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On the morning of the day that marks their tenth anniversary, his husband leaves their bed at dawn.
Luo Binghe wakes the instant he feels his Shizun ever so slowly manoeuvre his way out of his embrace, the motions painstakingly careful and light. If he’d been anyone else —and at this thought, Luo Binghe concentrates to keep his face in an expression relaxed enough to pass for sleep— it might have worked.
He deliberates whether to continue feigning sleep or to reach forward and pull his Shizun back to bed, to pout and whine at the fact that he would wake and leave him so uncharacteristically early in the morning. However, before he can come to a decision, the slightly dry but warm lips of Shen Qingqiu press against his forehead, where his demon mark is, before pulling back quickly. There's a few more soft rustles as his Shizun dresses himself, and then the sound of the bamboo door opening and closing.
Luo Binghe is alone.
He waits several more minutes before he opens his eyes. Buried in the heart of Qing Jing Peak's bamboo forest, little of dawn's light enters their home. There are no sounds except for his own breathing, no bird song, not even the sound of bamboo leaves rustling in the breeze. Luo Binghe feels deeply, achingly cold for someone who theoretically can no longer be touched by mortal sufferings.
Old, ingrained instincts demand that he dress immediately and chase after his Shizun, to follow behind him as he had in his youth, hands clinging to his Shizun’s sleeves until he eventually sighed and said “Binghe, you've grown so big, and yet you're still so sticky. Come, at least walk beside this master, so it will not look so shameful.”
Even now his Shizun is so tremendously soft; a few stray tears and he'll melt like ice left outside on a midsummer's day. If Luo Binghe had pulled at his sleeve with tears in his eyes earlier, surely his Shizun would have stayed in bed?
But no.
It's far too easy to fall into old habits like that. His Shizun won't leave him without a word; they've grown past that.
Luo Binghe closes his eyes with more force than necessary as images of the past rise inevitably to the surface. The way his Shizun's robes looked billowing in the wind, as if he was a celestial descending from the heavens —if one could overlook the blood that stained his front. If Luo Binghe could forget the way Shen Qingqiu’s body felt afterwards, completely devoid of spiritual energy, still warm but pulseless.
And of course five years after, the screams that, even in fading memories, still make every hair on his body stand on an end.
No. No. Luo Binghe brings a hand to his forehead, fingers tracing the spot where his Shizun kissed him earlier. Today is a good day, a special day. He won't ruin it by dwelling on events in the past. His Shizun will return soon. He could start on breakfast once he returns, and they could spend the day however his Shizun likes.
He rearranges himself into the same position that his Shizun left him in and waits. After half an hour with no hint of footsteps or sign that his Shizun might return soon, Luo Binghe gets up.
While his Shizun thrives on idleness, filling his time with naps, books, and poems, Luo Binghe is the opposite. A childhood and adolescence full of tasks and chores had made truly relaxing something rare. He would not be able to sleep without his Shizun, so there’s no point in waiting anymore.
He dresses, makes the bed, and turns to his Shizun's desk. There is surprisingly no paperwork of pressing concern: the financial books have been balanced, even for all the months they had been away in the demon realm, as was the inventory; even his peak lord correspondence, which his Shizun liked least out of the three tasks, has been cleared.
It seems that his Shizun had been hard at work this last week since they've returned.
Luo Binghe instead defaults into old habits, cleaning the bamboo house thoroughly. Of course it’s spotless already, but spotlessness requires maintenance.
After an hour, he begins to doubt everything again. He's incredibly tempted to use the demon blood to locate his Shizun (just one peek wouldn't hurt) just to make sure he is whole and hale.
But who in the Cang Qiong Mountain Sect could or would dare hurt his master, even without Xiu Ya at his side?
Luo Binghe compromises in the end. If his Shizun does not return within the next hour, he will use the demon blood.
He can wait an hour.
