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Liu Qingge was pissed.
Not at his disciples. Well, no more than what he usually was when it was obvious they slacked off while he was gone. No, he was pissed off at himself.
Barely a month had passed since he’d returned from that disaster of a mission. Four and a half weeks and this is only the third time he was allowed up to oversee the sparring match going on between his disciples.
It wasn’t the frequency, or lack there of, that bothered him. It was what was happening now that alerted him to the fact that he’d “pushed himself too hard” again.
All he’d done was provide some hands on training before either idiot child disciple wound up braining the other from their foolishness. And now he was going to be punished for it. By his own head. And Mu Qingfang. And his husbands.
It started soon after he’d returned to his position in the shade, leaning against the pillar supporting the entry of the training grounds. A creeping stiffness growing in his neck along the right side, quickly followed by the left. His hands clenched in his robes where his arms crossed to prevent himself from giving anything away. Refusing to turn to look at any of the disciples brave enough to speak to him wasn’t out of the ordinary for him, thankfully. The less he moved his head the better.
An hour later the flashes started. At first he thought it was the afterimages of the dulled metal practice swords flashing in the sunlight. Therefore it was ignored until they multiplied, making him suck in a breath at how blinding they were. They quickly morphed into patches of black in the corners of his eyes.
Liu Qingge’s anger shifted at that time. To resignation at his fate. Without turning his head he called over Yang Xiyuan, who was standing to the side trying to guide a younger disciple through their botched form.
He doesn’t even get further than a whispered, “Get-” before he’s toppling sideways. Hands reach out for him, too little, too late. He hits the ground shoulder first. Then head. The impact punches the air right out of him as he blacks out.
Mu Qingfang’s going to be so angry.
~*~
‘Waking up is such a chore after these fits,’ Liu Qingge thinks as he slowly wakes up. He doesn’t bother with opening his eyes or even moving a finger. First, he takes stock of what doesn’t hurt. Which would be everything below the waist. In between spikes of pain he manages to weakly marvel at that.
Thankfully the world’s pitch black and silent around him. A thick cloth, warm and wet and dripping down into his hair, covers his eyes. The lack of sight doesn’t stop his stomach from rolling sickeningly. Each angry churn causes his breathing to pick up, makes him swallow convulsively around the rising bile. The darkness only makes it easier to focus on the unpleasant sensation.
A groan, low and breathy, signals to the others in the room that he’s waking up. Their qi flares briefly at the surprise, causing another spike of pain. Cold hands press against his forehead, his temples, both cheeks. The pain recedes marginally at the cooler temperature, drawing a relieved sigh from him.
Someone’s talking. To him? To someone else in the room? He can’t tell with how muffled it is. Like he’s underwater. The cloth over his eyes is removed. The light, dim as it is through his eyelids is the last straw. A horrible gurgling noise is their only warning.
Thankfully it’s enough.
Hands are rolling him onto his side. Another pair hold his head and hair as he hangs over the edge of the bed. No one lets him curl up in a miserable ball like he wants as he empties his stomach.
Emptying his stomach is… simply put, unpleasant. More words float down, still incomprehensible. Each beat of his rabbiting heart makes his head hurt even more, which in turn literally turns his stomach. He’s stuck in a loop of pounding head and vomiting.
In between bouts, now of dry heaving until his stomach threatens to cramp, he’s given sips of water. Going down it’s soothing to his aching throat. Coming back up a few minutes later undoes all its hard work.
The voices are worried. One noticeably so. Probably Binghe. That man’s strong as a mountain until one of his husbands is hurt or sick. That’s his muffled voice rising slightly in pitch, driving another knife of pain into Liu Qingge’s brain. He lowers his voice at his husband’s moan that’s quickly followed by another round of heaving. The intensity of his words don’t abate though.
When the newest round of trying to expel his actual stomach tappers off, a new cup is pressed to his lips. Liu Qingge tries in vain to turn his head away. ‘Haven’t they learned yet?’ he moans pitifully to himself. If he hadn’t been two hours into being physically sick he would’ve knocked the cup away.
