Chapter Text
“I think you’re overthinking this, shidi.” Wei Qingwei’s voice sounded through the room, low, calm, yet firm, momentarily breaking the silence that hung over the leisure house.
A teapot sat on the small table in front of them, its strange aroma enveloping the Lords of the Peaks in a veil of apparent normalcy.
Mu Qingfang sat on the simple sofa next to his martial brother, hands crossed in his lap, fingers intertwined almost mechanically.
His posture remained perfect, straight as always, but his expression betrayed him: melancholy and despair overflowed from his eyes and the hard line of his mouth.
“But I don’t think Xie Yuan is wrong in his observations,” he began, his throat burning, each word coming as if it were a physical effort. “Shang Qinghua and Shen Qingqiu… they’re obviously together. Why else would they have asked Zhangmen-shixiong to release them for a multi-day mission without telling anyone where they were going?”
His own voice made Mu Qingfang feel even smaller.
The situation seemed childish, too trivial for a Lord of a Peak, but recent reality made it impossible to ignore.
In recent days, he had decided, after the last meeting, to talk to Shang Qinghua to “clear up misunderstandings” that the disciples had spread.
But the shocking news arrived: the Lord of An Ding was not at his peak. He and Shen Qingqiu had requested an urgent meeting with the sect leader, Yue Qingyuan, and asked to be excused for a few days, claiming an important matter to handle.
Yue Qingyuan, although surprised, had agreed, convinced by Shen Qingqiu’s calm and persuasive demeanor.
Mu Qingfang’s torment only increased: the two Lords of Peaks had never left the sect together, not even as disciples. Not even then did they dare go alone.
So why now?
Why didn’t they take Liu Qingge, who, upon learning, promptly offered to accompany them, his expression turning red as he looked at Shen Qingqiu? He, smiling out of character, definitively refused the offer, and no one else dared question it.
Mu Qingfang had not offered to go. In fact, he only found out when it was too late. The news came from the disciples of An Ding, excited to learn that their master would take a few days off, especially in the company of a martial brother as strong as Shen Qingqiu, who spoiled them with small treats at every visit.
Mu Qingfang silently filed this in his mind: one day, he would find a way to make these disciples pay for ruining his chance.
“Why did they go alone?” Mu Qingfang repeated, the question coming out stronger than he intended, as if it were the tenth time he had asked it.
Wei Qingwei picked up his teacup and let out a soft puff, almost laughing at himself.
“Maybe they had a corpse to bury,” he suggested dryly, looking at Mu Qingfang, waiting for a reaction.
Mu Qingfang raised an eyebrow, narrowing his eyes at him.
“Don’t look at me like that. Shidi, it’s not like I said Shang-shidi eats babies for breakfast,” Wei Qingwei continued, his teasing tone contrasting with the tension hanging in the air.
Mu Qingfang immediately blushed but tried to regain the neutral expression he always displayed, controlling his embarrassment.
“You know I don’t know why they didn’t take Liu Qingge,” he finally said, his voice lower, almost a whisper.
“But they should have. You and Shang-shixiong are friends, aren’t you? Didn’t he say anything about it?”
Mu Qingfang swallowed hard, feeling the tightness in his chest increase. The drink in the cup before him seemed distant, the aroma of the tea almost disappearing under the weight of his worries and the sense of helplessness spreading through his body.
“No, not that I remember.” Wei Qingwei rested his chin on his hand, thoughtful. “But the last time we met, I don’t remember much. Shang Qinghua brought a wine… very good, made from northern herbs. I don’t know where he got it. But, shidi… it was amazing. I was completely distracted by the flavor.”
“So he might have told you. You’re probably just too drunk to remember.”
Wei Qingwei shrugged and gestured to the other cup he had served.
“Drink, shidi. You need some relief.”
Mu Qingfang looked at the cup, observing the drink that now seemed cold, even though when Wei Qingwei served it, he barely noticed the temperature. He picked it up, smelling the unfamiliar but pleasant aroma.
“What is this?” he asked, curious.
“Try it, Mu shidi.”
He took a sip. The liquid was sweet, delicate, yet carried an unexpected strength that made his body shiver.
He did not complain; in fact, he liked it. Wei Qingwei smiled, noticing the effect.
