͠g̸̓̊͐̔
̵̡̯̫̞̯̫̟͔̠͐-̷̰̯͕̍͑̐͑̈͘͝
̷̡̠̣̦̲̱̈́̊͋-̵̄̈̅̈̓ ̷̛̬̘͉̻̭̝͎̎̃̂̅̋̃͆͛ͅ
̷̛̬̘͉̻̭̝͎̎̃̂̅̋̃͆͛ͅ
Shang Qinghua feels weird.
Part of it is that he knows this isn’t his bed - the one in the Northern Palace is colder and the one in An Ding Peak is harder. He’s not complaining about luxury; it’s just not his.
He tries to remember where he is and it makes his head hurt a bit. Failing that, he tries to remember where he was and that hurts even more but he does get a flicker of memory. They’d been harvesting the stormaline, the array had failed. Shang Qinghua had felt blood filling his lungs and his king-
His king!
He jolts with his entire body; it’s a brave attempt to sit upright. His joints rebel instantly with a chorus of aches. His shoulder is still injured, then. Shang Qinghua groans, only half giving into the urge to slump back against the sheets. The other half argues with a pair of hands gently pressing against his chest.
“Don’t sit up,” Shen Qingqiu orders, rushing to press him back down.
Shang Qinghua bats him off and sits up anyway, even though it makes his organs writhe.
“Mobei-jun.” The name falls from his lips on his first breath.
“Airplane, calm down-”
“Is he alright?”
“I think you need-
“Where is he?”
“Just wait a momen-”
“Is he even alive?” Shang Qinghua’s throat closes over the last word, hoarse like he’s been screaming. He’s not sure he can take knowing but the question had been wrenched from him, desperate.
“Breathe,” Shen Qingqiu says firmly. “Mobei-jun is alive. He’s resting across the hall. We brought you back to the Underground Palace.”
The hot knot of tears in Shang Qinghua’s throat loosens its chokehold, and he inhales shakily. Shen Qingqiu’s eyes weigh on him but for once, he’s not saying anything, uncharacteristically twitchy as he wrings his fan between his hands.
“Airplane,” Shen Qingqiu starts cautiously. “Do you… Remember what happened?”
Shang Qinghua presses a hand over his eyes; remembering makes his head hurt but the shivering pain has eased away from his heart somewhat. His king is alive. Mobei-jun lives.
“The array…” he starts uncertainly. What did happen? Remembering hurts, it hurts -- “It failed, you- You! What the hell were you doing?”
His voice is barely above a whisper but he starts shaking as the confusion bleeds into anger. Shen Qingqiu himself had said the array wasn’t difficult; the fact that he’s managed to be less delicate than Shang Qinghua at anything is shocking, but for something this big? Shang Qinghua feels like raw gasoline; he’s going to ignite any second.
Shen Qingqiu flicks his fan shut, folding it crisply into his lap. “It was an accident,” he says carefully, and Shang Qinghua thinks any second now. “I didn’t know the fallout would be so catastrophic.”
A scoff leaps out of Shang Qinghua’s mouth, wholly unbidden. “You didn’t know? You? ” When Shenq Qingqiu doesn’t respond, he yanks the sheets aside to swing his legs out of the bed. “Where’s Mobei-jun?”
His arm crumples when he tries to stand up, the damaged shoulder abruptly making itself known as Shang Qinghua topples sideways, very nearly buckling to the floor. Shen Qingqiu darts forward to catch him but Shang Qinghua smacks his hands away.
“Airplane, you’re injured!” Shen Qingqiu snaps. “Mobei-jun is fine, he’s just- He’s resting.”
The way his voice trips over the verb, unsure, drives a shard of hysteria up Shang Qinguhua’s windpipe. “Just resting?! He fucking died, Cucumber-bro! I saw it! He-”
It’s like he can’t say anymore; the words dry up in his mouth. Better that he doesn’t speak them aloud. He doesn’t want to remember. Even the aborted sentence seems like he’s given away too much though; Shen Qingqiu’s eyes narrow searchingly.
“So you do remember?”
“Remember what?” Shang Qinghua grumbles defensively. “You said he was resting, so he’s just fine, right?”
Shen Qingqiu has questions but he doesn’t have answers, none that will satisfy anyway. Mobei-jun dying… It went against everything he knew to be true of this world. Mobei-jun doesn’t die - he’s too powerful. Mobei-jun lives. Shang Qinghua had made it so; that was what he wrote.
“Do you know what you did?” Shen Qingqiu asks coolly. His tone is betrayed by the keen way he eyes Shang Qinghua over the brim of his fan, freshly raised in defense.
Does he? Remembering hurts -- Shang Qinghua has a vague impression of thinking no, singular, definitive, and the word appearing under his fingertips, more sensory than detail.
“I- I think- I don’t know, Cucumber. It just- Mobei-jun he… He can’t die, he- I won’t let him.”
This, too, feels like a fundamental truth; Shang Qinghua pledged his life. Without Mobei-jun, he doesn’t have one. Maybe that’s co-dependent or unhealthy, but who cares? There’s worse things in this world; he knows. He wrote them. Shang Qinghua ignores the painful protest of his shoulder as he digs his fingers into the bedding. It’s grounding but it doesn’t quell the fury rising in his heart.
“Airplane,” Shen Qingqiu‘s voice is serious enough to make him look up. “I don’t know how else to tell you this, so I’m just going to say it. You rewrote the story.”
Shang Qinghua’s fingers loosen immediately, the surprise knocking his anger off course. “What…?”
“I have no idea how,” Shen Qingqiu continues, and fuck. Does he sound scared? Of Shang Qinghua?! “But I saw it. You typed it out and it happened. Even Binghe was affected.”
Well that explains the fear; Shen Qingqiu’s precious protagonist had been at risk, but still…
That doesn’t sound right -- Shang Qinghua hadn’t changed anything, had he? Mobei-jun was meant to live. He had to live. That was just… How he wrote it. That wasn’t changing anything, surely?
