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Chapter Text

“I said to corral it,” Shang Qinghua yells, veering out of the way of one flailing, monstrous limb, sword clinging to the bottoms of his feet by barely a thread of Qi. “Corral, not chase away! ”

“Do I look like a shepherd, to you?” Liu Qingge hollers back, glaring so fiercely into the face of the beast — wherever that was — that it’s like the man thinks he can maintain direct eye contact with all hundred of the thing’s eyes at once. 

“If this thing gets away from us, it’ll be at large, shidi! And it will get away if you chase it, because it’s way faster than you’d think!” 

Shang Qinghua ducks again, waving a wild hand in direction for a fellow peak lord to cover him. Ju Qingsong, beast taming master who knows the ins and outs of subduing creatures far greater than his size, zooms overhead and levels a rather debilitating attack with just a piece of paper and his hand. Shang Qinghua abruptly and very enthusiastically loves the man. 

He crouches on the flat of his blade and directs the sword away from his previous position, instead alighting on the same arm of wind as Liu Qingge. 

“Why can’t we just kill it,” the Bai Zhan lord complains petulantly, quieter now that they’re beside each other. 

“It will explode, shidi,” Shen Qingqiu explains as he descends from slightly above them. 

Shang Qinghua floats his sword to the side to give the man some room. 

“Every single part of that creature’s insides is severely caustic, from its flesh to its blood. It’s body will burst apart upon death, raining down across a wide expanse of whatever area is underneath it.”

“You’d put the entire sect under acid rain. For days. The absolute destruction that’ll cause, ugh.” Shang Qinghua puffs out. 

The three of them set in to catch their breaths, watching avidly as their fellow peak lords flit through the air on their own swords, keeping the writhing mass of multiple arms and eyes at bay. It’s the size of a mountain itself, and one of the most dangerous monsters that Airplane had ever come up with. He wishes ardently, in this moment, that he never had. He wishes that about a lot of things, come to think of it. 

“It’s not named the Hell Calamity for nothing,” Shen Qingqiu comments, proving once again that he is a walking encyclopedia for all things PIDW. 

‘Not a fan’ indeed! Nah, Shen-ge, you’re just a huge fucking nerd. It’s okay, though, Shang Qinghua loves you anyway. It’s not like he isn’t a nerd, himself. 

“Liu-shidi,” he says seriously. He brings his sword around until he’s in front of the Bai Zhan lord and looks him in the eye. “If you cause acid rain to fall onto the sect for the prophesied three days and nights that the death of a Hell Calamity promises, there won’t be a Cang Qiong mountain sect anymore.”

“Burned right off the map,” Shen Qingqiu inputs, watching as Liu Qingge’s face takes on a pale sheen. 

Shang Qinghua bobs his head in affirmation. “Also, if that happens, I will shove my hand down your throat and rip out your esophagus to feed to my horse,” he says. “Unnecessarily, because in that case my horse will be dead from acid. I love that horse, Liu-shidi. If you kill it with acid just because your sword arm is twitchy, I’ll never forgive you.”

“And your disciples, Shang-ge.” Shen Qingqiu reminds drily, eyeing Yue Qingyuan as the sect leader dives down from a high altitude and brings down a sword — not his spiritual one, obviously — to cast a vast standard net array, which is unfortunately knocked easily aside by one of the Hell Calamity’s flailing arms. Of course it can’t be easy. “I’m sure you’re worried about them as well.”

Shang Qinghua flaps a hand dismissively. “All my kids are already evacuated with the rest of the sect disciples. They’ll survive. It’s the finances that’ll be required in the reconstruction of the peaks that I’m worried about. Imagine the paperwork.”

“And your horse,” Liu Qingge says, a crease of confusion between his brows that doesn’t really do anything to distract from the faint pink that’s imbued his cheeks, oddly, from the moment that Shang Qinghua had so pointedly threatened him. 

“And my horse.” Shang Qinghua agrees. 

“Heads up!” Someone yells. 

The three of them scatter, nosing their swords into a steep dive in order to avoid the massive, leathery arm that surges out in an attempt to grab at them. 

Qi Qingqi speeds up to it, swinging a blunted but still extremely heavy talisman club around to knock it away. 

It’s a close shave, nonetheless, and Shang Qinghua takes a moment to retrieve the breath that he’d lost in the diversion. He’d felt the wind from that push his bangs back, like a firm but gentle caress. Holy shit. 

“Chang-shidi!” He hears Yue Qingyuan shout. “How is the array coming along?”

Chang Qingzhi — array and talisman extraordinaire and peak lord of the research and development peak — doubles back toward the sect leader, flinging talisman after talisman out of his sleeves at the Hell Calamity. Some stick, but a lot of them don’t, and Shang Qinghua can see the look of sheer frustration on the man’s face even from several hundred feet away. 

“Ongoing!” Chang Qingzhi admits, and reaches into his robes to pull out a fresh stack of talismans. “I need a hand, actually!”

“Shang Qinghua, Shen Qingqui, Liu Qingge! Regroup and assist Chang Qingzhi.” Yue Qingyuan orders.

The sect leader dives back down without waiting to see if they’ll abide, to where Qi Qingqi and Ju Qingsong are tag teaming the monster with Mu Qingfang and Wei Qingwei. The group of five breaks apart to serve as a distraction to the wandering and extremely destructive arms of the Hell Calamity. 

Which, of course they’ll follow orders! But the faith Zhangmen-shixiong has in them all is extremely motivating. 

He watches as Rong Qingsheng and Shui Qingyu rush forth to aid the others in drawing the Hell Calamity further away from the peaks, ascetic peak lord Kang Qingxiu hot on their heels. 

Truly, the peak lords of Cang Qiong are nothing to sneeze at. 

Confident that his martial siblings will be able to keep the monster away from them, Shang Qinghua turns to push his blade toward where Cang Qingzhi waits. 

A packet of talismans is immediately slapped to his chest. Shang Qinghua brings up a hand to catch it before it can fall to the mountains thousands of feet below them, and glances over to find Shen Qingqiu already thumbing through the slips of paper with a look of fascination on his face. 