Within the hour, he hears footsteps outside along with the sound of porcelain tapping against wood. Luo Binghe opens the door just in time to see Shen Qingqiu carrying a tray of food. His hair hasn't been properly done yet, only pulled back from his face with a simple green ribbon. The way he looks at this moment, enveloped in soft robes, strands of hair slipping from the ribbon to frame a slightly flushed face, with the morning sun embracing him—
Luo Binghe is truly the world’s most fortunate man.
“Ah,” Shen Qingqiu says, slightly sheepish. There's no fan for him to hide behind now, so instead he raises the tray of food to draw attention away from his face. “Good morning, Binghe. I made breakfast.”
The breakfast that Shen Qingqiu made is a simple affair, very similar to what Binghe usually makes for them. A large bowl of congee, with shredded pork, spring onions, and ginger, served with a youzhaguo.
“It's not as good as what Binghe makes normally of course, but I wanted to surprise you.” Shen Qingqiu even serves him despite Binghe's soft protests, ladling a hearty portion of congee into his bowl and pouring him tea.
“Why did Shizun go all the way to the Peak's kitchen? Our kitchen is appropriately stocked as well.” He takes a sip on the congee; it tastes very similar to his own, and his heart warms at the thought of how much time Shen Qingqiu must have dedicated to practicing.
With his hands free at last, Shen Qingqiu snaps open his fan obscuring the lower half of his face. “I had wished to surprise you; cooking in our kitchen would have disturbed your slumber.”
“Ah,” Binghe sighs, “but how does Shizun expect me to sleep well without Shizun in my arms?”
Shen Qingqiu is quiet for a moment, face still hidden behind his fan, eyes adamantly focusing on a corner of the table before he finally sets aside the fan. “We should eat before the food grows cold.”
The softest dusting of pink has returned to Shen Qingqiu’s face, but Binghe doesn’t comment on it, content to eat the breakfast Shen Qingqiu had made, the breakfast his Shizun had made specifically for him.
After breakfast, Shen Qingqiu firmly sits him in front of the vanity, insistent on doing his hair.
“Shizun, I already combed my hair this morning. Did I do a poor job?” He pouts at their reflection in the bronze mirror.
“Not at all,” Shen Qingqiu reassures. “Binghe looks very handsome as always. I just wished to take care of you today.” He unties Binghe’s hair and begins to slowly work camellia oil into the ends, a soft smile on his face. “Binghe always takes such good care of me. And,” he whispers, as if he was telling him a grave secret, “Binghe’s hair is very soft and fluffy. It makes this husband quite happy when he gets to touch it.”
When Shen Qingqiu is done, they switch positions. Shen Qingqiu’s prefered hairstyle is quite simple, not as simple as Binghe’s, but simple enough that it only required one hair pin, yet today his husband had laid three hair pins out on the vanity. All three, Binghe notices, are of the more expensive ones that he owned, and all three had been gifted to him by Binghe.
“I cannot decide on which one to wear Binghe. You pick for me.”
“Mn.” Binghe hadn’t noticed earlier because he was too distracted by Shen Qingqiu’s hands in his hair, but now that he is considering the hairpins, he notices how different the vanity looks compared to when he first moved into the bamboo house. The drawers are full of cosmetics, creams, and oils now. One drawer is devoted solely to the ribbons both he and Shen Qingqiu use for their hair. And, the biggest change of all, a modest jewelry box now sits on the vanity.
Binghe knows that Shen Qingqiu is by no means poor; in fact, he’s quite wealthy. But, with his reclusive nature and his lack of motivation to leave Qing Jing Peak, his possessions numbered few. Which tends to lead to Binghe buying small trinkets for his husband whenever they pass through settlements. At first it was fans, but later the gifts grew to include hair pins, books, chess stones, bolts of green and beige silk, miscellaneous furs for cloaks, ink stones and brushes, and more. Most of the things don’t fit in the bamboo house and are in their manor in the demon realm, but his husband’s favourites always travel with them.
Eventually Binghe settles on a translucent jade pin tipped with gold. It seems unduly extravagant compared to the rest of his attire, compared to Qing Jing Peak as a whole, but his husband does not protest, only smiles. Binghe cannot resist the temptation then, to lean in, wrap his arms around his husband and press a kiss against his temple.