There’s no way to argue without knowing, so Shang Qinghua elects to stay quiet. It’s unnerving enough that Shen Qingqiu shuffles in his seat, an uncharacteristically twitchy action for him, and resorts back to hiding behind his fan like a coward.
Eventually, he asks, “Are you alright?”
“I’m-” What’s Shang Qinghua even meant to say to that? No, he’s not alright! He witnessed his favourite person dying and then somehow it hadn’t happened at all! The feeling twists him from the inside until the truth pops out. “I’m angry with you.”
Clearly it’s not what Shen Qingqiu was expecting him to say; the frivolous fanning stops dead.
“That array was dangerous and you knew what would happen if it went wrong. What did you even want with that much Stormaline, anyway?” Shang Qinghua cries in frustration and pushes himself to his feet. He wobbles violently, but when Shen Qingqiu makes an aborted move towards him, Shang Qinghua rips away out of reach, knocking into the side table before he can steady himself against the wall.
In retrospect, Shang Qinghua hadn’t even thought to ask why they were on the mission; Luo Binghe says jump and everyone has to say ‘how high?’ on pain of death.
Shen Qingqiu flutters his fan, eyes darting off somewhere to the side. “It’s an incredibly rare material, we didn’t think there would be another opportunity to harvest it. And the way you wrote it… You made it sound so pretty, so I asked to come along and see it.”
“That- You… That’s it??” Shang Qinghua feels a bile of vitriol swelling beneath his tongue, hot and caustic as his voice rises. The reason seems so painfully banal, he can’t quite align the desire with what it had cost. “Because you thought it was pretty?!”
Shen Qingqiu has a thicker face than people think; that’s the only explanation for how he actually has the gall to shoot Shang Qinghua an annoyed look when he raises his voice. “It wasn’t just that! Airplane, seriously, if you just-”
“You are so fucking selfish,” Shang Qinghua spits at him suddenly, and Shen Qingqiu’s jaw goes slack. Whatever he was about to say seemed to have been knocked right out of his mouth. “You marry the OP protagonist that I made, so you just get everything you want! It doesn’t matter what other people have to give up for you, is that it? Truly peerless, Cucumber-bro, you’re right! Fuck the rest of us!”
Something like guilt wars over Shen Qingqiu’s features, but he raises his fan like a shield, eyes hardening defensively as he barks out, “Beida!”
Shang Qinghua grits his teeth, tasting metal. “Shen Yuan!”
“Shizun?” Both transmigrators' heads whip towards the voice; Luo Binghe is standing framed in the doorway, the light of the hall spilling around him like a real halo. He’s looking between the two of them with varying degrees of unhappiness before his gaze ultimately settles on Shen Qingqiu. “What did he do?”
Shang Qinghua bites his hysterical laugh in half. How typical -- Shen Qingqiu before anyone else. Luo Binghe before anyone else. If he could unwrite that, he would. If he can rewrite-
He stamps down on the volatile urge as Luo Binghe makes his way over to his husband.
“Nothing, Binghe, everything is fine,” Shen Qingqiu sounds softer but there’s a note of steel in his voice. Normally this would spell a death sentence but it’s not like they can top that at the moment.
“Shang-shidi,” he pauses, eyes darting to Luo Binghe, and then switches to English. “Did the System do anything at that time? Did you receive any updates before the mission?”
“No,” Shang Qinghua says mullishly. Both of them ignore the searching look Luo Binghe is throwing between them. “And even if I did, I don’t think it can do what you described. It doesn’t work like that.”
“But you did something,” Shen Qingqiu presses. When Shang Qinghua makes a frustrated noise, he switches back to Chinese to say quietly, “Please, Shang-shidi, we just want to check that you’re alright.”
Shang Qinghua snorts. “Like you even care.”
Shen Qinqiu’s mouth twists fleetingly with a rare emotion. His hand rears back, poised to smack him with the fan. Without thinking, Shang Qinghua snatches the damn thing out of his grip and lobs it across the room. The sound of it clattering into a corner is shockingly brittle. Before he can blink, a hand is closing around Shang Qinghua’s wrist, twisting his arm up behind his back so hard the bones creak, shoulder spiking with pain.
“You will not,” Luo Binghe says quietly, directly into his ear, “treat shizhun with such disrespect. Apologise.”
He hikes Shang Qinghua’s arm a little higher up his back, the pressure eye-watering. Any other time, Shang Qinghua would have apologies pouring from his lips. But not now; not after they nearly got his king killed. Had gotten his king killed, until Shang Qinghua rewrote his own universe. The pulse of the world he created vibrates around him, his own personal frequency, and it makes him feel reckless and powerful.
“Get him off me,” Shang Qinghua growls out in English, glaring directly at Shen Qingqiu. “Or I will unmake him.”
It’s horrifying, the satisfaction he feels when Shen Qingqiu’s eyes widen, going shiny and strained with animal fear. Good. Now he knows how Shang Qinghua had felt.
“It’s alright, Binghe,” Shen Qingqiu commands, though his voice is shaking. “Let him go.”
The grip on Shang Qinghua’s grip loosens from bone-cracking to blood-choking but it doesn’t relent.
“But shizun-”
“Now!”
Luo Binghe releases Shang Qinghua’s arm like he’s been scalded, even taking a full step back from him. But it’s the way Shen Qingqiu’s voice cracks that sends a gut-dropping wave of guilt through Shang Qinghua as he rolls his sore shoulder. He was relying on Cucumber-bro not calling his bluff when his precious protagonist was at stake; Shang Qinghua doesn’t know if he can access World Building anymore, but it’s an effective threat all the same.