“Genius as always, shidi,” his bro compliments, the awe obvious in his voice, and Chang Qingzhi turns red in the face. The man never had learnt how to take well-deserved praise. 

“I need you all to help me attach an entire packet to the beast.” Chang Qingzhi explains, handing another stack of talismans to a silently brooding Liu Qingge. “Don’t worry about the order. As long as we can at least get them all to stick, then the array will work. However….”

“The skin is slippery,” Shang Qinghua makes a face of disgust. “With its own sweat, which makes it highly corrosive to the talisman paper.”

“Is that why,” Chang Qingzhi breathes. He grits his teeth and glances with a terrible glare over to where their martial siblings are essentially entertaining the Hell Calamity. “I see. How irritating. In that case, please activate each talisman with your Qi before attaching it.”

“Won’t that use up the spell before we can set the total array?” Shen Qingqiu frowns.

“Not in this case. The talismans are all tied together with a fail safe. They won’t begin their functions until the array itself is activated. However,” Chang Wingzhi narrows his eyes, “you must stick the talismans to the beast as soon as possible after activating them. They won’t function without the array, but their spells will go dormant without the body heat of the Hell Calamity keeping it active.”

“How long of a window do we have after activating the talisman before it becomes useless?” Shen Qingqiu asks.

“Sixty breathes.”

“Goddamn,” Shang Qinghua curses in English, flipping through his own packet of talismans. 

The workmanship is flawless and incredible, as is always the case with Chang Qingzhi. He had written this man to be a creative genius of the highest order, but seeing him in action is truly something else. He never ceases to amaze. 

Still, even Chang Qingzhi isn’t able to pull miracles. 

He momentarily entertains the idea of asking the system for any tips it might have, but he’s not sure it wouldn’t just be useless anyway. There had been no quest notification before the Hell Calamity had attacked, and there is no count down for completion or offer of points, whether they be rewards for succeeding in the defeat of the monster or a deduction for failure. This event is clearly outside of the system parameters. Not surprising, given that it isn’t part of the canon plot. The Hell Calamity didn’t debut in PIDW until chapter 780, if he’s remembering it right. 

Eh, Shen-ge would know the exact number. 

It’s kind of an odd feeling, though, given that most of his life here had been dictated by the system to even the smallest degree. To be in a battle without questline perimeters glowing around the very edges of his vision is…

It’s weird. 

He exchanges an uneasy glance with his fellow transmigrator, before nodding.

“Understood,” they echo Liu Qingge, and the four peak lords part ways. 

“Have the system set a timer for a minute,” Shang Qinghua says to him just before zooming off on his sword, and Shen Qingqiu nearly smacks himself in the face with his own fan. 

What a simple solution! How the hell didn’t he think of that? Shang-ge really does have some good ideas, sometimes.

He glances to his left to see Liu Qingge staring down at the packet in his hands with a look of consternation, and feels a little bit of pity. His poor shidi doesn’t have a system, so he’ll have to count manually after activating each talisman. 

Huh. He never thought he’d actually be thankful for having a system. 

[Good reviews are greatly appreciated!] The system dings inside his head, and Shen Qingqiu’s lips turn downward to match his frown. He rips off the talisman at the top of the packet and approaches the Hell Calamity at top speed. He saturates the talisman with his Qi and watches from the corner of his eye as the characters inked into the paper abruptly begin to glow. 

Alexa, set a timer for sixty seconds.

[...]

Inwardly, he snickers as, despite the system’s inferred annoyance, a red set of numbers appears in the corner of his vision. [[00:59:99.]]

The rapid speed at which the two end numbers immediately begin to count downward in milliseconds is heavily motivating, and Shen Qingqiu ducks down to avoid a flailing monster limb, before changing his mind and reaching out to slap the talisman to its skin just as it flies past him.

“Shit,” Shen Qingqiu hisses, drawing his hand to his chest and backing out of the line of fire. 

He opens his fist to find his palm an angry red and covered in blisters. 

Right. Acidic sweat. 

Airplane, why?

[[Timer stopped at 00:45:73! Would Host like to restart?]]

Shen Qingqiu sighs. He focuses on his hands and coats them in a very thin layer of Qi, like a pair of very glowy gloves. He feels like he’s dressing up for a rave. Restart.

[[Restarting timer now! 00:59:99.]]

He rips off another talisman from the packet and blinks as the characters immediately light up. 

Oh, of course. The raw Qi around his hands is sucked into the paper. Shen Qingqiu lets out an aggrieved sigh and recoats the hand holding the talisman in a new layer of Qi. Since the talisman is already activated and fully saturated with Qi, it doesn’t absorb this… glove like it had the one before. 

[[00:42:39.]]

Fuck, fuck—

Shen Qingqiu crouches on his sword, grips the blade with his free hand, Qi protecting his skin from its sharp edge, and flies full-tilt toward the Hell Calamity that flails it’s many-eyed, colossal arms in a highly threatening manner through the skies directly over Cang Qiong. He feels irritation bloom inside of his chest as he watches it.

The packet is nearly as thick as his thumb is long. This… will definitely take a while. 

Six hours. 

It’s nearly six fucking hours later, that Chang Qingzhi lets out a loud sound of triumph just as Shang Qinghua slaps his final talisman directly into one of the Hell Calamity’s many massive eyeballs. 

“That’s it!” The man shouts. “We have all necessary components attached! Activating the sealing array now! Everyone get back!”

The collective peak lords, by now very tired of ducking and dodging and weaving around this ridiculous monster, all perk up and immediately pivot on their sword to zoom in the opposite direction as quickly as they can. 

Shang Qinghua turns to do the same, when out of the corner of his eye he spots something that nearly gives him heart failure. 

“Shit!” He cries, and reroutes his sword back toward the seriously angered Hell Calamity. Can the beast possibly feel the array that is slowly building itself in a huge, brightly glowing circle of characters around its body? Does it know it’s about to be forcibly escorted out of this plain of existence?

He’s not sure if he cares, to be honest. 

To be honest, Shang Qinghua is much to busy panicking over the fact that his stupid, adrenaline-obssessed martial brother is so caught up in batting away flailing monster arms the size of thirty semi trucks in a row with a talisman club that he clearly hadn’t even heard Chang Qingzhi’s order of retreat. 