Shen Qingqiu’s hand reaches up to hold his and for a moment all is warm and peaceful. “Binghe... I...”
The smile fades from his husband’s face. Binghe’s naturally slips away as well. “What is it, Husband?”
A flash of something like guilt mars his husband’s face, the resurfacing of an old and familiar interloper in their many years together, always appearing at the most inopportune times. Shen Qingqiu’s grip on his hand tightens for a moment. “It is no—” a small sigh— “I will tell you tonight. Let us enjoy the rest of our day together, yes?”
Immediately, an equally old fear springs back up within him. Will he be left behind again? Has Shizun grown tired of him? The number of years they’ve spent together now outnumbers the number of years they’d been separated, but still it isn’t enough. Binghe wants more; he wants an entire lifetime of just this, of waking up with Shizun’s head on his chest, walking together hand in hand, secret smiles hidden behind fans, and the treasured and scarce whispers of ‘Husband’ at night when they lie together. They are immortal; as long as nothing strikes them down, they could witness the rise and fall of mountains, watch the rivers twist into new shapes, and admire a million full moons. How could he bear to let go now?
But the words catch in his throat. There is little he can do in the end if his Shizun wants to leave him again. He only hums in agreement, and hugs him tighter.
Their day together passes all too quickly. After dressing they check in on the disciples of Qing Jing Peak, walking together, hand in hand as if they were roaming the streets of a city and not at home instructing gossipy students.
They prepare lunch together, elbows and hips and hands bumping into each other in their small kitchen. There, Shen Qingqiu defers to him completely, looking at him with expectant eyes and waiting for the next set of instructions. His sleeves are pulled back for ease of movement and to prevent staining, and, despite the tempation of the soft, pale skin, Binghe manages to not stop in the middle of cooking to press kisses against his wrists and forearms.
After lunch, Shen Qingqiu pulls from one of the chests a zheng, the one they bought together three years after they married. His husband plays for him, melody after melody, song after song, until the sun sets and light wanes.
“Rest,” he says pressing kisses on both of Shen Qingqiu hands even as his husband protests.
“I comported myself very well in the kitchen today, do you not agree? Let us make dinner together.” From this angle, with Binghe kneeling on the ground and Shen Qingqiu sitting on the chair, it would be easy to link the stubborn tilt of his head with images of what happened long ago, when he first entered Qing Jing Peak, when Shen Qingqiu was an untouchable immortal that looked upon everything with disdain, but the warmth and affection in his eyes and voice give everything away; there is no possibility of Binghe confusing his husband with the same man that had poured tea over him.
“Shizun,” he sighs. “You’ve played the zheng for so long. I cannot bear to tax your hands anymore.”
“Nonsense.” Binghe was sure that if Shen Qingqiu’s hands were free he would use a fan to tap the top of his head. “I may not need to fight much these days, but forget not that this master is still an accomplished swordsman and peak lord. A few hours of playing the zheng is nothing compared to sparing with Liu-shidi.”
“Shizun...” he whines, pouting now.
“Binghe,” he answers levelly. “You always spoil me so much. Is it wrong that this husband of yours wishes to spoil you as well, if only for a day?”
“Shizun,” he whines again, “everyday I spend with you I am spoiled. Please let me make dinner. You made breakfast for us today, so it’s only fair if I make dinner for us now.”
And, just to ensure Shen Qingqiu will agree, Binghe lets the thinnest glimmer of unshed tears pool and stares at his Shizun with the most pitiful look he can manage. Shen Qingqiu capitulates with a small sigh, his posture collapsing.
The tears are an old and probably underhanded trick that his husband saw through even before their marriage, and yet he submits to Binghe’s whims all the same. For this, Binghe cannot be more grateful and presses two more kisses to his husband’s hands, both in thanks and in apology.