Still, it feels like a punch to the chest when Shen Qingqiu’s shaking hand finds Luo Binghe’s and squeezes tightly - Shang Qinghua knows that fear. He can’t quite remember why he’d wanted to inflict it on someone else.
“I see I’ve arrived at the right time,” someone calls from the doorway.
Shang Qinghua barely cares for the new interruption, so it’s only recognition that has him turning his head as Mu Qingfang glides into the room. He looks faintly disappointed with all of them, which would be gutting on another day. Now, Shang Qinghua’s just tired; he takes a dragging step over to the bed in time to sink heavily onto it.
“I trust you’re not harming my patient,” Mu Qingfang says airily as he passes Luo Binghe. He’s probably one of the few people aside from Shen Qingqiu who can get away with such a tone; the sharp look Luo Binghe shoots at him goes completely ignored.
“He was threatening shizun,” Luo Binghe replies petulantly.
“In this state?” Mu Qingfang doesn’t even turn to see the Emperor’s reaction. Instead he rights the upturned chair and settles in front of Shang Qinghua, gently taking one of his wrists. In a far gentler tone, Mu Qingfang asks, “How are you feeling, Shang-shidi?”
It’s far from the question Shen Qingqiu had asked him, but Shang Qinghua finds his answers are the same; he’s angry, he’s exhausted, he’s desperate to see his king and for once , he just wants everyone to leave him alone.
What comes out of his mouth is, “Fine. Kind of tired.”
Mu Qingfang eyes him at the mechanical response, probably because Shang Qinghua doesn’t answer anything in less than twenty words, but other people’s expectations aren’t his problem today.
“Your meridians were severely depleted and you suffered a broken shoulder,” Mu Qingfang explains in his cool healer’s voice. “Both me and Shen-shixiong have passed you some spiritual energy to aid recovery, but you should avoid using that arm until it’s fully healed. You’ll also need plenty of rest to replenish your core.”
Shang Qinghua is a little surprised to hear that Shen Qingqiu had provided spiritual energy, considering he has a determinedly finite amount thanks to the poison. The news must have surprised Luo Binghe as well because he blinks at his husband, expression blank.
“Thank you,” Shang Qinghua mutters, not meeting anyone’s gaze. He doesn’t even wince as Mu Qingfang tests the mobility of his shoulder with an approving nod.
“Shang-shidi,” he calls after Shang Qinghua’s hands are placed back in his lap. “Is there anything else you’re feeling that you think I should be aware of?” A beat. “Are there any foreign energies in your body that could affect your state?”
‘State’ is a liberal term, one that feels deliberate in the wake of things - it doesn’t feel like Mu Qingfang is asking after his health. Still, Shang Qinghua lazily focuses on circulating his qi, mindful of Luo Binghe and Shen Qingqiu hovering in the background. He crushes his reaction as his spiritual energy slides over something, skipping like a stone over water -- there’s something sitting on the edge of his core, hazy and gossamer thin but there.
“No,” Shang Qinghua says, aiming to sound somewhere between firm and unsure. He doesn’t dare look up at the pair watching him over Mu Qingfang’s shoulder. “Just worn out.”
It’s not an act when he lets his posture slump; exhaustion feels like it’s painting every part of his body and further to stain his mind. He just wants to sleep. He wants his king.
Mu Qingfang gives him a slow blink but nods as he makes a gesture at the door. A servant scurries in with a tea set, one Shang Qinghua doesn’t recognise, so they must be Luo Binghe’s. They keep their eyes lowered the whole time, before hastily handing Mu Qingfang a freshly brewed cup.
“Drink this,” the peak lord instructs, holding it out like an offering. When Shang Qinghua eyes it, he adds, “It will help with the pain so you can sleep.”
The only reason Shang Qinghua drinks it is because it had been prepared in front of him. He can feel Luo Binghe’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t think his OP son would slip anything dodgy in the teapot if Shang Qinghua was to drink it in front of them, too, so he knocks the whole cup back like a shot, ignoring how the too hot water burns his esophagus. Mu Qingfang purses his lips, but he silently helps Shang Qinghua arrange himself back in bed so he’s not leaning too hard on his shoulder.
With a short word about checking on him later, the peak lord sweeps out of the room, barely pausing to give Luo Binghe a perfunctory bow. It takes a breath for the tension to start creeping into the silence like rot; without his fan, Shen Qingqiu doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. He twists his fingers slowly until Luo Binghe reaches out and laces them with his. Must be so nice for them.
Shang Qinghua is tempted to roll over, letting his back and his stony silence do the talking for him. Shen Qingqiu beats him before he can.
“Shang-shidi,” he calls, voice quiet. “I’m… I am sorry. I didn’t mean for-”
He cuts off when Shang Qinghua lifts his good arm to cover his eyes. He doesn’t want to look at these people right now.
“Is there anything I can do?” Shen Qingqiu asks, and for whatever reason, the question digs in like a splinter. Shang Qinghua doesn’t give him the luxury of absolving himself. He feels hollowed out, in a way that can only be achieved with devastation.
“Please just-” Shang Qinghua’s voice cracks horribly, but he swallows the sob coiling in his throat. “Go away. I’m sick of you.”
He feels a flicker of demonic energy lick at him, but he can’t bring himself to care. It’s silent for a drawn out moment before there’s a shuffle of robes leaving the room.
The door has only just closed when he hears Luo Binghe outside ask, “Shizun, did Shang-shishu call you... Shen Yuan?”
A small part of him twinges guiltily; that’s a conversation Shen Qingqiu has avoided for decades. But a bigger part of him feels a vindictive little stab of satisfaction. It feels like the least amount of penance he can endure considering he’d gotten the most important person in Shang Qinghua’s life eviscerated.
A conversation for a king.
It’s the least amount.
＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ❄ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊
The tea must have knocked him out to heal; his shoulder is significantly less sore when Shang Qinghua wakes a day later. It hasn’t done much for the wound on his heart though, which aches like an old injury in the rain. Shen Qingqiu had said that Mobei-jun was just one room across the hall, but the distance could be a continent for how easy it is to cross. Shang Qinghua doesn’t actually know what state his king is in, and he’s too scared to find out.
The fear ushers in a bite of frustration, and Shang Qinghua fiercely scolds the cowardice that had saved his life so many times in the past. A sharp prick in his clenched fists interrupts the festering emotion. Shang Qinghua gracelessly jerks halfway upright to see-- there, nestled in his palm like a grenade, is a thin shard of stormaline.
For a second, he just stares at it. The system really did a good job with this element - it’s strangely holographic, refracting an entire spectrum of colour even whilst static, like the light is shifting around beneath the hard shell, alive and wild. Shang Qinghua carefully nudges outward with his qi and-
Ah.
The sensation is like water moving beneath his skin; all the shades of strange, new power he’d felt earlier swim towards the shard like hungry sharks. His palm prickles where the stormaline rests. It becomes an exercise in resistance then. Shang Qinghua pulls and prods and presses the funny thread of energy, feeling how it bends and where it breaks. The shard of stormaline feels akin to a battery - when he drops it on the bed, the buzz of power behind his core fades into the background, dormant but there.
Writing magic in PIDW had been a lot of hand-waving and reliance on rules of popular media - you can’t make something out of nothing (with exceptions when it was narratively convenient, since Shang Qinghua had been running on noodles and energy drinks), you can’t wish for more wishes, and you can’t cross the streams . He knows there’s some logic to what he’s experiencing; that a godly power would be invigorated by contact with an element such as this, since Shang Qinghua had written stormaline as solid energy. Lightning came from the heavens, after all. The power of the gods themselves.
He tucks the shard into his robes, hidden against his breast, and not a moment too soon as Mu Qingfang steps through the door in a sweep of robes.
“Oh good, you’re awake,” he announces blandly, and then performs the same check up as before.
It doesn’t escape Shang Qinghua’s notice that Luo Binghe and Shen Qingqiu are markedly absent from his assessment, but he’s grateful to only face scrutiny of the medical kind when he’s feeling this frayed and raw.
“You’re recovering well,” Mu Qingfang observes. “I still recommend bed rest, but you’re fine to be mobile. Nothing too strenuous until your meridians are replenished.”
Shang Qinghua nods mechanically and accepts a pouch of tea blend to take home with him. With the clearance to get up, and with the twinge of power fresh in his joints, it’s suddenly unbearable to sit. He throws on a pair of plain robes left by his bed and shoves his hair up with a single ribbon, uncaring if it’s messy. He’s always messy, he just needs to do something. Except that getting ready doesn’t scratch the itch of restlessness. Shang Qinghua stubbornly pretends it does right up until he finds himself stepping out into the hallway and striding up to the next room.
He gets as far as raising his fist to knock when he pauses. Mobei-jun is on the other side of this door. Mobei-jun, who Shang Qinghua had watched die. His hand shakes where it’s poised in the air. The thing is, Shang Qinghua knows that Mobei-jun is probably lying in his bed, peacefully sleeping -- Mobei-jun, who he had, impossibly, made alive. Shang Qinghua also knows he’s very good at denial. Practically a pro by this point, in fact!
The two truths exist simultaneously, but it doesn’t stop the horrible what if from rising in Shang Qinghua’s throat like a stranglehold. He stands there for longer than he’s proud of, feeling a dull wash of anger at Shen Qingqiu, at Luo Binghe, even a little at his king for reducing him to this sorry state of purgatory; he can realign the universe yet he can’t knock on a stupid door. Most of all, Shang Qinghua feels a suffocating frustration with himself.
The what if punching up his esophagus becomes if only, and he feels increasingly bitter with every one he tastes:
If only I was stronger.
If only I was braver.
If only I was worthy to stand by Mobei-jun’s side.
Shang Qinghua drops his hand, pressing his forehead to the door with a defeated sigh. He knows he’s not going to knock. Instead, he reaches out with his qi delicately, just enough to brush against the faint shimmer of Mobei-jun’s demonic energy, confirming he’s there, he’s alive.
It thrums against his qi, steady and sure, and Shang Qinghua withdraws, still frustrated but somewhat mollified.
Mobei-jun lives.
＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ❄ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊
It’s not that often that Shang Qinghua gets to come to the underground palace.
Since Shen Qingqiu and Luo Binghe are apparently honeymooning indefinitely (something that seats all of their responsibilities squarely on Shang Qinghua’s shoulders, thanks), it’s mostly used for formal conferences and banquets, or any other time Luo Binghe wants to flex his authority as the Emperor.
The grounds are pretty - and pleasantly warm - but Shang Qinghua by far favours the cool, glistening decor of the Northern Desert Palace. Call it favouritism, because that’s exactly what it is. Still, walking through the marbled archways provides some reprieve to the scraping agitation he’d felt back in his room. As well as wanting to escape the claustrophobia of his room, he just wants to be away from Shen Qingqiu and Luo Binghe. It’s bad enough that their weird, obsessive relationship had led to… What had happened on the mission, but Shang Qinghua doesn’t think he can take them looming around him, nudging for information whilst barely demonstrating any repentance.
His rapid wandering brings him to an elegant promenade of trees overlooking a stretch of water, tastefully lined with marble pillars and stone statues, carved through with golden detailing. It’s probably gold leaf application, though Shang Qinghua tends to favour silver these days, since it reminds him of his king. The price of just one of them could probably feed a small city for a year; they hadn’t been here at Shang Qinghua’s last visit, though he does vaguely remember Shen Qingqiu commenting that he enjoyed such architecture. Naturally, Luo Binghe appears to have procured it for him.