“Liu-shidi!” He shouts, and feels extremely vexed when Liu Qingge doesn’t acknowledge him. Idiot! “Liu shi— oh, goddammit. Qingge!”

Liu Qingge jolts, talisman club slipping entirely out of his grasp as he whips around and stares at the rapidly approaching Shang Qinghua with wide gray eyes. 

“Are you fucking serious?!” Shang Qinghua asks, and doesn’t give his martial siblings time to answer. 

He reaches out with both hands and grabs Liu Qingge fully by the collar of his robes, whips around, and pushes as much Qi as he can into the sword attached to the soles of his feet without completely shattering the blade itself, urging it to fly faster than he thinks it’s ever flown before. 

Liu Qingge is frozen for barely a handful of seconds, until he’s forced by the buffeting winds to wrap an anchoring arm around Shang Qinghua’s neck. 

Shang Qinghua is almost to a safe distance — almost — when he senses an altogether massive explosion of energy from behind them. It’s wrong, somehow, despite Chang Qingzhi’s distant holler of victory, and so he floods the muscles of his upper body with the last bit of Qi he has. He hauls back and bodily throws Liu Qingge forward just as his vision cuts off. 

All Shang Qinghua is able to see is black. 

“Holy fuck,” Qi Qingqi whistles in amazement.

Shen Qingqiu has to agree with her, really. The peak lords gather on the outcropping cliff a few mountains away and watch in awe as the writhing beast the size of one of their own peaks, previously having blocked out the sky so completely that it felt like it was evening instead of early afternoon, abruptly vanishes into thin air.

The sun nearly pierces his eyes, and Shen Qingqiu turns away to blink tears from them while his martial siblings make sounds of surprise. 

He’d really love to go over and interrogate the grinning Chang Qingzhi, that absolute genius, about the massive array that he had just executed mostly by the seat of his pants, but Shen Qingqiu has priorities.

He stalks over, each step stabbing the heels of his boots into the dirt out of sheer fury, and yanks Liu Qingge forward by his already mussed up collar. He forcibly drags the man away from where Shang Qinghua has collapsed to the ground, gasping for air after that insane rescue maneuver that he’d likely just spent the last of his energy on. 

“You absolute moron,” he yells, and the others are suddenly quiet in the face of Shen Qingqiu’s raised voice. He doesn’t blame them — normally, he would never shout. 

However. 

He shakes Liu Qingge, knuckles white. “Are you deaf?” He demands. “Are you an idiot? I thought you had a brain in that otherwise empty head of yours, was I wrong?”

“Shen-shixiong,” Mu Qingfang approaches warily, frowning at him. “What are you—?”

“Did you not hear Chang Qingzhi call for retreat?” Shen Qingqiu bulldozes over the doctor — Sorry, Mu-shidi, but he is too far angry to let you speak. “Do you not realize you that could have died? If Shang Qinghua hadn’t noticed you, you’d be nothing but ash right now! If he wasn’t as fast as he is, he might have joined you! Liu Qingge, you fucking idiot!”

Liu Qingge’s face is pale, and there is a furious glare adorning his features. His gray eyes are wide and glistening at the edges, and if Shen Qingqiu didn’t know the man like he does now, he might think that Liu Qingge is angry with him for daring to scold him. But, no. That’s clearly guilt on the Bai Zhan lord’s face. That emotion in his eyes is fear, and not for the close shave with death that he’d just experienced, but for someone else. 

A shiver of dread climbs up Shen Qingqiu’s spine like the smallest spider, but he overlooks it in order to give his shidi one last shake. His idiot shidi. No brain at all! No thoughts!

“Well?” He demands, and notes that he’s still yelling. The peak lords that are gathered around them watch in silence. 

Liu Qingge’s shoulders are nearly up to his ears, and he turns his glare to the ground. “No.”

The sheer, incandescent urge to murder that Shen Qingqiu is experiencing right now is nigh indescribable. “No?!”

“I—” The muscle in Liu Qingge’s jaw flexes, and he tries again. “The retreat. I didn’t hear it.”

Shen Qingqiu stares at the man, momentarily unable to form a single thought. After a moment, he just shoves him away, clenching his shaking hands in the sleeves of his robe. 

“See Mu-shidi later and get your fucking ears cleaned out, perhaps”, Shen Qingqiu snaps. 

Then, he turns his attention over to where his best friend is still on the ground, shuddering and gasping for the breath he’d lost in his daring escape from the Hell Calamity, and his chest abruptly hurts something fierce. 

“Oh — Shang-ge!”

The others blink in surprise as he rushes over to kneel beside Shang Qinghua, reaching out a hand to press lightly over the slightly smaller man’s hair. 

“Shang Qinghua, what’s wrong?” He demands, voice far softer than what he’d just been using with Liu Qingge. 

“Shen Qingqiu?” Mu Qingfang hedges, following at his heels to hover over the two of them. God, he wishes the man was more observant than this, seriously, because—

“Shang Qinghua,” Shen Qingqiu says. He pets his hand over his best friend’s hair with gentle fingers, ignoring the sting of the burns on his palm. “Why are you crying?”

The other peak lords startle. Mu Qingfang immediately falls into a crouch beside them, Liu Qingge takes an aborted step forward, so tense that he is shaking, and Yue Qingyuan is already making his way over with hurried strides. 

Shang Qinghua gives a quiet whimper. He reaches his hand out to grasp weakly at his fellow transmigrator’s sleeve. He misses. “Shen-ge.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I... I can’t see .”

Shen Qingqiu pauses. He runs his fingers through his friend’s hair once more and says, a little dryly, “It might help if you actually opened your eyes?”

Instead of lightening the tense atmosphere like he intended it to, this makes Shang Qinghua shudder. He shakes his head furiously and, with a sound of great distress, presses both his hands shakily over his eyes. 

“No,” he sobs out. “No.”

There is definitely concern squirming in Shen Qingqiu’s gut, now. The last vestiges of his anger at Liu Qingge promptly dissolves, and he falls the rest of the way to his knees to pull the shaking An Ding peak lord into his arms, cradling him carefully. 

“Hey,” he soothes. “Hey. It’s going to be fine, okay? Why don’t you let Mu-shidi take a look?”

