Chapter Text
He settled into a new normal, no matter how jarring it felt.
No matter how ill-fitted it seemed to him.
(No matter the fact he still laid awake at night,
Unable to rest.)
His mornings were all the same — watching till the sun peaked out the slightest bit over the horizon.
Getting up to begin the morning with drills and forms — perfecting and re-perfecting the way he handled Chen Luan. Working through the morning stiffness.
(Only stopping to rub at the scar that acted up the most)
As the sun would hit his back, the disciples would come out to join him. Moving slowly, committing each movement to his muscle memory and serving as reference for the younger cultivators. Letting them learn through watching and doing was his best bet.
Once it was properly time to eat, he'd leave to QingJing. Avoiding the currently solem hut in favour of observing the green-clad disciples to ensure they were okay.
Exchange short words with Yang Yixuan and Ming Fan — they didn't need much, they had everything under control and thus, did not need Liu Qingge.
(Did anyone need him anymore?)
Then, finally, he'd leave for some mission or another — they were all practically the same, hunt and fight. Nothing new.
He'd eventually come back, at some point — night or day, injured or with minor blood stains on the edge of his robe. It was nothing new.
The monthly checks would happen, and occasionally, it would be joint. QingJing disciples expressed their talents and attributes in the fine arts next to the near rhythmic sound of the battling Bai Zhan disciples.
All under the awkward oversight of the War God, head disciples to his sides to truly evaluate the progress of their martial siblings. Nothing new.
There was the occasional visit to Shen Qingqiu, whenever the older cultivator was on his peak — Liu Qingge made sure to be back before the visits, unwilling to lose any of the time he was now gifted with the man.
No matter how dishevelled he felt inside, even if he had also just arrived from pushing himself on a hunt — even if exhaustion was slowly setting into his bones and further stiffening his muscles.
All of that — the burning of his scars, the stiffness in his body, the awkwardness of the soon approaching rain and the darkness being more welcoming than his own mind — was washed away by the sight of the other.
His core soothed by the sound of the other's voice — even if it was a horrible mess mere moments before.
Body laxed and light by his presence — even if it was rough and bruised, battered and pulsing from the previous undertaking he had gone through.
Mind at peace and floating in a soft haze — even if it had been a vortex of the past, his failures and the shame that had branded itself into his very being.
Tea soothing his ever parched throat — since he keeps forgetting to tend to himself after going time without speaking.
(Luo Binghe’s eyes burning into his head,
Always there, always watching,
Wanting to watch him squirm,
But Liu Qingge wouldn’t give him the satisfaction)
(He still wakes up late at night,
Scars pulsing in agony,
No matter how he turns, twists and presses,
Its horrid.)
Though not everything was focused on the small paradise he had found for himself — the meagre crumbs of acknowledgement he was learning to live off of.
There was still the demon.
It was always the same, despite it all.
Barbed words and taunts, the burning sensation on the side of his head, the acute knowledge of where the other was at all times.
(The pulsing of his scars,
The overlap in his eyes,
The constant reminder that he was nothing but a pest in the beast's eyes.)
Luo Binghe knew how to rile him up, how to make the comment irritating enough to piece him from under his skin — knew how to cause his heart to ache by draping himself over Shen Qingqiu and trying to shamelessly hold him close.
Luckily, his Shixiong thin face made it so that what he permitted the beast wouldn't excel a limit in front of company — regardless of the demon's attempts.
It was all to get him to rise up, only to be scolded.
It was all to remind him of what he'd never have; what he didn't deserve.
All just made him watch how the two seemed to fit together, when they shouldn't — they shouldn't but they did, and it hurt.
The looks, the small brushes, how they searched for each other, how they seem to inherently belong by each other's side through it all — the conversations, Shen Qingqiu's explanations, the tea and the meal.
(Liu Qingge refused to acknowledge the fact it looked good and smelled good,
That there was a part of him that yearned to taste,
Taste what was undoubtedly made with single-minded devotion he'd never experience.)
No wonder he always leaves feeling like there's something hollow inside of him — like he's poured out all that remained after mission and mission taken.
Like he gave whatever little remained in those moments, even if it was never acknowledged, only to have nothing left for himself.
(He didn't know if he should be greatful or not,
After all,
His mind has yet to stop with its nightly torment.)
What would happen afterwards would vary, depending on what needed to be done or how soon Shen Qingqiu would leave again.
Dreadfully, sometimes that involved paperwork on his end. Though not much, as Yang Yixuan would take care of it and it wasn't a bit part of his job as a peaklord anyway.
Sometimes it would be just overseeing training on either peak before he'd vanish off the Sect once again — to do one mission or another, to hunt one rare creature or rare plant.
Sometimes it involved taking the disciples to missions, letting them take the lead but never being too far behind.
Other times, it would be an impromptu training in the veil of night, if the time was adequate for it — to heighten senses and awareness, to understand your surroundings in any given moment.
On rare occasions, he'd just meditate — for there was nothing else calling his attention and it was a better alternative to sleeping.
He still slept sometimes, thought only sometimes.
(His scars tended to pulse whenever he dreamt of how he got them.)
All that, only to end the day to repeat it again some other time.
Some parts brought him more peace than others, that was for sure.