As it is, he’s helpless to prevent Mu Qingfang from pouring something decidedly not water down his throat. It goes down thick and slimy. As his head pulses in pain from exerting himself, he can feel it coating his throat and stomach.
Reminds him of a monster hunt a few months ago. Before the nightmare of a mission that put him down for weeks. The rancid creature had bled on him before he’d been able to finish it off. The taste was better though. Not that he’d drank the monster’s blood. Smell was more than enough to give him an idea. This was more floral than the scent of rotten meat.
It goes down, thick and slimy, and thank all the gods looking down on foolish cultivators named Liu Qingge, it stays down. He swallows a couple more times just to be sure. Loosely curled up on his side, he waits. After all this he’s not naive enough to think it’s over just like that.
Long moments pass and no one moves, including him, and nothing happens.
Finally someone heaves a sigh. The world’s taken on a floaty kind of quality. Thoughts about the monster, the concoction, his husband. All of them blur around the edges in his mind. The bed’s suddenly much softer than it ever has been. The hands gently pushing and pulling him where they want? Might as well not exist for how little he can feel them on his skin.
There’s pressure against his scalp. A quick pinprick of pain like he’s being pinched. Three more follow in quick succession in various spots on his head. ‘What a weird place to pinch someone,’ he thinks. That thought is quickly followed by surprise. ‘Doesn’t hurt.’ Like remembering the slimy monster, this thought was amazingly pain-free.
“Wha-?”
Firm hands press against his back. “Don’t. Move. You. Idiot.” More sharp pain on his person. This time at the meat between his thumb and forefinger.
‘Ahh, there’s Mu Qingfang. Knew I wasn’t going to escape him.’ Liu Qingge’s brain, now clear of pain and running free on endorphins, supplied him with a mental picture of him trying just that. A low giggle escapes with him none the wiser.
Also unknown to him was the stare of wonderment on his husband’s face. “What did you give him?” All Liu Qingge could hear was how happy his sticky husband was. And that was all right. He let his husband and their healer chatter on about whatever they pleased. He was more preoccupied watching this fairy tale his brain had conjured up to the end.
~*~
Shen Qingqiu enters their home much later than he wanted. It took all of his self control to not carelessly fling his sword and shoes to the side and rush over to their bed. Still, he makes it to his reclining husbands much faster than normal.
Luo Binghe’s resting on his back, a veritable mountain of pillows behind him to keep him mostly upright. He still wore the robes he’d put on this morning. Shen Qingqiu can’t help wrinkling his nose at that despite knowing it wasn’t done on purpose. Luo Binghe pauses in reciting a book he’d memorized at Shen Qingqiu’s approach. On the table beside him are multiple sachets of tea, a bowl of cool water, and an empty tea pot.
Laying face down on his stomach is their recovering husband. He, at least, had been changed into a fresh pair of pants and sleep robe. But that could be because he’d managed to dirty his other robes when he’d fainted. Luo Binghe was running his very talented fingers through Liu Qingge’s loose hair, prompting happy little sighs and murmurs from the downed war god.
Shen Qingqiu takes a seat at the edge of the bed, hip to hip with Luo Binghe. “How is he?”
~*~
Liu Qingge, for his part, has never felt better.
There were hands in his hair. Nails scraping against his scalp every once in a while. Fingertips pressing hard at the base of his neck, the top of his head, his temples. His pillow moves up and down slowly, mesmerizing, in time to his slow breathing. Deep soothing vibrations travel up through it into his chest, his head, down to his arms and legs. If he had more energy to move, or care, it’d make his ear tickle from being so close to the source.
But then the vibrations stopped. The hands did too, and that’s not allowed. At all. His fingers twitch, his nose wrinkles in displeasure. Trying to voice his complaints results in… nothing. Nothing more than a unhappy huff and another twitch of his hands.
Going for a second attempt, he’s stopped quickly by a third hand joining. This one on his back. It glides up and down, pressure firm but gentle, as the hands in his hair start up again.