It makes a small stab of bitterness twist Shang Qinghua’s mouth. He doesn’t often feel so sour over his status in the world he’d created, though that’s more out of resignation than acceptance. But the memory of Mobei-jun lying face down in the snow and absent stains the pillars into just one more example of the selfishness of someone he’d thought to call friend.
Shang Qinghua drags a long breath in, attempting to cool his mutinous thoughts; it’s not going to change anything. Mobei-jun lives. He should just let it go.
When he tries to do just that, picking at the tangled knot of misery choking his heart, the dim fizz of power behind his core spins, just once, and something flickers in his periphery. Shang Qinghua blinks. The gold detailing on one of the stone statues has unmistakably turned silver.
He blinks at it again, uncomprehending for several seconds as the power sinks back beneath his skin.
Well.
Well then.
Whatever this new ability is, it seems random and less than useful, and as such, Shang Qinghua is not going to say a damn thing about it to anyone. Not even his king! Probably!! If Mobei-jun even thinks to ask; Shang Qinghua hasn’t thought about whether or not Mobei-jun remembers what happened on the mission, which is only now starting to seem like a huge oversight on his part.
What if his king remembers? What does he even say? And what if Mobei-jun remembers nothing? Shang Qinghua doesn’t think he’s a particularly good liar, and especially not where the ice demon is concerned; most of his success in espionage came from everyone simply underestimating him.
A spike of demonic energy flickers over him, distinctly hostile in nature, making his skin prickle and jolting him out of his reverie. He whirls around to see Luo Binghe sliding out from behind one of the marble pillars. He looks remarkably unconcerned at the sudden encounter, sauntering over to Shang Qinghua with the kind of arrogance you can only get from a protagonist’s halo. It’s almost like he was waiting for the cultivator.
Shang Qinghua curses himself internally; of course Luo Binghe would be keeping an eye on him after what had happened.
He’s not so foolish as to think that Luo Binghe would fear him after such a display of power. After all, why should he? Anything he’s battled, he’s won, and Shang Qinghua doesn’t have any grasp on this thin new power to unwrite that.
“Shang-shisu must be feeling better, to be wandering this far out of the palace,” Luo Binghe comments airily, even as his red eyes glint with focus.
He’s dangerous; Shang Qinghua doesn’t have any compunctions about Luo Binghe hesitating to kill him, so he deals with him the way he deals with most dangers -- Shang Qinghua dons a safe smile and hopes it doesn’t look too much like a wince.
“Much better, thank you. This Lord is grateful for Junshang's hospitality.”
Flattery will get you everywhere, except when you’re talking to your bent protagonist son, it seems like.
“Shizun was rather distressed after we left you to rest,” Luo Binghe continues, scraping one nail lightly down the side of the pillar. It splinters horribly under his touch. “This Lord is curious, what exactly it is that you said to him, since it was in a language This Lord does not speak.”
He fixes Shang Qinghua with a smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. It has the cultivator involuntarily falling back a step, instantly nullified as Luo Binghe takes a step forward, and then another, until he’s towering over Shang Qinghua, killing intent rising like a wave.
“You often send Shizun letters in foreign hand,” Luo Binghe continues, all pretense of pleasantry dropped from his voice. “For years. Has Shang-shishu been threatening this Lord’s husband under his nose?”
“I- What?!” Shang Qinghua stumbles back, more out of surprise than fear, even though terror is kicking up in his blood with the wave of killing intent rolling over him. “ No! I haven’t, we- It’s nothing like that!”
“Shizun won’t tell This Lord of it,” Luo Binghe hums, taking another step forward that forces Shang Qinghua to scuttle back once more. “I cannot help but wonder what made him so scared that he won’t talk to his husband about it.”
Okay, Shang Qinghua is starting to feel bad about threatening to dissolve his friend’s husband, now that he’s faced with said husband who is visibly pissed and clearly harbours no qualms about smearing him across the courtyard.
“And then there’s the matter of the stormaline.”
It’s pure primal instinct that has Shang Qinghua freezing instead of reaching up to press a hand against the shard hidden beneath his robes. There’s no possible way Luo Binghe could have known-
“You did something on the mission,” Luo Binghe states, almost a growl. “Tell me what power you unleashed.”
“I-” Shang Qinghua doesn’t even have words for it himself. Even if he did, he’s smart enough not to blab; that would be signing his own death warrant. “I don’t know what you’re talking about! This Lord’s cultivation isn’t even that strong! Truly, in comparison to junshang’s power-”
A hand shoots out and grabs his wrist, so fast that Shang Qinghua doesn’t even see it before he feels the pressure bending his bones. He yelps, tugging against the steel grip reflexively. It’s useless; Luo Binghe outmatches him more than tenfold in sheer brute strength.
“You’re hiding something,” Luo Binghe says in a low voice. He narrows his eyes, the red flashing vengefully under the fold of his brow. “You will tell me, Shang-shishu.”
The fingers around Shang Qinghua’s wrist tighten painfully, the bones creaking faintly. The cultivator spares a brief thanks that it’s not his injured arm before the sourness creeps in; why should he tell this arrogant protagonist anything? Who is he to make demands of his maker?
A frisson of power flexes weakly in his veins. Fleetingly, Shang Qinghua feels tempted to test how far it stretches. It’s petty and reckless, and for once, Shang Qinghua doesn’t give in to those urges.
“Let go of me,” he says as steadily as he can manage. He still sounds a bit meek when he belatedly adds, “Please?”
Petulantly, Luo Binghe squeezes his wrist like a vice. His claws nick the skin, just barely, but the threat is mountainous as he leans in, looming whilst Shang Qinghua tries not to cower too much.
The next question is hissed. “What are you?”
Shang Qinghua ignores the dull pulse of power trying to make itself known under his skin -- he’s always thrived on being underestimated. Still, his barely tempered fear is genuine as he breathes out, “I’m a Peak Lord, same as Shen-shixiong.”