Shang Qinghua shakes his head and curls into his chest, pressing his face into Shen Qingqiu’s collar. A few feet away, Chang Qingzhi is watching them with wide eyes, already shutting down in guilt. As if this was somehow his fault. 

The Qing Jing lord presses out a slightly stressed breath. 

“Shang-ge,” he tries to coax. “Shang Qinghua, look at me.”

“I can’t,” Shang Qinghua insists, trembling. His hands are shaking so badly that he nearly whacks Shen Qingqiu in the jaw. Shen Qingqiu reaches out to grasp that hand in his and hold it still, worry churning in his chest. “I can’t, I can’t—”

“That’s alright, Qinghua,” Mu Qingfang finally says, saving Shen Qingqiu from having to deal with an arm full of panicking best friend. “You don’t have to open your eyes, I can check you over just fine like this.”

The group is silent while the doctor does his thing. Shen Qingqiu holds his friend still while Mu Qingfang presses faintly glowing fingertips to either side of Shang Qinghua’s skull. He keeps his forefingers at the shivering man’s temples, running the other fingers around and behind the ears. There’s a look of concentration on his face as he scans, and something in Shen Qingqiu’s gut tells him that it isn’t good. 

He tightens his hold on his friend, and Shang Qinghua lets out another terrified whimper. 

There’s a dull thud. Shen Qingqiu looks up to find that Liu Qingge has stepped away from the group of peak lords that huddle around them in concern. The Bai Zhan lord is pacing angrily back and forth about a hundred feet away, sword gripped tightly in his fists while he scowls at the ground. 

There’s a hand on his shoulder, and Shen Qingqiu glances to his left to find the worried face of Ju Qingsong staring at the bundle of shuddering peak lord that he has in his arms. 

Ju Qingsong has been a tentative new friend of Shang Qinghua’s, ever since the banquet a few months ago, and Shen Qingqiu knows just enough about the man to know that Ju Qingsong gets attached to people faster than a duckling will imprint on its mother. The concern and faint fear that swims in the beast tamer’s eyes is completely and utterly genuine, which is the only reason why Shen Qingqiu does not shove the man off. 

Mu Qingfang lets out a soft breath. Shen Qingqiu’s eyes snap to him just in time to watch as the doctor leans forward to press his forehead flush against Shang Qinghua’s, closing his eyes as if — as if in solidarity. 

Dread pulls at Shen Qingqiu’s heart. 

“The meridians that connect to the optical pathways are, frankly… a mess.” The doctor quietly reports. “Whatever that energy was, it’s tangled things up so much that certain sections have shut down out of sheer self-preservation. If they hadn’t….” Mu Qingfang pauses, taking a moment to breathe steadily before continuing. 

The rest of them are deathly silent. 

“If they hadn’t,” the doctor continues, voice slightly shaking, “Qinghua’s mind would have been, for lack of a better analogy, set aflame.”

There are several cut off curses that sound from above them, multiple voices that hiss them out in furious fear and worry. Shen Qingqiu’s stomach drops out from under him, and he clutches his best friend to his chest in belated terror. He’d almost been — Shen Yuan had almost lost him?! Just now?

Shang Qinghua takes in a short breath, only to immediately release it again in a breathless sob. He brings up one hand to press over his mouth, leaning away from both Mu Qingfang and Shen Qingqiu in order to cover his eyes with the other.  

“Fuck,” someone stresses, and from the corner of his eye, Shen Qingqui sees Qi Qingqi stomp away from the group to go and join Liu Qingge. Swords are immediately drawn, and the distant sounds of metal clashing fill the previously oppressive silence. Not that the air is no longer oppressive — Shen Qingqui feels like the world bears down on him, pressing him into the dirt. He holds his friend protectively in his arms and can’t resist the tremble that runs down his spine. 

Ju Qingsong lets out a quiet noise. The beast taming peak lord curls his legs underneath himself, crossing his arms with straining muscles while he stares at Shang Qinghua, as if he would rather gather him up into an embrace like Shen Qingqiu already has. Distantly, he can hear Chang Qingzhi murmuring a repetitive, devastated “No, no, no,” as he squats down in the dirt and tugs roughly at his bangs with his hands, punishing himself for something he hasn’t done. 

Goddammit, Airplane. Shen Qingqiu’s friend has so many people that care so deeply for him. If only his friend would fucking realize it. 

Mu Qingfang presses his lips together, and opens his eyes to glance over at Yue Qingyuan instead. He keeps one hand tangled gently in Shang Qinghua’s hair, for all that it seems the man is far too upset to actually accept any comfort. 

“Until we can safely untangle the meridians and reconnect the optical pathways, which will take time,” Mu Qingfang stresses the word, looking as if he’d rather be saying literally anything else. “Until then, Shang Qinghua… he won’t be able to see.”

“He will be blind,” Yue Qingyuan sums up, and immediately drops to his knees beside them, reaching out to curl a firm arm around Shang Qinghua’s shoulders, when the man lets out a desperate keen. 

Mu Qingfang nods, edging back a little to make room for the sect leader. “I… Yes. That’s correct.”

“Shit,” Shen Qingqiu breathes out, eyes stinging. He draws in a careful breath and pins the doctor with a sharp eye. “How long?”

There’s an expression of despair on Mu Qingfang’s face as he shakes his head, and Shen Qingqiu hates it. 

“I don’t know.” The doctor says. “I’ll have to do some research. Theorize and run some controlled experimentation before I’d feel comfortable enough to work on Qinghua himself. The optical pathways are extremely delicate, and I’m still not certain what that energy was, or what exactly it did, just the results.”

“So, weeks,” Shen Qingqui guesses, desperately, and again Mu Qingfang shakes his head. He wishes the man would stop doing that. Just nod! Say yes!

“Months,” Mu Qingfang whispers instead.

Shen Qingqiu draws his legs out from underneath him, crossing them instead just so that he can pull Shang Qinghua into his lap entirely and hold the man closer to his chest. His friend’s trembling has begun anew and with greater vigor, and Shang Qinghua squeezes his arms around Shen Qingqiu’s neck and buries his face into him, now hysterical. 