The vibrations start up again. Not as frequent as before. Long pauses between makes Liu Qingge wonder if he’d imagined it right before they continue. There’s a new source, behind him? Above? Not as strong. Still comforting though.
Enough to keep him happily floating about in his head.
~*~
By the next day the migraine has mostly faded to nothing more than an unpleasant memory. Mostly.
Liu Qingge wakes with the scent of medicinal tea in the air. It feels like he’s slept for an hour and at the same time an entire week. His dreams, bright confusing flashes of pain and blood and dizziness fade away. Sitting up is impossible. His head’s heavy on his useless neck. The world refuses to stop spinning for two seconds.
A pair of strong arms wrap around his waist. They pull him up until he’s resting back against Luo Binghe’s chest.
‘Weren’t we just like this?’ Liu Qingge lets his head flop back onto his husband’s shoulder as the thought drifts by. A cup’s held to his lips. He parts them automatically, drinking down the familiar bitter tea.
Tea finished, a cold damp cloth is draped over his forehead and eyes. The resulting sigh is met by amused, but quiet, chuckles. The scent of lavender soon joins the medicinal tea. It grows stronger, making his nose wrinkle in disgust as it’s rubbed into the skin between nose and upper lip.
“Breathe deep,” one of his husbands murmur. One of the hands around his waist comes up to rub against his sternum. The chest beneath his back rises and falls in exaggeration. Like he hasn’t done this multiple times already.
No matter how much he complains he’ll never actually stop his husbands from giving him the nasty tea or putting lavender under his nose. Working together the two destroy what’s left of the migraine. The tingling numbness in his mouth is worth being able to function for the rest of the day. Peppermint oil and ginger tea await him later on. Joy.
Working up enough strength, he asks, “how bad?” in nothing higher than a strained whisper. Which is enough of an answer for him, really.
Several seconds pass by in silence. He’s almost drifted off again, heedless of the strong floral scent invading his nostrils, when Luo Binghe speaks.
“Not as bad as before.” Luo Binghe keeps steadily rubbing Liu Qingge’s chest. It’s soothing for both men. “When you passed out, Yang Xiyuan started giving orders. Disciples were sent to get Mu Qingfang, to inform us, to move you out of the sun and cover your eyes.” He pauses briefly when his husband hums in approval. “They all did well in looking after their shizun.”
Liu Qingge fights down a blush at those words. He’s touched that they did so much for him, that they actually care about him no matter how gruff or short he is with them. Luo Binghe continues, telling him how they wouldn’t let anyone near until Mu-Shizun arrived. How they tried to follow as he was taken home, like little ducklings after their mother. The image had both of them chuckling.
“Your orders, by pain of Mu-shizun’s experimental potions, are to take it easy. Light meals once you awaken and as much feverfew or ginger tea you need depending on the symptoms,” Shen Qingqiu informs him. Silent until now, he cups one of Liu Qingge’s cheeks. “How do you feel?”
Liu Qingge sighs in annoyance. Managing to take the now warm cloth off his forehead, he attempts to level a glare at his husband. His very concerned husband, who is so very used to his sometimes rough demeanor, doesn’t bat an eye. Knowing they’ll keep him just like this until he answers honestly, he bites out a, “Fine.”
Shen Qingqiu stares at him a little longer. Behind him Luo Binghe barely breathes as their husband judges the truthfulness of his word. To prove it, Liu Qingge offers up his wrist. Taking it in hand, Shen Qingqiu quietly checks pulse and qi. After a few seconds he nods his approval
“Thank you.” A kiss is placed on his wet forehead. “Do you feel up to eating anything? It’s been almost a day since you last ate. Mu-shidi doesn’t want you taking any more of the pain potions without something in your stomach.”
Luo Binghe chimes in from above his head. “They made you very… loopy yesterday.”
“I was not!” Liu Qingge argues back quietly. He tries to sit up, to turn around to properly smack his annoying husband. The world tilts slowly as he struggles. Shen Qingqiu’s hand still holding onto his stops him quickly.