Dinner passses uneventfully. Almost as if to make up for the fact that he didn’t help make dinner, Shen Qingqiu keeps placing the biggest pieces of meat into Binghe’s bowl. It is an achingly familiar gesture from when they first started sharing meals together. Then, his Shizun had said it was because he was growing and needed more nutrients; now his husband says it’s because Binghe works very hard and needs to eat more. Neither of them mention the fact that, in truth, neither of them needs to eat or drink at all.
Afterwards, his husband insists that they bathe separately (to his slight disappointment). Nonetheless, he helps his husband wash his back and rinse out his hair. Yet, as soon as his hands begin to wander, his husband hurries out of the bath. “I am going to change. Do not peek!”
Clad in his usual thin, white underclothing, rendered translucent in the back where his hair is still wet, Shen Qingqiu grabs a small bundle of something from the closet and ducks into Binghe’s old room.
Binghe is left alone to bathe, and, more importantly, to ruminate. It was, for all intent and purposes, ‘tonight’ already, yet his husband had yet to tell him what was weighing on his mind. Few things can invoke enough guilt for Shen Qingqiu to make such an expression; unfortunately, many of those things were related to him. The only exception being that sometimes Shen Qingqiu looks like that when he sees Yue Qingyuan staring at him from the distance. This, Binghe finds even more unpleasant than the constant intrusions of Liu Qingge.
Shen Qingqiu doesn’t even look guilty when he is reminded of the heartbreak that all of Cang Qiong Mountain Sect, Qing Jing Peak especially, had gone through during his five years dead. No, what Shen Qingqiu feels guilty about is the Endless Abyss and all the things that followed from that.
Yet, all the apologies that could have been said about it have been said already. Repeatedly. It is only that his husband never truly gives him the full truth of why he had did what he did that night, and it is a weight that ties both of them down to the event; has rendered any attempts for Binghe to bury the night even more difficult.
He knows, he knows with a great deal of certainty that his husband loves him. Even though the words are scarcely spoken, he can feel it with every touch, every time he calls him ‘Binghe’ and ‘Husband’.
But he had felt his affection before that fateful night too.
And so it goes, always, with his mind looping around in endless circles, a ribbon twisting and turning, pulling taunt until there’s nothing left but knots.
Will tonight be the night, he wonders, will his husband tell him the truth? Will he leave? Will he confess that while he loves Binghe he would rather the company of Yue Qingyuan or Liu Qingge instead? Or perhaps, he will simply wake one morning to find his husband has disappeared and been replaced by a cold-eyed, sneering man who calls him ‘animal’?
“Binghe?” his husband’s voice calls from the other room. “Are you done?”
“I am!” he responds, clambering out of the cold bath water and hastily toweling himself dry. He pushes his excitement to the forefront of his mind, obscuring all the tangled thoughts he had managed to produce during the bath.
“Alright. Sit on the bed and close your eyes.” There’s a slight quiver to his voice. The Binghe from 15 years ago would not have known the difference, but he can tell now; his husband is nervous. Binghe dons his inner robes quickly and begins hauling the bathtub outside. It wouldn't do if his husband bumped into it while he was walking and hurt himself.
“Binghe, what are you doing?” The quiver is more noticeable now.
“I’m moving the bathtub!” he shouts back as he pushes it out the front door.
“Wha— You— Forget about that! Just sit on the bed and close your eyes! Don’t open until I tell you it’s alright for you to do so!”
He quickly obeys, not even taking the time to dump out the bath water, closing the door behind him with slightly more force than necessary and plopping himself down on the bed. “My eyes are closed.”
There’s no response, only the near silent footsteps that come closer and closer toward him until, finally, his husband stops in front of him.
“Open your eyes, Husband.”
He does. The sight before him temporarily banishes all other thoughts from his mind. His husband, glowing in amber candle light, is dressed in nothing but a very sheer red robe. It’s adorned only with black embroidery along the sleeves and at the hem. The cord at his waist is tied very loosely; a single tug and it would all fall to the floor. The red of his robes matches the red of his demon mark precisely.
“Oh.” The sound escapes his mouth involuntarily.
“That’s it? Oh?”
“No! You are... Shizun I don’t have any words that would do you justice. I— thank you.”