“You are nothing like shizun,” Luo Binghe growls, and ah- That was a misstep on Shang Qinghua’s part, and he finally gives into the instinct to yank against the hold. Luo Binghe, doesn’t budge, opening his mouth to say something-
“Binghe!”
Shang Qinghua’s shoulder aches all the way up to his neck with how fast his head whips around. Across the small courtyard, Shen Qingqiu is staring at them in shock, fast creeping into vague horror as his eyes drop to the unyielding hold on Shang Qinghua’s wrist.
Beside him stands Mobei-jun.
The sight of him steals the air from Shang Qinghua’s lungs; he looks completely, unbearably alive, dressed in plain dark robes with his hair loosely braided down one shoulder. He’s the most wonderful thing Shang Qinghua’s ever seen because he’s here. He’s alive.
“Junshang,” Mobei-jun greets with a rumble, but his eyes travel down to where Luo Binghe’s fingers still squeeze Shang Qinghua’s arm.
It’s the closest thing to an order Shang Qinghua has witnessed him give the Heavenly Emperor, and it works. Sort of -- Luo Binghe’s grip loosens enough that his claws are no longer cutting into Shang Qinghua’s pulse.
He snatches his hand away as soon as Shen Qingqiu takes a step towards them. To his credit, Shen Qingqiu looks appropriately appalled; it makes a warm dose of gratitude tug behind Shang Qinghua’s gut before he remembers that he’s still annoyed at his friend.
“Binghe,” Shen Qingqiu remains the epitome of calm, even as his eyes flick towards where Shang Qinghua rubs his aching wrist. It’s almost scarier that he’s not shouting. “Did this shizun not tell you to stay away from Shang-shidi until he was well again?”
Luo Binghe drops his head so fast, it’s incredible that he doesn’t pull a muscle in his neck. “Shizun, this disciple was merely escorting Shang-shishu back to his room.”
“Is that true?”
A beat passes before Shang Qinghua realises that Shen Qingqiu is addressing him, and then another to lament that he really, really does not want to slide even a single word in between his friend’s marriage.
“I uh- Yes, I was on my way back,” Shang Qinghua supplies tactfully.
Shen Qingqiu narrows his eyes, unconvinced, which is fair; Shang Qinghua shouldn’t have attempted elusiveness on a man who’s entire personality is characterised by saying vague things in a reassuring tone.
“Mu-shixiong says that you should try to rest until your meridians are replenished, but you’re otherwise fine to return to your station,” Shen Qingqiu says in an aggressively neutral voice.
Shang Qinghua blinks at him. “Umm, yeah. Yes. Right... “ He searches for something to say that befits the quasi-animose strain on their friendship, landing on, “Thank you for the spare robes.”
It earns him an assessing blink from Shen Qingqiu, though his shoulders relax a fraction. Shang Qinghua struggles to imagine why he’d be tense at all, considering how he has Luo Binghe wrapped around his finger, but the Qing Jing Peak Lord blinks at him again and he realises; Shen Qingqiu has assessed the two of them - Shang Qinghua in his borrowed robes and skittish demeanour, and Luo Binghe in his regality and unmatchable power - and deemed Shang Qinghua the danger.
That was, frankly, hilarious.
Shang Qinghua can feel a suitable laugh bubbling up his chest, the hysterical kind that he’d really prefer not to unleash in front of this group. Luo Binghe carefully recaptures Shen Qingqiu’s attention, gently latching on to one of his green silk sleeves.
“Shizun-”
“Come along, Binghe,” Shen Qingqiu sighs, tearing his reproachful gaze away from Shang Qinghua. “I believe our guests have some matters to discuss.”
He spares one last side-eye, half concealed by a new fan, before sweeping away from the courtyard in a flourish of jade green robes, Luo Binge securely in tow.
They’re disappearing around the corner just as Luo Binghe asks in a tragic voice, “Shizun, are you mad at me?”
That just leaves Shang Qinghua in the small courtyard, standing across from his king and looking anywhere but. It only takes a moment before the sound of heavy boots approaches him and a shadow looms over his shrinking form.
“Shang Qinghua,” Mobei-jun calls, his voice sounding so much richer now he’s closed the distance.
“My king…” Shang Qinghua replies helplessly, more reflex than anything.
Seemingly unsatisfied, Mobei-jun takes another step towards the cultivator. It puts him squarely in Shang Qinghua’s space, enough to feel the coolness of the air that always surrounds him. “Consort Shen said that you were injured.”
It’s difficult to look at him so Shang Qinghua’s reply is directed at his feet. “Ah, that’s- I mean, I was, my king, but nothing too bad! I’ve had far worse injuries from your beatings than a sore shoulder, so really it’s- This servant is healing just fine!” Mobei-jun’s frown is audible, so he hastens to add, “Please don’t worry about it, my king! I’ll be all healed by the time we return to the Northern Palace. I won’t affect my duties in any way.”
“I’m not worried,” Mobei-jun says gruffly, because of course - why would the Lord of the Northern Desert worry about one measly human who doesn’t even have strong cultivation. Then, because he’ll never let Shang Qinghua escape in any way, not even with some small self-pity, he commands, “Look at me.”
Shang Qinghua looks, unable to defy a direct order. He belatedly wishes he’d breathed first; the sight of Mobei-jun steals the air from his lungs. He’s still built tall and strong, not crumpled like the last time Shang Qinghua had seen him. Still handsome, his severe expression only sharpening the sculpted features. And more than anything, he’s still wholly, gloriously alive.
“My king…” Shang Qinghua whispers, finding enough breath from somewhere. “My king, I-”
His voice cracks. Frustrated, Shang Qinghua extends a hand towards that broad, barely robed chest and immediately hesitates. He wants to bite through his own tongue for the cowardice, but the horrifying idea that this is all some extended fever dream slides sideways in his head and tries to convince him that it’s the right way up.