“Shidi, are you planning to tell Shang-shidi that you want him in your bed?” he said, with an almost provocatively natural tone.
Mu Qingfang choked on the drink, turning his face as a loud cough escaped.
“Wei Qingwei! Don’t speak like that, it’s inappropriate!” he protested, suddenly feeling like a teenager in the face of the insinuation.
It wasn’t just carnal desire he felt for Shang Qinghua.
Having the Lord of the Peak of An Ding in his bed would indeed be a blessing, but Mu Qingfang didn’t allow himself to imagine that far. Soft conversations, discreet touches, stolen kisses… that already seemed enough, an almost forbidden treasure. The idea of a more explicit physical romance never crossed his mind naturally; it was too much for him.
“Don’t be a puritan. I can see how you look at him,” Wei Qingwei shot back, taking a sip of his own drink.
“And he knows how I look too,” Mu Qingfang murmured, once again feeling the weight of discouragement and frustration.
Wei Qingwei laughed, and the sound reverberated through the room, breaking some of the tension.
Mu Qingfang then began recounting the conversation he had had with Shen Qingqiu and Shang Qinghua at the last meeting, describing how Shang Qinghua had looked at him, each word carefully chosen, each gesture loaded with meaning, while the tea continued to warm his body and ease his apprehension.
Mu Qingfang took another sip, feeling the warmth spread through his chest, up his neck, tinting his skin with an almost electric sensation.
The sweet and intense flavor seemed to awaken more than just his palate; it was as if every memory of Shang Qinghua was drawing near, mingling with the gentle effect of the drink.
He observed Wei Qingwei closely, noticing the playful glint in his eyes as he entertained himself with that provocatively natural manner.
There was no malice, only a pleasure in seeing the world and their martial brothers move more boldly and sincerely.
Mu Qingfang, although consumed by his own warmth, could not shake the pang of desire and restlessness that ran through his chest. He wanted Shang Qinghua to be happy, to allow himself to feel, but at the same time, there was an instinctive urgency in him to protect him, to prevent him from becoming too vulnerable.
“Wei-shixiong… this isn’t tea, is it?” he murmured, his voice low, eyes shining with discovery as he drained the cup.
“I told you the drink Shang Qinghua brought was excellent. Didn’t I?”
Mu Qingfang let out a brief sound of agreement and poured himself another serving, allowing himself to indulge in that sensation of freedom.
If it was a gift from Shang Qinghua, would it be bold of him to enjoy it? Perhaps it wasn’t meant for him… but he could, at least for a moment, pretend that it was.
“Why did you put it in a teapot?” he asked with a hint of disbelief as he looked at the beautiful vessel, which might now get stained from this little indulgence.
Wei Qingwei raised his own cup, a loose smile as if the world around him demanded nothing of him.
“It’s too good to waste, don’t you think?”
Mu Qingfang didn’t answer immediately, tilting the entire cup to his mouth. The drink flowed hot down his throat, but it wasn’t just the alcohol that burned.
His thoughts returned to Shang Qinghua, the way he laughed nervously, how he shrank when he should assert himself. The memory made him even more restless.
His fingers gripped the ceramic of the cup lightly.
“I don’t know if it’s right to drink this much…” he murmured, but he was already pouring another serving.
Wei Qingwei let out a short chuckle.
“Ah, Qingfang, sometimes it’s better not to think too much. Just enjoy.”
Wei Qingwei remembered the last meeting vividly.
He had been near the door when Shang Qinghua looked at Mu Qingfang before leaving, the hesitant and uncertain gaze reflecting exactly what Mu Qingfang felt.
That same look spoke volumes without words, full of expectation and fear.
“Shidi,” Wei Qingwei continued, breaking the silence, “you need to be honest with yourself. There’s no point in getting lost in assumptions about what Shang-shidi feels or doesn’t feel.”
Mu Qingfang swallowed hard, feeling the alcohol deepen the warmth in his body.
His mind spun, confused, between memories and restrained fantasies. He wanted Shang Qinghua to be the one to take the first step, to allow himself to come closer, but he also knew caution was necessary; he knew Wei Qingwei didn’t believe any romance between Shang Qinghua and Shen Qingqiu was plausible, and he felt he himself shouldn’t let fantasies take him beyond what he could emotionally handle.