His hands reach for the tantalizing knot only for his husband’s hands to intercept him, their fingers tangling in the scant space left between them.
“Shizun?” he asks, tilting his head up to look at his husband, who is once more wearing that terrible expression.
At the sight of it he can’t help himself and tugs him forward with their entwined hands so that his husband ends up unceremoniously sitting in his lap. “Shizun, what’s wrong?”
It takes several moments before his husband meets his eyes again. “Binghe... I...”
His husband’s face has gone pale, and, as beautiful as red looks on his husband, Luo Binghe cannot find himself aroused in such a situation anymore. “Is this... about what you said this morning?” he whispers.
His husband nods.
They remain silent for several moments before Binghe tightens his grip on his hands. “My husband. No matter what it is you have to say, I won’t be angry. I love you.”
His husband looks absolutely stricken at his words. The silence continues and Binghe waits, because he has learned that sometimes all he can do is to wait. He has waited so many years; he will survive tonight.
“Binghe... you must know by now that I have... I have not always been honest with you.” The words come with a small jerk of his head, as if he wants to hide, but there is nowhere to hide like this, and his husband is trying his best not to hide as well, staring into Binghe’s eyes, attempting to convey as much sincerity as possible.
“There are things that are definitely not lies!” He adds quickly, “I— I love you. I have never lied about that.”
“I know.” Binghe responds, because he does know. Even if sometimes he does not understand or contorts his mind into impossible thoughts, his heart of hearts knows it with absolute certainty. “I love you too, Husband.”
The words seem to give his husband courage, and finally he says, with determination and adoration burning in his eyes: “My name is not Shen Jiu. My name is Shen Yuan.”
Binghe blinks. “Shen Yuan?” He tests out the sounds of the name, lets it mingle between their breaths. “A-Yuan,” he says again, more certain this time.
Immediately, it’s as if all the colour he lost earlier has returned to his face twice fold. His husband nods demurely. “Th-there is more,” he says, guilt and embarrassment warring in his voice. “But I... I do not know how to tell you. Or if I can tell you.”
Binghe leans closer, until their foreheads touch, and says, “A-Yuan.”
He can feel the small jump in his husband, his A-Yuan, when he says his name.
“A-Yuan,” he says again just to watch him grow redder, to watch his eyes grow wider.
“En.” He squirms a bit. “I’m sorry. I’ve been a very bad husband. I’ll tell you more. You must have questions. But I— If you don’t want m—”
Binghe cuts off the rest of his words with a kiss. It’s clumsy, almost as bad as the ones they had when they first started kissing, but he doesn’t care. All he can think of is A-Yuan, his husband, his A-Yuan. And relief. Desperate, aching relief. His husband doesn’t wish to leave. His husband wants him. His husband loves him enough to tell him this, this closely guarded secret.
When Binghe pulls away, A-Yuan’s lips are red enough to match his robes. “Binghe... you're not angry?”
“How could I be angry?” he can’t stop smiling. “You gave me your name. A-Yuan,” he says it out loud again —just because he can.
“I lied to you. For, for so many years. Binghe,” he says, pulling back to put more distance between them. “You have every right to be furious at me!”
“A-Yuan. My husband. Did you think I didn’t notice that you have many secrets? Did you think I missed how drastically differently Shen Qingqiu behaved after his Qi deviation?”
Once again, A-Yuan looks stricken. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re the man I fell in love with. You’re the only person who has ever put me first. I love you, A-Yuan.”
“Oh,” A-Yuan says. A single tear drips slowly down his cheek. “Binghe... Binghe I love you too. So much.” Another tear mirrors the first, landing in the translucent silk of his robes.
A-Yuan initiates their kiss this time. It’s much less frantic, but the soft press of their lips together burns through Binghe like nothing else could.
When they part, A-Yuan’s tears have dried. “Binghe,” he sighs, “call my name again.”
“A-Yuan.”
“Again.”
“A-Yuan, A-Yuan, A-Yuan.”
“When we’re together like this, only call me that. Please.”
“For the rest of our lives, A-Yuan.”