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It started simply as just something less than sharp focus in the morning. Started as a sneeze, presumably at some irritant he hadn’t identified.
But it had become more of a persistent headache. The use of a constant flow of spiritual energy through his body to ease muscle aches, clear sinuses. Just sustain his body well enough to be unnoticeable in public.
It was the last day. The last day of the cultivation conference. He had thought he had made it. Thought he had successfully pushed through without having to excuse himself.
Because if he missed anything, then he’d have to ask someone else to step in. And if that person had to step in, both he and the Lan disciple would have to write a report. And if they had to write a report, that would not only be more work Lan Xichen didn’t want to contemplate doing right now, and also meant that Lan Qiren would know about it. Then the currently shell-shocked Cloud Recesses would have to deal with his shortcomings, even while trying to recover from his brother’s actions.
His brother, who might not even trust him right now, no matter if he’d carried him on his back, bleeding, hardly conscious back to his room, with Lan Xichen only sometimes catching the most heartwrenching cries: Wei Ying. Come back. His brother, who needed Lan Xichen – whether he knew it or not. Lan Xichen knew he hadn’t been able to save his brother from harm. But he could push to mitigate its effects – to let his brother heal in solitude, to grieve without disturbance. Lan Xichen would behind the scenes to make it so, even if, as sect leader, as a brother, he felt he should have been able to do more. But couldn’t do that if he was sick.
But Lan Xichen had made it here. To the last day of the conference. He would be heading back to Cloud Recesses a week from now, after the last few celebratory banquets once today’s discussions were done.
He was tired, but he was so close. Had pushed through days of quiet suppression of headaches, of sniffling, muscles aching. Nothing too severe. Nothing a bit of spiritual energy couldn’t quiet.
But this morning, as he’d awoken, after barely being able to stay asleep the previous night, he’d let out a quiet moan.
His head had been pounding. His bedsheets soaked with sweat. His breath coming in short pants.
No no no. He’d shaken his head, throwing the sheets off of himself and stumbling, shivering to his feet. No no no. This wouldn’t be. Couldn’t be. These were signs of fever. Full-blown fever. But he couldn’t be sick. Couldn’t. Not for so many reasons. So he decided he wouldn’t be.
He made the bed, using a spare set of sheets he had been provided, thanking the Lan reputation for pristine, routine habits, for the expectation that the disciples deal with their own bedding, especially as guests.
He allowed himself the luxury to sweat, to shiver, to pant until it was time to dress. Until it was time to show his face.
Once he had washed, he started to let the energy flow. Force the symptoms to subside, at least the noticeable ones, as he put himself together for the day. With a smile and a nod to the veneer he had constructed for himself in the mirror, he had left for the day.
He had forced himself to eat his ordinary breakfast. To smile at his fellow cultivators, greet Nie Mingjue, let the man talk about all the things he would rather listen to besides Jin Guangshan going on about all the artisans, the staff, the preparation that would go into the next banquet.
But all this was only through a dense fog.
Nie Mingjue whispered to him, and he answered. Barely following the conversation, not knowing what he had said, what had been said, even moments later.
The fog was only truly interrupted when he noticed Nie Mingjue’s signs of not just restlessness but agitation beside him. These were signs he knew well, from their shared time on the battlefield.
He cleared his throat. If there was something wrong, he needed the other man to know he was fine. Could be trusted to help.
“Da-ge. What’s wrong?”
--
Nie Mingjue wouldn’t have seen if he hadn’t been looking.
Wouldn’t have noticed if he didn’t know the man’s face so well.
Wouldn’t have said anything if his worry hadn’t far outpaced any mild embarrassment at having been caught staring.
“What’s wrong, Xichen?” Nie Mingjue whispered out the corner of his mouth.
And instantly the small fold between his friend’s eyebrows, the frown so small it would be a neutral expression on anyone else, the slight narrowing to his eyes, smoothed away. The smile was back, “Nothing, da-ge, just a bit cold in here is all.”
Then Xichen turned back to face the front of the room, where Jin Guangshan was lecturing the visiting sect leaders about something other. A clear signal that Xichen meant for the conversation to be over. For now at least.
The lecture seemed to drag on. The Chief Cultivator’s priorities were hard to care about at the best of times, but now that Nie Mingjue knew what to look for, he didn’t fail to notice the almost, but not quite perfectly, repressed shivering next to him.
Mingjue fidgeted. Lans weren’t supposed to react this way. They shouldn’t so much as tense at a room that was “just a bit cold.” They spent all that time in that unbearable cold spring, after all. And Nie Mingjue had been invited, coerced into it one too many times to believe that the sunny banquet hall anywhere near approached the frigid force – soothing, according to Zewu-jun – of the springs.
The midday break finally rolled around and it was all Mingjue could do to not leap up and grab Xichen by his wrist, drag him outside and demand to know what was wrong.
Fortunately, then deeply worryingly, that was not necessary. Before he had even turned to Xichen, the man had already reached out, grasped Mingjue by the shoulder, “Come with me?” The man said quietly, a slight pleading look in his eyes.