The alcohol made his body sensitive to every gesture, to every memory of Shang Qinghua. Even something as simple as the glint in the Lord of An Ding’s eyes or the way he backed away when he didn’t want to be noticed provoked an almost physical reaction: his heart raced, his breathing grew heavy, and a wave of heat crept up his spine to his neck.
Mu Qingfang didn’t want to admit, not even to himself, that it was desire. It was concern, it was care… but it was also desire, and the alcohol seemed to amplify everything.
He sighed, feeling his muscles relax, and allowed himself to imagine a world where Shang Qinghua could be brave, where they could share more than glances and restrained words. But the thought soon mingled with realism: it wasn’t prudent, and perhaps not even possible.
Wei Qingwei perceived it all, with that amused and silent smile, understanding that Mu Qingfang needed this contained fire to see the courage still hidden in Shang Qinghua.
And in the warmth of the drink, the warmth of the body, and the warmth of his own emotions, Mu Qingfang realized that, despite everything, he wanted to be beside Shang Qinghua.
Not just as a martial brother or friend, but as someone who could share private and intimate moments, even if only in small doses of courage, stolen glances, and touches.
Mu Qingfang slowly turned the cup between his fingers, already warmed by the wine, his face flushed and his voice looser than usual.
“Shang Qinghua shouldn’t… shouldn’t sleep with Shen Qingqiu. They don’t match. It doesn’t make sense.”
Wei Qingwei looked at him over the rim of his own cup, lips curved in a smile of someone who had already anticipated this.
“I know.”
“And Liu Qingge would be sad. You know he would. If the two started dating…” he insisted, his voice suddenly gaining firmness.
Because it was true and no one could deny that Liu Qingge had a crush on Qingqiu’s new persona. Just as most of the disciples seemed to, although they were more aware of their own feelings and lack of chances.
“I know,” he replied again, his face already slightly flushed from the alcohol, as if amused to repeat the same answer.
Mu Qingfang huffed, taking another sip before continuing.
“And still… Shang Qinghua sometimes seemed to look at me too. But now it’s just… Shen Qingqiu this, Shen Qingqiu that. As if I didn’t exist!”
“I know.” Wei Qingwei laughed softly, the sound carried by the tipsiness.
“You don’t know anything,” Mu Qingfang retorted with a grimace, almost childish, furrowing his brow with genuine indignation that Wei Qingwei agreed with that. “Because Shang Qinghua never talks about Shen Qingqiu out loud. Never. Have you ever heard him? No! He just keeps it a mystery, like it’s some big secret.”
Wei Qingwei blinked slowly, as if letting the wine decide his reactions, and replied with the same calm, teasing tone:
“I know.”
Mu Qingfang banged the cup on the table, not hard enough to spill, but the gesture carried his exasperation.
“And it’s improper. Completely improper. Shen Qingqiu and Shang Qinghua traveling together, as if they were… I don’t know what. It’s not right.”
This time, Wei Qingwei couldn’t contain himself and laughed, his head tilting back slightly.
“Mu shidi, they’re immortals. They have every right to travel together. More than that: no one cares.”
Mu Qingfang looked at him incredulously, his brow furrowed, as if he couldn’t accept the ease of the response. The wine burned in his throat and warmed his body, but the indignation gave him even more energy.
“I care,” he murmured, almost to himself, before drinking again, as if the drink were the only thing capable of dissolving the weight of that confession.
Mu Qingfang found himself staring at a fixed point on the wall of Qingwei’s leisure house.
“Everyone would care if they knew about this… this relationship,” Mu Qingfang insisted, his voice louder than intended, as if trying to convince both himself and Wei Qingwei.
All the Lords of Peaks would care; gossip was what drove them, even if they pretended a morality and superiority that didn’t truly exist.
And they cared deeply about Shen Qingqiu’s life, always bothered by the slightest action he took, simply because they didn’t like the way he was. Shang Qinghua wasn’t truly someone they cared about, only Mu Qingfang cared so much for the Lord of An Ding, but since he was involved with Shen Qingqiu, he was already tainted.
Wei Qingwei raised an eyebrow, amused, and shook his head slowly.
“I don’t think it’s a relationship.”