Shit. Shit. Sight is something that Airplane is heavily reliant on. Not just in the way that it’s a main sense, like it is for everyone who has working eyes. All of the things that Airplane enjoys most require sight. Reading, writing, drawing, playing go — looking avidly at the world around them that he had created, and taking absolute delight (or embarrassment) out of seeing it all come to life. His friend has lost so much more than just his sight, today. 

Beyond that, he needs his eyes to work. The paperwork, overseeing construction, managing their people. Directing agents where they are needed. Hell, even Shang Qinghua’s duties in the North require—

Fuck. Shen Qingqiu curls around his distressed friend and presses his cheek against the top of his head. Shit. How the fuck is Mobei Jun going to react to this?

“We should get back to the sect,” Yue Qingyuan says quietly from above them, and Shen Qingqiu jolts in surprise, having forgotten that the man was there. 

He glances up with wet eyes and finds the third member of their little transmigration club staring down at the both of them with a pinched expression on his otherwise calm face. Yue Qingyuan smooths a hand over the still sobbing Shang Qinghua’s hair. 

“Can Shang-didi walk?” He asks. 

Shen Qingqiu immediately lets out an enraged and incredulous growl. How the fuck can he ask that at a time like this? But Yue Qingyuan just nods his head knowingly, and slowly climbs to his feet. 

“Shen-didi will carry him, then?” The sect leader requests, smoothing down the front of his robes. 

“Yes,” Shen Qingqiu says shortly. “Obviously.”

He feels a little bad for snapping so harshly, when he knows that the man is only covering all of his bases. Sect Leader’s concern for the youngest of their trio is palpable, right there is the tense set of his shoulders, and the way that the corners of his mouth are turned just slightly downward in visible distress. 

But Shen Qingqiu is so high strung, nerves taught with fear and worry over his best friend, who is currently absolutely inconsolable in his arms, that he shoves aside the rational thoughts and just focuses on gathering Shang Qinghua up into his arms.

Mu Qingfang and Ju Qingsong both reach out immediately to help him to his feet. If their hands linger a little too long on Shang Qinghua’s shoulder and back… it’s not like Shang Qinghua is in any state to notice it. 

Yue Qingyuan watches them in silence for a moment, the distant, furious clashing of Qi-shimei and Liu-shidi’s swords sounding in the background. Finally, the sect leader straightens up. 

“We will return to the sect,” he announces. “Mu-shidi will require Shang-didi in Qian Cao?”

“Yes, Zhangmen-shixiong.”

Yue Qingyuan nods pointedly at Shen Qingqiu, who nods back, and then turns on his heel to go and collect their errant martial siblings. 

Shen Qingqiu stands still for a moment, staring sightlessly at nothing while Shang Qinghua clings to his neck and shudders and sobs hysterically into his robes. After a few moments of unsuccessful attempts to swallow down the lump in his throat and rid himself of the stinging in his eyes, Shen Qingqiu briefly closes them and tilts his head down to press his lips to his best friend’s sweat-soaked temple. 

“Listen,” he whispers thickly, as he summons his sword from its sheath and steps onto the flat of it’s blade. Futilely, because he’s pretty sure that Shang Qinghua can’t even hear him over the sounds of his own desperate crying. “Airplane, listen. We’ll fix this, okay? You’re going to be fine.”

He ignores the way that Mu Qingfang and Ju Qingsong both stare sorrowfully at the two of them, too busy trying to also ignore the question of who, exactly, he’s attempting to reassure here. 

Airplane, or himself?

Chapter Text

“The signature of the pulse that caused this is an anomaly,” Mu Qingfang says. “It seems to be some sort of mixture of yin energy and yang energy.”

Shen Qingqiu frowns, folding his hands into his sleeves. “Isn’t that impossible, though?”

“It is,” the doctor agrees. He wrings out the cloth that he’s been soaking in the bowl of some sort of solution that sits before him, and lets out a sigh. “It’s incredibly peculiar. I cannot make any sense of the signature at all. Normally yin and yang energy are like oil and water when put together in the same vessel — they may coexist, but they do not mix together, simply because their spiritual makeup does not allow for such a thing. And when one energy overpowers the other, it causes a steep imbalance.”

“Except that’s what’s happening, the mixing” Shen Qingqiu points out with a frown. “In Shang Qinghua’s head.”

“The backlash from the sealing array and whatever happened to the Hell Calamity inside of it was… incredibly potent.” Mu Qingfang lays the cloth over the side of the bowl, and then leans toward him. He glances at the other end of the room and lowers his voice. “It collided with the top vertebrae of his spine. If the trajectory had been at all different, we’d be looking at a case of full-body paralysis instead of a loss of vision.”

Shen Qingqiu swallows. He tugs his fan out of his belt and quietly opens it before his face. 

“...Or, it could have killed him,” he murmurs.

“Or that,” Mu Qingfang agrees, quietly. 

Shen Qingqiu turns his eyes toward the other side of the room. They’re in a wing of one of Qian Cao’s more private hospital compounds, one that’s reserved specifically for injured peak lords. He’s been in here a few times, himself, and it’s just as spacious, as neat and clinical as the first time he saw inside of it. 

On a bed in the very corner, back pressed against the wall, sits Shang Qinghua. He’s curled into a ball, knees held to his chest, head bowed. He hasn’t moved in the entire time since Shen Qingqiu got here. 

“What….” His voice wavers, and he coughs delicately to clear his throat as unobtrusively as possible. “What is it that… kept him from that?”

“Paralysis?” Mu Qingfang asks. “Or death?”

“The second,” Shen Qingqiu says, unable to say it himself. His stomach feels queasy at just the thought. 

Mu Qingfang stares down at the bowl of solution between them. 

“Mu-shidi?”

“I’m not sure,” the doctor admits. He looks up. “I’m going to need your collaboration on the research for this, it appears, Chang-shidi.”

Shen Qingqiu flutters his fan before his face, glancing down and to the side. 

Sitting in a chair, with his shoulders hunched defeatedly and gray face turned toward the floor between his feet, Chang Qingzhi doesn’t look up even as he murmurs an agreement to Mu Qingfang’s request. 