Mingjue nodded numbly, heart beating rapidly. He had been ready for a fight – albeit a silent battle of wills, simply needing to brush off an unending barrage of “I’m fines” – but a fight nonetheless. It was unsettling that Xichen too admitted the situation merited attention.
Or so he thought.
A clearing of a throat, “Da-ge. What’s wrong?” Lan Xichen asked, looking up at him with a tone dripping in genuine concern once they stood alone on one of the Jinlintai balconies.
Oh. Typical. Mingjue sighed deeply, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow at the other man, “You think there’s something wrong with me?”
“Isn’t there?” he frowned, “I-I thought… I worried…” his stuttering might have been funny (even cute a voice in Mingjue’s head whispered) in any other circumstance, but for now, all Nie Mingjue saw was further evidence that Zewu-jun was losing control of his perfectly sculpted mask.
“You’re worried. About me.” Nie Mingjue summarized bluntly, needing to get to the root of this before the session was called back in.
Lan Xichen smiled, nodding, not seeming to notice he was rubbing his own arms – unusual for him, whether it was to sooth nerves or for heat, “Of course I am, da-ge. I can always tell when there is something on your mind and just now…”
Now Nie Mingjue can only groan, “Yes, Xichen, of course I was worried.” Xichen blinked, Mingjue taking the pause to notice the glassiness to them. He continued, “But about you.”
Xichen relaxed, “Me? Why?” He seemed to chuckle at the thought.
This man.
“Xichen, give me your wrist,” Nie Mingjue held out a palm impatiently.
The Lan sect leader furrowed his brow, now frowning in earnest as he pulled back his sleeve, inspected his bare wrist as though some answer lay in its soft skin, “I don’t know what you think is…”
“Xichen. Don’t bullshit me on this,” Nie Mingjue caught his eyes, which had startled wide at Mingjue’s sudden stern tone. No longer impatient, but frustrated, “Don’t think you can… that you should,” he flinched at how wounded his voice sounded at this last bit, “that you have to hide when you’re not feeling well. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Lan Xichen’s shoulders slumped. Not dramatically, but noticeably enough.
--
The demand had hit him hard. The precariously upheld illusion seemed to fall apart and he felt his posture slide, felt his face fall.
“Mingjue, please.” He hated the way his voice caught, but he needed to do this. Needed to finish this. Just this afternoon at least. But nonetheless, he reached his arm over, placed his wrist in Mingjue’s palm, “Wait until after the discussions.”
“You’re using way too much spiritual energy,” Mingjue answered matter-of-factly, taking Xichen’s wrist, “Even if you can make it through this afternoon, you could cause serious damage if you over strain it like this.” He pursed his lips, “I won’t stop you from doing… whatever you’re going to do. I wouldn’t interfere in what you think is right, especially not with…” He seemed to think twice about finishing that sentence. They both knew how it would end. And Lan Xichen, for one, was happy not to hear it aloud.
Lan Xichen smiled as his body screamed in frustration, “Thank you, da-ge, for understanding-”
“But,” Nie Mingjue ploughed forward, “No more spiritual energy use.”
Lan Xichen straightened, affronted, “Then how will I…?”
Nie Mingjue averted his gaze, looking down to the floor, “Not yours anyway.”
Xichen wasn’t sure why, but he flushed. The offer shouldn’t mean anything. Nothing more than a practical solution to Xichen’s dilemma. Nothing different from the times, during the war, where Xichen, where Mingjue, where any other number of cultivators had shared their spiritual energy with another – to help them heal, to live. What was different now?
Xichen gulped, trying not to be alarmed at the soreness once again building in his throat, “Ok.” His whispered, quietly enough that the rasp his voice threatened wouldn’t be obvious.
“Ok,” Mingjue agreed, “It’s on you until we get back to the tables and then…”
Xichen nodded, trying not to let tears slip out in relief, “Thank you.”
“Thank me by getting a good night’s rest tonight,” Mingjue answered flippantly, but even through the haze of his mild fever, Xichen saw the colour to Mingjue’s cheeks, which seemed to match his own.
--
Under the table, through the long, dense afternoon lectures, two hands touched.
Lan Xichen was able to stay awake, alert enough to draw no unwanted attention. He made it through the afternoon, then, switching back to his own spiritual energy, broke from Mingjue long enough to say the appropriate formalities before the two of them went back to Xichen’s rooms.
As soon as the door slid shut, he sank. Still graceful. Still controlled. But suddenly, inevitably, pulled to the ground.
Or he would have been, if Nie Mingjue hadn’t been there, ready, as the carefully constructed façade finally, finally melted away.
“Thank you, Mingjue,” Xichen whispered as he closed his eyes and drifted off, right by the door in Mingjue’s arms.
Mingjue rolled his eyes. How had Xichen let it get this bad? But he lifted the man, carried him to the bed.
“Sleep well, Xichen,” he whispered as he smoothed the hair back, removed the headpiece, peeled off the finely crafted outer robes, left the forehead ribbon untouched. He lay the sleeping man down, tucked the sheets neatly around him, hoping to warm him, stop the shivering, “It’s the least you deserve.”