The phrase was said in a low tone, almost a whisper, but cut through the air like a revelation. Mu Qingfang sighed deeply, setting the cup on the table. The wine throbbed in his body, and his thoughts tangled between hope and apprehension.
“If it’s not a relationship… I might have a chance.”
Wei Qingwei leaned forward, eyes half-closed from the alcohol, but with a mysterious smile that seemed to see far more than he said.
“If you tried, you’d have a chance, shidi.”
Mu Qingfang’s heart leapt. He rose from the chair suddenly, with the drunken determination that allowed no doubt, even though his body wavered and almost made him lose balance.
“Then I’ll go to An Ding.”
Wei Qingwei blinked, surprised, and followed him with his half-lidded eyes, still seated.
“For what? Shang Qinghua isn’t there now.”
Mu Qingfang, taking a deep breath as if struggling against the weight of the alcohol, straightened his shoulders and replied with almost comical firmness:
“You said I should try!”
“But Shang Qinghua needs to be present for you to try,” Qingwei insisted.
Mu Qingfang clenched his fists at his sides, his face flushed from the wine and determination.
“No matter. If I don’t try now… I’ll never try.”
Before Wei Qingwei could retort that it made no sense, Mu Qingfang had already spun on his heels and was heading toward the exit, his steps firm in intent, though his body stumbled every two or three. The other laughed loudly, raising his cup in farewell as if to toast alone.
“Go on, drunken hero… May the gods have mercy on you, Mu Qingfang.”
The night wind struck Mu Qingfang’s face sharply as he made his way to An Ding on his sword, a recommendation he would never give to his disciples. With each step, the alcohol weighed on his muscles, but determination burned in his chest. He wasn’t expecting to find Shang Qinghua.
Nor did he really want to. He just wanted to be in his space, in the place where he could smell the wood, scrolls, and fabrics—a trace of the presence that tormented him so much.
The leisure house door was closed, but not locked. Mu Qingfang placed a talisman on the door and pushed it open without ceremony, his heart racing with audacity. Every beat seemed to echo against the silent walls of the house, so quiet it almost felt alive, observing each of his steps.
The room was filled with soft, motionless shadows, as if the space itself were resting. He moved through the corridors with a hazy memory, slightly stumbling on his own steps, his body still heavy from the alcohol of the previous night, until he heard a snap from the hallway ahead.
Startled, he froze, rigid, eyes wide in the darkness.
“Shang… Qinghua?” he stammered, his voice faltering. “When… when did you come back?”
Shang Qinghua emerged from the shadows with a glowing talisman in his left hand, his hair slightly tousled and loose, his gaze alert yet tinged with confusion.
“I arrived two shí chén ago. I was resting,” he said, low, firm, yet surprisingly serene.
“Ah… I thought… it would take longer,” Mu Qingfang murmured, swallowing hard.
“We couldn’t be away for too long…” The alcohol’s effect slowly faded, leaving only an uncertain sobriety that made his legs ache.
“Where did you go?” asked Mu Qingfang, unable to contain the curiosity that had burned in him since hearing the news of the duo’s trip. “Zhangmen-shixiong didn’t know how to answer.”
“Here. There,” Shang Qinghua replied enigmatically, but then smiled. “We went to many places. Shen Qingqiu was searching for a specific flower, and I decided to help him. It turned out to be easier than we thought.”
“I could have helped,” Mu Qingfang offered belatedly. He knew flowers and herbs well; he could have joined the trip if it hadn’t been a romantic outing.
“You could…”
“So—”
“But we didn’t want to bother anyone, Mu Qingfang. And we managed to go and return quickly, didn’t we?”
Mu Qingfang shook his head, thoughtful and slightly dizzy.
Really fast.
Mu Qingfang had heard about the trip three moons ago.
Seven days in total? Eight?
He wasn’t in the mood to do the math.
“Where is Shen Qingqiu?” he asked, unable to focus.
Shang Qinghua blinked, the darkness turning his usual eyes into a warm, almost amber hue, making Mu Qingfang catch his breath. He quickly averted his gaze, trying not to notice the soft lines of Qinghua’s face or the fine sleepwear he wore.
“He’s at home,” Shang Qinghua replied, still puzzled by the situation, but firm.