It’s safer to curl his hand into a fist, lest it betray him, but just as he begins to let his arm drop, cool fingers capture his wrist. Shang Qinghua sucks in a breath, staring at where Mobei-jun is touching him. The image of his king finally connects to the physical presence, and he stares up into those ice clear eyes, awestruck, vision swimming.
Mobei-jun frowns at him. “You’re crying.”
Is he? The feeling of laughter bubbles up his throat again and Shang Qinghua hiccups out a strangled sob. Ah. A different kind of hysteria then.
The sound uncorks something inside of him; at once, Shang Qinghua feels himself go limp, the coil of anxiety that’s been holding him rigidly upright unwinding rapidly, making his knees wobble. Mobei-jun makes a noise and catches him by the arms before he can crumple to the ground. Just the pressure of his hands is enough to squeeze another shuddery gasp out of Shang Qinghua, and he lets his head fall forward against his king’s sternum. The familiar coolness only makes him cry harder.
“Shang Qinghua,” Mobei-jun gives him a little shake, utterly failing to disrupt the flow of tears spilling out the cultivator. “What’s wrong with you? You’re trembling more than usual.”
Shang Qinghua shakes his head frantically, really only managing to rub his face deeper into Mobei-jun’s chest. If he presses hard enough, he can hear the steady, reassuring beat of his king’s heart, alive, alive.
“No, my king, everything’s fine,” he wobbles out between sobs, twisting his fingers into Mobei-jun’s robes until his knuckles ache. “Everything is just fine, now.”
He tries to hide further but Mobei-jun peels Shang Qinghua away from his body, peering down at him suspiciously. He must be a sight, ruddy-faced and bawling, probably getting snot and teeth everywhere or something else unpleasant, but Mobei-jun doesn’t seem to mind. He just sighs and releases Shang Qinghua so he can pat him on the head. Shang Qinghua has to fight back a second wave of tears at the familiar action; he mostly succeeds.
“Junshang no longer seeks to harvest the stormaline,” Mobei-jun informs him, once the cultivator has ceased blubbering so much. It’s a diplomatic way to say you made a mess now get out of my palace, but honestly Shang Qinghua wants to be as far away from this whole episode as possible so he’s not about to complain.
“Okay, umm that’s good,” he sniffles once, and then lets out a bone-weary sigh, shoulders slumping. “Can we leave now? I think- I really want to go home, my king.”
Something in Mobei-jun’s face loosens at that; it occurs to Shang Qinghua that his king may feel as exhausted as Shang Qinghua looks. He’s not sure how tiring resurrection is meant to be, or if it even counts as resurrection when you didn’t technically die. And then he swiftly decides he’s too tired to care and simply lets Mobei-jun cart him back to their rooms with an arm around his shoulders, the coolness seeping through the fabric providing a dizzying reassurance.
＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ❄ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊
Their farewells to Luo Binghe and Shen Qingqiu are swift; for once, Shen Qingqiu seems rather dismissive of their presence, whereas Luo Binghe, who casts no aspersions about enjoying their departure each time, watches Shang Qinghua like he wants to sink his teeth into him and drag the cultivator back into his palace by the ankle.
He’s just turning to go when Shen Qingqiu calls out, “Shang-shidi, a moment please.”
Shang Qinghua pauses, which is enough time for Shen Qingqiu to snatch his arm and drag him far enough away that their two resident demons won’t overhear. And then he just stares impatiently, like he’s waiting for Shang Qinghua to do something but he’s not sure what.
“What?” Shang Qinghua prompts when the silence stretches. “Do I have something on my face?”
“Airplane, you’re not-” Shen Qingqiu starts, and then visibly reorders his words. “My Binghe, you won’t… do anything to him, will you?”
The question drifts through Shang Qinghua’s head like sand, formless and grainy, but the phrasing sticks. My Binghe. It’s uncommon for Shen Qingqiu to voice his affection in such a way, and guilt flickers in Shang Qinghua’s gut once more.
He can’t imagine what he could possibly do to his OP protagonist son Luo Binghe that would warrant a private talk from the guy’s husband. But then again, he also can’t imagine telling Shen Qingqiu that whatever he’d done on the mission was probably a one-time deal, most likely, maybe, seventy percent certain, because Shen Qingqiu seems worked up enough to doubt him; his eyes are wide, mouth pinching in one corner.
It’s then Shang Qinghua realises that his silence has left enough room for a threat to seep into the gap, and he frantically shakes his head to cover it up.
“Cucumber-bro, I really don’t know what you’re talking about. What could I possibly do to him? He’s so OP! And my cultivation isn’t even that good! I have like, zero upper body strength too? I swear I nearly lost an arm when I had to carry a vat of soup during the last banquet and it was my good one too! For writing reports and other really important things! Important to me, personally! And Little Airplane-”
This is usually the time when Shen Qingqiu cuts him off with a sharp thwack of his fan. It doesn’t come this time, but Shang Qinghua has been so heavily conditioned by the abuse that his jaw snaps shut anyway leaving them to just stare at each other. Shen Qingqiu narrows his eyes before releasing a breath.
“Good,” he says after a moment, the mask of his character sliding back into place. “That’s good. Then, I hope you and Mobei-jun have a safe journey back to the Northern Desert.”
Shang Qinghua is happy to leave, and awkwardly avoids making any unnecessary eye contact with either of them. If he tucks himself a little closer to Mobei-jun’s side to do it, well, they should be used to him clinging to his king by now. By and large because Shang Qinghua is still getting used to his king clinging to him.
Mobei-jun coils an arm around Shang Qinghua’s waist, tugging him against his barrelled chest as he steps them through a portal. The gut-swoop feeling of it will never be commonplace, but Shang Qinghua barely wobbles as he uncurls from Mobei-jun’s solid form. He makes it two steps into the room before confusion halts him in his tracks.