A pinch between his brows, Mu Qingfang grabs up the cloth from the bowl and steps away. 

“A moment, please,” he says, and then turns to cross the room.

Shen Qingqiu watches silently as the doctor kneels beside his curled up best friend, saying something quietly before placing a hand on Shang Qinghua’s shoulder. The man stirs slightly, but doesn’t lift his head up from where he has it buried into his knees. 

Mu Qingfang seems to sigh, before taking the cloth in one hand and gently prying it in between Shang Qinghua’s face and knees. The doctor helps him sit up a little and presses the cloth over his eyes while his other hand rubs up and down along the uncharacteristically still transmigrator’s back. 

Turning his attention away from the two of them, Shen Qingqiu snaps him fan shut with a quiet sigh. He lowers himself to sit on the table beside his fellow peak lord and leans down to peer into the man’s pale face. 

“Hey,” he says. “You need to pull yourself out of this.”

Chang Qingzhi looks up at him helplessly. He shakes his head. 

Shen Qingqiu purses his lips. “I’m serious. Listen, what happened back there was not your fault.”

“It was,” Chang Qingzhi immediately argues, voice bleak and ashamed. “I—I don’t know why my sealing array reacted with the beast’s corrosive energy in such a way, at least not yet, but that backlash… it shouldn’t have happened. Not with all the safelocks that I weaved into the overlaying composition, I — I don’t know where I went wrong.”

The inventor looks devastated, one hand tugging anxiously on his own hair while the other arm hangs limply by his side. Shen Qingqiu lets out a sigh, audibly this time.

“Did you make that array with the intention to hurt Shang-shidi?” He asks. 

Chang Qingzhi’s head snaps up. He looks horrified. “No!”

“Did you know, before using the array, that it’s activation would have this sort of consequence?”

“N-No, of course not,” the man stresses, tugging more harshly at the strand of long hair that is tangled in his fist. “I should have done more tests before — I mean, of course there wasn’t time, but everyone knows you don’t use an untested prototype with so many people within vicinity—!”

“Any longer, and the Hell Calamity would have vaporized Cang Qiong, Chang-shidi. You know that. Did you activate that array to hurt Shang Qinghua?”

“I didn’t,” Chang Qingzhi pleads, eyes wide and tearful, voice choked. “Shixiong, please, I would never—! ”

Shen Qingqiu smacks him with his fan. “If that’s all, then it wasn’t your fault, you moron!”

The man flinches back, free hand flying up to press over the red, rectangular imprint on his cheek. He stares up at him with wide, damp eyes, stunned. 

Shen Qingqiu releases a breath, exasperated. He tucks his fan back into his belt and reaches out to shake the shell-shocked man by the shoulder. 

“You cannot be blamed for things that you did not do. Honestly, shidi, and here I was thinking that you were the smart one, of us all.”

A flustered blush blazes across Chang Qingzhi’s face, making the fan mark stand out even more starkly. Shen Qingqiu withholds a wince. Perhaps he’d put a little too much power behind that, but god! If he had to sit here and watch the poor man look guilt-ridden and dejected for a single minute longer, Shen Qingqiu might have done more than smack him. 

“Clearly not smart enough to keep my martial family safe from my own work,” Chang Qingzhi breathes out, returning his gaze to the floor and tugging harshly at his hair as if in self-punishment. 

Oh, for the love of —!

“The circumstance was out of your control, infuriating little shidi.” Shen Qingqiu snaps. “You did everything in your power to keep us all safe and ensure that the sealing went without issue. You could not have stopped Shang Qinghua from going to pull Liu Qingge away from the blast anymore than you could have maliciously premeditated his injury.”

“Chang-shidi is not to blame for what has happened,” a low voice interjects, and Shen Qingqiu twists around to watch Liu Qingge himself approach them with quiet steps. His sword, sheathed, is clutched at his side in a white-knuckled grip, and his face is just as gray as Chang Qingzhi’s, utterly impassive aside from his default glower. 

“The blame lies with me,” he adds, coming to a stop beside them. 

Shen Qingqiu throws his hands into the air, absolutely done. System save him from irrationally guilt-ridden, self-blaming idiots!

Liu Qingge frowns at his actions. 

“It is,” he insists. “I should have been listening for the retreat call, but I did not, and Shang-shixiong put himself in harm's way in order to retrieve me. His condition is because of me.”

“Exactly,” Shen Qingqiu stabs a finger roughly into the sword-maniac’s chest. Liu Qingge pulls back to rub at the spot, glaring dully. “It was entirely Shang Qinghua’s choice to go and rescue you. He knew the risks, and he did it anyway. You didn’t make him, he decided that for himself.”

“Well, it’s not Shang-shixiong’s fault,” Chang Qingzhi begins, completely aghast.

“It’s nobody's fault!” Shen Qingqiu exclaims, letting himself down from the table with a huff. “It was an accident! They happen!”

Both men regard him with dubious stares, and Shen Qingqiu wants to scream. 

“Chang-shidi,” Mu Qingfang’s calm tenor interrupts them. Shen Qingqiu might just hug the man, who is clearly the only other peak lord with any common sense. “I have the notes from my examination of Shang-shixiong here. I’d like for you to look them over and give me what insight you can.”

He hands a sheaf of papers over to Chang Qingzhi, who takes them and immediately begins reading their contents with a single-minded determination. 

“I also have some samples of the energy signature here.” He holds out a vial, which is immediately snatched up to disappear into the inner pocket of Chang Qingzhi’s robes. Mu Qingfang sighs down at him. “Please be certain to get some rest in between testing it, shidi.”

“Of course,” Chang Qingzhi agrees, in a robotic-like way that suggests he hadn’t even heard the request and was only responding out of habit. His eyes don't leave the paper in his hands as he moves to stand from the chair. 

Mu Qingfang narrows his eyes at the man, but evidently knows where to pick his battles. He turns to Shen Qingqiu. “Shen-shixiong.”

Shen Qingqiu pulls out his fan and waves it in small motions before his face to conceal his nerves.

“Mu-shidi.” He says. “How… is he handling…?”

The doctor closes his eyes with a quiet breath of exhaustion that Shen Qingqiu can feel pull down on his own shoulders. There’s a brief moment of silence, not even the ruffle of papers from Chang Qingzhi, as all three men wait to listen to what Mu Qingfang has to say. 