The answer brought immediate relief to Mu Qingfang, who felt the weight he carried lighten slightly. The last thing he wanted was to find Qinghua and Shen Qingqiu together, like a loving couple.
Mu Qingfang let out a sigh louder than intended.
“Why isn’t he here?”
“Why would he be?” Shang Qinghua replied, his voice tinged with amusement, at least to Mu Qingfang’s now more sober ears, whose qi burned away the remaining alcohol and made him clearer-headed.
Mu Qingfang blushed instantly.
“Sorry… for intruding,” he murmured, trying to change the subject, his words lacking conviction.
Contrary to expectation, he didn’t move toward the exit, noticeably lacking courage or the will to retreat.
Shang Qinghua approached slowly, finally noticing Mu Qingfang’s confusion and blush.
The half-closed eyes, the still-wobbly steps, the slight flush—all betrayed what Mu Qingfang was trying to hide.
A brief, adorable laugh escaped his lips.
“You’re drunk, shidi?” he asked, without any elegance; the almost childish comment contrasted with the situation.
“Shidi,” Mu Qingfang repeated, savoring the word, and without thinking, took a step forward, guided by an irresistible impulse, and touched Shang Qinghua’s face with the tips of his fingers.
The warmth of the proximity made him blush instantly, blaming his drunkenness for the impulsive gesture.
Shang Qinghua simply stared at him, surprised.
“I like it when you call me shidi, Shang Qinghua; you seem to like me more when you say it,” Mu Qingfang said, his voice a whisper that Shang Qinghua could hear only because of their closeness.
Shang Qinghua leaned slightly into the touch, not averting his eyes from Mu Qingfang, as if wanting to read every nuance of his state.
“Perhaps I should let you call me that more often, then.”
And Mu Qingfang nodded, agreeing.
“What are you doing here?” Shang Qinghua asked after a moment of silence, but received no answer.
Mu Qingfang’s expression remained confused, caught between shame and warmth from the contact on Qinghua’s soft skin.
“Do you know what you’re doing, Mu Qingfang?” Shang Qinghua insisted, his voice patient.
Mu Qingfang shook his head, unable to form words.
Shang Qinghua sighed, taking a deep breath, and gently held the sleeve of Mu Qingfang’s garment.
“Come… you’ll rest,” he said, firm but careful.
Without waiting for objection, he guided Mu Qingfang through the silent corridors to the bedroom.
Shang Qinghua entered first, carefully laying Mu Qingfang on the still-made bed, adjusting him so he would be comfortable, never rushing his movements.
“You… smell of the wine I gave Wei Qingwei,” Shang Qinghua remarked in a low voice, almost complaining, yet with a delicate tone. “I’ll need to discuss it with him later… at least to try to leave you in this state.”
Mu Qingfang blinked, slightly dazed, but didn’t mind.
His gaze was fixed on the beautiful hobby Shang Qinghua held in his hands, the delicate object tinged with soft yellow, reflecting the moonlight that entered through the window. Even his garments, of the same color, seemed to harmonize with the tone, creating an aura of tranquility that the shidi couldn’t help but admire.
“Shang-shixiong… it’s… beautiful,” Mu Qingfang murmured, his voice still trembling but filled with genuine admiration.
Shang Qinghua smiled slightly, as if he had expected this, and carefully pulled the blanket over Mu Qingfang, covering him up to the shoulders.
“You’re beautiful too, shidi.”
The warmth of Mu Qingfang’s body still pulsed beneath the fabric, reminding Shang Qinghua of how vulnerable and confused he was.
“Stay here… have sweet dreams,” Shang Qinghua said, his voice low, soft, yet firm.
He adjusted a strand of Mu Qingfang’s hair that had fallen over his forehead, his fingers brushing the warm skin lightly, just enough for the shidi to feel the care and calm down.
Mu Qingfang closed his eyes, still flushed, but feeling the tension slowly dissolve. Every touch, every silent gesture from Shang Qinghua conveyed something words could not: safety, attention, and a quiet intimacy that made the shidi’s heart race, even if he tried to convince himself it was just care between master and disciple.
The room remained silent, save for the rhythm of their breathing. Shang Qinghua leaned in slightly, just enough for Mu Qingfang to feel his presence closer, without crossing any boundaries, each gesture full of delicacy and restrained intensity.