They’re at his rooms in An Ding Peak - the late sun shining through the window makes Shang Qinghua squint, and he turns to Mobei-jun wearing a fresh frown.
“My king, why have we come here? I didn’t need to collect anything.”
Mobei-jun silently watches him, brows pinched. It’s taken years, but Shang Qinghua has learned the subtle degrees between his expressions; this one clearly reads confusion.
“You wanted to leave Junshang’s palace,” he states unhelpfully, his frown staying in place as if Shang Qinghua is the confusing one..
The cultivator blinks at him, uncomprehending. “Yes, but I thought you were taking us home?”
He’s tired and miserable and wants nothing more than to curl up in his king’s arms instead of the utilitarian blankets of An Ding Peak. Mobei-jun blinks right back, his eyes shining with-- with something as the demon mark on his brow pulses blue.
Shang Qinghua doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of looking at him. Mobei-jun appears to finish assessing him and lifts his chin regally. With a satisfied “hm”, he steps forward and wraps Shang Qinghua in his arms, pulling them through the shadows once more. The sharp drop in temperature makes Shang Qinghua shiver reflexively, and the arms around him squeeze tighter briefly before Mobei-jun releases him.
They’re in the royal bed chambers, the early moonlight spearing bars through the barely drawn curtains. Everything is just as they’d left it the previous morning, and the normality jars uncomfortably against the memory of loss and carnage that came right after. Shang Qinghua suppresses another shiver and turns to see Mobei-jun already watching him.
“Ah!” he squeaks, caught off guard. “Um- My king! Why don’t you let this servant get you ready for bed, ah? You must be tired after such a- uh-”
What do you call a non-death? An adventure? A tragedy?
“-a long day,” Shang Qinghua tries, wincing at how banal it sounds.
Mobei-jun just nods in his usual noncommittal way, and the normality of that is far more soothing. He deftly removes his heavy cloak and vambraces before Shang Qinghua steps in to help him out of his robes. A shirtless Mobei-jun will always stop him in his tracks, but it’s different when he sucks in a breath this time.
The clench of the ice demon’s obliques echoes the sling of his ribs, and Shang Qinghua’s tongue tastes like iron and he thinks with sickening clarity about how accurately he can now compare the two. It’s a dreadful reminder; he may have made Mobei-jun, but it was from words and desires, no bone and sinew. He wishes he could forget what it looks like below his king’s skin.
Mobei-jun slides on the sleeping robe Shang Qinghua has held up, leaving it untied to expose his torso, and then catches the cultivator’s wrist, tugging him in. His frown is back, and this is one that Shang Qinghua isn’t well-read in.
“Are you sick?” Mobei-jun asks bluntly. “Peak Lord Mu reported no illness when we left.”
“Sick?” Shang Qinghua echoes, the word feeling foreign.
“You’re shaking.”
Ah. Well. That’s not his fault. Shang Qinghua finds his eyes glued to the exposed patch of his king’s body, between the lowest rib and the crest of his hip. Unthinkingly, he presses a palm against it. The relief is as instant as the sensations; cold, solid, alive.
Mobei-jun sips a breath above him, and Shang Qinghua snatches his offending hand away, eyes going wide with the realisation of what he’s just done.
“My king!” he cries, appalled at his own boldness. “My sincerest apologies, my king. This servant should not have dared to touch you in such an inappropriate manner. Please be merciful and forgive this lowly servant’s presumption! I really didn’t mean to! But- You- It was all just right there and I forgot myself for a second. This servant shall assign himself suitable punishment for this act of-”
“Hush,” Mobei-jun says, one word crumbling all of Shang Qinghua’s protests.
He releases the captive wrist to finish tying his robes shut, and then shockingly, moves his hands to Shang Qinghua’s sash.
“My king!” It comes out little more than a hoarse whisper, because Shang Qinghua isn’t sure he’s breathing right now.
Mobei-jun methodically unties his robes, sliding them off Shang Qinghua’s shoulders and draping them over the top of the unused privacy screen. The slow, graceful movements only serve to make Shang Qinghua feel more awkward and fidgety; he folds his hands together after nearly hitting Mobei-jun in the head twice.
“Come,” Mobei-jun says, reclaiming Shang Qinghua’s wrist to lead him over to the bed.
“My king?”
“It’s late,” is all the response that comes as Mobei-jun drags them both under the covers. “Sleep.”
“M’not tired,” Shang Qinghua says just as a yawn escapes him.
The look Mobei-jun gives him is faintly amused, and that alone is enough to stop him whining. It doesn’t stop him fidgeting though. Mobei-jun lies still on his back as Shang Qinghua tosses beneath the furs, unable to get comfortable. He’s aware he’s being annoying, but the impulse to shift is unignorable.
The next turn leaves him on his side, facing his king. Mobei-jun’s face is peaceful even if he’s not sleeping yet, and Shang Qinghua takes the opportunity to drink him in. It doesn’t last long; Mobei-jun opens his eyes and turns his head to snare Shang Qinghua with his azure gaze.
They haven’t done this much before - just stare at each other - too shy, in Shang Qinghua’s case, and too uninterested in Mobei-jun’s.
Or so he thinks, until Mobei-jun reaches out to layer one big hand over the curve of Shang Qinghua’s shoulder. The physical touch feels like an anchor; Shang Qinghua sighs shakily with something that might be relief or might be a sob and is halfway between becoming either. But he feels more grounded, the urge to writhe around quelling with the weight of that hand. Even his shaking seems to have stopped.
Mobei-jun holds his gaze for so long that the silence starts filling up with another what if? One that feels huge and terrifying and desperately lovely.
What if he wants me, too?
The idea is too big for his fatiguing mind to embrace, and so Shang Qinghua gives into the sleep that’s fast enveloping him. He drifts off to the feeling of a cold grip pulling him tight to an even colder chest, and a whisper that sounds like his name.