“Given what has happened to him, he’s taking it surprisingly… ah, better than he could be, I suppose.” Mu Qingfang finally says, frown marring his features. “That’s not to say he’s doing well, of course.... Shen-shixiong, he is going to need constant supervision. Someone by his side at all times. Vision is something that we rely heavily upon for even our simplest everyday tasks. Without it, Shang-shixiong is going to be facing constant struggles and frustration that he will need help navigating through.”

“Of course,” Shen Qingqiu says immediately. He doesn’t even need to pause and consider it. That’s his best friend sitting over there. “He can count on me, Mu-shidi. Realistically, however, I’ll need some backup. I have Qing Jing to worry about, as well as my share of the overseeing of An Ding whilst Shang-ge is on leave.”

“I’ll help,” Liu Qingge speaks up, voice resolute, and Chang Qingzhi leaps up from his chair with a startled and desperate look on his face. 

“Oh! I will, as well!”

“No, you will not,” Mu Qingfang firmly rejects. Liu Qingge glares at the doctor. “Chang-shidi, you will be busy with looking over those samples. I require your help in figuring out how to return Qinghua’s sight. You will not have time.”

“And me?” Liu Qingge demands, glare fierce. The hand clutching his sword tightens its grip. “Why can’t I?”

Mu Qingfang regards them with an unflinching stare. “The two of you are mired in too much self-blame to provide Qinghua with the care that he actually needs. I will not have either of you looming around him like restless ghosts while he is trying to recover from his own trauma. All that will do is provide problems and an unhealthy atmosphere which will be detrimental for all three of you. In fact, I’d like you both to stay away from Qinghua until he is in a better state of mind.”

Chang Qingzhi bows his head, clutching the examination notes in his hands so tightly Shen Qingqiu is afraid they might rip. 

Liu Qingge is scowling.

“How am I suppose to make reparations if I am not even allowed to see him?” He asks, furious. 

“Find a different way,” Mu Qingfang says simply. He narrows a sharp stare at the two men. “Perhaps you can come back later, when your offer to aid him comes from someplace other than the need to assuage your own bruised ego.”

Chang Qingzhi flinches as if he’s been struck. Liu Qingge’s glare turns murderous and, beneath that, hurt. He turns on his heel to stomp out of the infirmary before anyone can say another word. 

There’s a shaky exhale. “I-I’ll… go and,” Chang Qingzhi gestures weakly with the papers in his hands, “...examine these. Please, um, give Shang-shixiong… my apologies.”

He ducks his head down and leaves in Liu Qingge’s footsteps, albeit far quieter and meeker. 

Shen Qingqiu lowers his fan. He glances over at the fuming doctor. “Ah, wasn’t that a little… too harsh?”

“Was I wrong?” Mu Qingfang asks, arching a brow. 

Well… 

“I suppose not.” Shen Qingqiu replies, voice catching on the last word.

“Then, no. It wasn’t harsh enough.”

And with that, the doctor returns the cloth in his hand to the bowl of solution and begins stirring. 

“One foot in front of the other,” Shen Qingqiu says patiently from where he has an arm curled securely around his friend’s back. “That’s it. The ground is flat and level from here on out, so don’t be afraid to keep taking steps. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

Shang Qinghua mutters something under his breath. It’s a little unsettling, not being able to see his expression entirely underneath the bandages around his eyes that he’d begged Mu Qingfang for before they’d left, but it’s simple enough to imagine what face he’s making based on the tone of his voice. Right now, he’s likely glaring. Shen Qingqiu had carried the man on Xiu Ya until they had reached the peak of An Ding, where he now leads Shang Qinghua to his house. 

“What was that?”

“I said, it’s easy for you to say.” His friend grumbles, keeping a death grip on Shen Qingqiu’s hand. “You actually know what’s right in front of you. I’ve been trying to guess where the hell we’re at the entire trip, and I lost track almost immediately!”

“We’re just outside An Ding residential,” Shen Qingqiu replies calmly. “It’s about a hundred meters more to your front door.”

“Already?” Shang Qinghua asks weakly, and stumbles on the next step. “Dammit! Dammit!”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Shen Qingqiu soothes. He gives the arm he has around Shang Qinghua’s waist a squeeze. “I’ve got you.”

“The ground is fucking  flat,” his friend says, incensed. “It’s flat, and I tripped on nothing.”

Shen Qingqiu regards him with a quiet look. He pulls them to a stop, and watches as Shang Qinghua hunches in on himself and grits his teeth. 

“Do you need to stop?”

“No,” Shang Qinghua says, stubbornly. “You said it was only a little ways left? Let’s go. I wanna lie down.”

Shen Qingqiu adjusts his grip and begins walking again, keeping a sharp eye on the ground before them both to make sure there aren’t any outcroppings of stone tile that would pose even the slightest risk. 

A few more steps, and Shang Qinghua misjudges the level of the ground once again, bringing his foot down on thin air and nearly falling over if it wasn’t for Shen Qingqiu’s anchoring arm around him.

The man lets out a quiet growl of frustration. He tugs on the hand he’s holding, following the arm attached to it until he’s just about groping at Shen Qingqiu’s chest, and suddenly the Qing Jing lord finds himself with an armful of shuddering best friend. 

“Airplane?”

“I don’t wanna walk anymore.” Shang Qinghua whispers wetly into his robes. “I — I don’t wanna... I...”

Shen Qingqiu squeezes his hand. “Okay,” he whispers back. 

Making sure he has a firm grip on his friend, he reaches down and scoops up Shang Qinghua’s legs. Holding him securely against his chest so that he doesn’t jostle him too much, Shen Qingqiu walks the rest of the way to the An Ding peak lord residence and pushes the door open with his foot. 

Shang Qinghua does nothing but huddle into his shoulder and shake. 

“I’m going to set you on the bed,” Shen Qingqiu says quietly, as soon as he’s made it to the private quarters. “So I can draw you a bath, okay?”

“Oh,” Shang Qinghua says, the corners of his mouth turning down. “That’s… That’s gonna be difficult.”