“No sudden movement. No stress,” he’s reminded as the scholar smacks Luo Binghe for him.
The action doesn’t work as much as the words. Instantly contrite, Luo Binghe hugs his husband in silent apology. Though he doesn’t stop chuckling.
~*~
Liu Qingge spends the rest of the day recovering in a light daze.
He’s allowed out of bed, at least. A light meal gives him enough energy to grudgingly have some paperwork fetched. As much as he hates it, it does need to be done. He won’t let something as inconsequential as a migraine stop him from his duties for long.
Yang Xiyuan appears between one blink and the next. Reluctantly Liu Qingge lifts his head from Shen Qingqiu’s shoulder, unaware of having taken a short nap sitting up.
His disciple approaches quietly, putting his training to good use. Stacks of papers the An Ding peak lord demands -requisitions, damage reports, and is that a progress report he has to fill out?- are placed on the table in front of him. While he sits there staring at the veritable mountain of work, Yang Xiyuan stares at him.
Frowning at his shizun, Yang Xiyuan asks, “How do you feel, shizun?” His voice is ridiculously quiet. So quiet that Liu Qingge doesn’t hear it the first time. Repeating it no louder than a whisper gains a reaction.
Liu Qingge matches his frown. In usual fashion, he answers with a brisk, “Fine.” It’s neither loud nor soft, at the perfect volume for speaking respectfully indoors. He doesn’t mention that he appreciates Yang Xiyuan’s concern though. Can’t have any of his disciples, especially his head disciple, getting soft.
Yang Xiyuan nods and bids his farewell to both peak lords. More than likely rushing back to report to the others. Oh well. They have until tomorrow to slack off. Once he’s back on his feet he’ll put them through the wringer again.
As he works through the reports (and it was a progress report, damnit) he sips and nibbles at whatever’s placed near him. Ginger tea keeps any nausea at bay while light cakes keep him awake enough to power through.
A few times he’s been pulled back to himself by a hand on his, only to see the report he remembered working on had changed.
By evening his legs have gone completely numb. After a refreshing walk outside around their tiny home, they come back inside to see Luo Binghe’s set up dinner.
“Unnecessary,” he grumbles later.
He’s laying flat on his back, boneless from the thorough massage Luo Binghe’d treated his back to. His head rolls limply to the side, half lidded eyes watching Shen Qingqiu come to bed with a small jar of oil in hand. Luo Binghe, the demon, lies next to him, keeping him in place with one hand pressed against his bare chest.
“Maybe so,” Shen Qingqiu diplomatically agrees. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he dabs the oil onto his fingers. His clean hand goes to swipe the short hairs away from his husband’s forehead. “But it would make Binghe and I feel better.” A chaste kiss on the forehead before he starts his own massage.
Despite his objection, Liu Qingge further melts into the bed. The peppermint oil’s cool against his skin. Shen Qingqiu’s fingers strong and sure as they rub it over his forehead and along his temples. Luo Binghe, no longer needing to “restrain” his husband, rubs his hand up and down Liu Qingge’s chest in a soothing motion.
‘Two husbands against one isn’t fair,’ Liu Qingge thinks sleepily. All throughout the day he’s suffered no real side effects of this latest migraine. ‘Even so, Mu Qingfang will come by in the morning for a check up. I’ll have to sneak out at first light.’
Massage at an end, he lets his husbands manoeuvre him as they please. Eyes closed and quickly drifting off, he doesn’t notice the shared look over his shoulders. Nor does he realize he’d been mumbling his plan out loud.
Luo Binghe fails to hide an amused chuckle. A quick nod to Shen Qingqiu leads to him pulling out the toy box under their bed. The Immortal Binding Cables are removed to be set aside for the morning.
They promised to look out for each other. If that means tying one of them up so that they can’t escape a medical exam, then so be it. And maybe, maybe, if he passes said exam they’ll make it worth his time.