The calming nature of Shen Qingqiu's presence was always counteracted by the unnerving sensation of the beast's mere existence.
For every inch of paradise he was gifted — a mile of those torturous battles was brought to the forefront of his mind.
He was not meant to enjoy his shixiong's presence in its entirely — Luo Binghe made that clear.
Though, he supposed it could be worse.
(It could be those five years all over again,
Grief and pain,
Stubbornly battering his own body,
For a man that would never look his way.)
Even with the beast always hovering around, like a Great Three-eyed scavenging hawk, just a few steps away.
Observing, testing and prodding — waiting for Liu Qingge to mess up somehow.
(Sinking demonic essence into his very core,
Though every slash and open wound,
Intermingling with his blood.)
There were definitely worse scenarios.
Here, at the very least, he got to sit down on the opposite side to Shen Qingqiu. Got to listen as his shixiong talked about this creature or that — about migrating habits of some Gold-tinted Great Turtle or the diet of Lesser Blue scalding mares.
About the actual name of some rare monster he had just encountered — or a long winded and detailed explanation about another creature he planned to hunt.
It was relaxing.
It was calming.
It was… nice.
(The side of his head burns,
The scar on his chest pulses.)
He didn't deserve this, he knew he didn't deserve this.
How could he? When Shen Qingqiu looked like that?
How could he deserve to sit so close to the man, when he shunned so brightly in those moments.
How could he deserve the privilege to watch and hear the man talk so passionately?
How does he deserve the right to observe and notice so many things?
The slightest twitch in the hands, betraying the barely restrained gestures. The fluctuation in the pattern he fanned himself with. The near unperceivable uptick in his tone, the tilt in which he pronounced a word or crinkle of the eyes, as he hid whatever smile was undoubtedly fighting to show on his face.
Why would he ever deserve to be here?
Like this, his shixiong was beautiful.
How could he ever deserve it?
(Despite all he saw, he never let himself dream,
Never let himself be fooled,
Not even in his own mind, would he ever be worthy of this.)
Maybe that's why Luo Binghe still tried to guard him so feverishly, even around a man who had admitted defeat.
Maybe that's why the beast found it so pertinent to remind him once and again who Shen Qingqiu chose — who he had married.
Maybe that's why the demon found it so necessary, as to avoid anyone getting any idea otherwise.
(As if that was even needed at this point.)
Though, Liu Qingge still found it to be without reason.
There wasn't even a necessity for the act.
Not with the way Shen Qingqiu turned to that demon — like a hugh-stalk scorching flower turning towards the sun.
Brightening with such a loving gaze and the uptick in the corner of the lips that betrayed his heart.
Not when he looked at that beast of a disciple with such utter devotion.
Not when Shen Qingqiu made it obvious who was in his heart.
Not when that unfilial beast was no doubt the very centre of Shen Qingqiu's world.
Shen Qingqiu had married him happily and the demon only returned the devotion in folds it seems.
Why would his shixiong ever spare a glance at the ever awaiting War God, when he looked at the brat like that.
Liu Qingge didn't understand the need Luo Binghe felt, when he wrapped himself over his husband — when he wrapped an arm around his husband — when he had his husband looking at him like he's the reason the sun and moon grace the sky.
Shen Qingqiu loved him.
Shen Qingqiu's heart belonged to him.
Liu Qingge was still learning to accept that.
(Maybe he never will.)
The demon was meddlesome, regardless of the situation.
Though especially when he came early for a visit and Shen Qingqiu was off somewhere in the Sect — which means that sometimes, the hut is only occupied with the beast's presence.
“What are you doing here.” The demon stood like an ever imposing figure at the door, words more a statement than an actual question. Always pristine curls on display with that cursed mark on his forehead.
Liu Qingge only grunts and forces his way past him, he's never been one for politeness, much less for a beast. “Where's your Shizun?”
The demon narrowed his eyes. “Shizun is off talking to Shang Qinghua.” The only person the man actually visited on his own accord.
(Someone that was more important than his stubborn shidi would ever be.)
Liu Qingge grunted, before he moved over to the table. Settling down on the floor, arms crossed and back straight.
“Ah, Shishu isn't very considerate.” And in the tone, there was an unspoken ‘typical’.
Annoying and irritating, as he's always been. The peak lord opts to stay quiet, unwilling to start a fight and possibly damage something in the hut.
Though that doesn't stop the brat, he spoke as if he wasn't being ignored, always with comments that drip with venom and hate.
It was nearly enough to make him recoil, yet also lurch forward to rise to the bait.
Using all of his discipline, which was hard around the brat, he spoke firmly. “Shouldn't you be making food for your husband by now.” The admittance acid on his tongue.
There was silence afterwards, something he wasn't accustomed to from the brat — he loved to run his mouth more often than not.
The hair at the back of his neck stood up, and it made him want to open his eyes and see what was up.
Instead, he settles on meditating till Shen Qingqiu comes back — he doesn't need to entertain the other foolish taunts, no matter how they seem to dig into his very being. Just like he didn't need to bother to understand his sudden silence.
(He ignored the insisting feeling of eyes on him as he meditated,
Ignored them as Shen Qingqiu arrived,
Ignored them as they had tea,
Definitely ignores them as they burn into his back as he leaves.)