“I’ll help you.” Shen Qingqiu offers.

Even though he can’t see his eyes, he can tell exactly what kind of face Shang Qinghua is making. 

“Hey, it’s like taking a bath in the dark, right? I’ll hand you anything you need. It’s just… I’m sure you’ll feel a lot better once you get all the sweat and dirt from the battle off of you.”

“Yeah…” Shang Qinghua quietly agrees. “I feel gross. Okay.”

“Alright,” Shen Qingqiu runs a hand through his hair before standing up from the bed. “I’ll be back in a little bit. Are you okay?”

“My bed is against the wall.” Shang Qinghua says.

Shen Qingqiu is confused, but nods. “Like a proper bed should be.” He agrees.

That gets him a faint smile, except it also looks nervous. Shang Qinghua slowly, hesitantly reaches an arm out toward him from where he sits on the edge of the mattress. 

“Can you…” he asks, helplessly, “help me find the wall?”

Oh. Shen Qingqiu’s heart breaks a little. 

“Of course, bro,” he says.

He climbs onto the mattress beside Shang Qinghua to carefully guide him until he’s sitting with his back against the wall. He gets him situated into a comfortable position in the middle of the mattress so he has enough margins for error if he decides to move at all, and then sits back. 

“There you go,” Shen Qingqiu says. Knowing his friend, he grabs up the man’s pillow and sets it gently in his lap. “Is that better?”

“Yes,” Shang Qinghua whispers, clutching the pillow to his chest. He buries his face into it. His next word comes out muffled. “Thanks.”

Shen Qingqiu pets his hair. “No problem. I’ll be back in a few minutes, okay?”

Shang Qinghua nods into the pillow, and with one last glance back at him, Shen Qingqiu leaves to go and heat the water.

The bath goes well enough. As millennials of the modern age, neither of them carry with them the same conservative sensibilities as their ancient society peers do, so it wasn’t nearly as awkward as it could have been. 

At the very least, the silver lining here is that his friend couldn’t see Shen Qingqiu giving him the gold ol’ Up and Down as he helped the other man into the water.

He’s incredibly bi, okay? And the body that Airplane landed in this life is nothing to sneeze at! He swipes away his faint feelings of guilt and instead gets to work helping Shang Qinghua wash his hair when his friend shyly asks him to. 

Getting him out is a little bit more of a chore, since the hot water made Shang Qinghua incredibly drowsy, building upon the exhaustion that was already there. Shen Qingqiu exerts all caution in making sure neither of them slip on a wet patch, as he wraps his friend up in a towel to dry and then a light sleeping robe. It had been some work to convince Shang Qinghua to take off the bandage before the bath, but now that the man is half asleep, Shen Qingqiu sets them aside for later and instead sits his friend down on a cushion on the floor in his bedroom. 

“Mmm,” Shang Qinghua mumbles. He reaches out a hand and wiggles his fingers. “Bro?”

“Right here.” Shen Qingqiu grasps the searching hand in his own and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Sit tight, okay? I’m going to brush your hair.”

“Th’nks,” his friend yawns. 

Shen Qingqiu smiles. He stands up and wanders around the room, locating the items that he needs and taking from his qiankun pouch what he couldn’t find. A few minutes later finds him sitting behind his sleepy best friend and running his hands through the man’s hair.

“Okay, hair brush incoming.”

“Mmmf.”

He sets the teeth of the comb against the crown of Shang Qinghua’s scalp, gently tugging it down through his hair. The strands part easily enough thanks to the coating of oils he’d run through beforehand, and soon enough he’s worked all the tangles free and sets the comb aside to begin sectioning the hair out. 

Shen Qingqiu has always liked his bro’s hair. It’s got a lot of warmth to the color, and the way it curls naturally into gentle waves makes it stand out from the typical pin straight, inky black that the average person bears even in xianxialand. It’s also incredibly soft, bouncing in a satisfying way when he pulls one lock completely straight and then releases the tension. 

He gives himself a few minutes to enjoy playing with Shang Qinghua’s hair like how he used to once upon a past life with his little sister. His friend seems to enjoy it, if the way that he relaxes into each touch is anything to go by. 

“That smells nice,” Shang Qinghua says abruptly.

Shen Qingqiu had been wondering when his friend would start talking. He usually can’t stand being quiet for long periods. His voice is extremely subdued though, and much quieter than usual. 

Shen Qingqiu hums in agreement, tucking in a stray strand that had attempted to escape the braid he is slowly working Shang Qinghua’s hair into. 

“What oil is that?”

“Oh,” he pauses. “I hope you don’t mind, but I grabbed some of mine before I left for Qian Cao to get you.”

Shang Qinghua is quiet for a moment. Then, he huffs out a breath. “Smells like… lemongrass.”

Shen Qingqiu nods, and then realizes his mistake. He shoves past the knee jerk reaction of irrational guilt, and says, “Yeah, my mom used to diffuse it in the house all the time when I was little, so it reminds me of, well… you know.”

Shang Qinghua makes a soft sound of acknowledgement. 

“Yeah,” he says. He scrunches up his face. “Isn’t it a bit too strong, though?”

Shen Qingqiu blinks down at the braid he’s holding. He brings it up to his face and takes a whiff.

“It’s actually pretty diluted,” he says, confused. “I use two-part olive oil so that the scent doesn’t overpower. It… smells fine to me?”

Shang Qinghua twists around slightly, turning his face toward him. Shen Qingqiu is forced to stretch out his arm in order to keep a hold on the unfinished braid. 

“Hey,” he complains. “Turn back, I’m not done.”

“I like it,” Shang Qinghua says. His eyes are closed, but there’s a faint frown in his brows. “But… it is kinda strong. Is your nose working alright?”

“My nose is just fine.” Shen Qingqiu shoots back. “Maybe yours is the one that’s weird.”

He reaches out and cups Shang Qinghua’s face with his free hand, gently turning his head back to face away from him. The braid is a little wonky from being misplaced, so he undoes the last few rows and restarts from halfway. 

“Oh.”

Shen Qingqiu looks up. “Hm? What?”

Shang Qinghua has folded his knees up against his chest, and he wraps his arms around them to hold them in place. His shoulders are held a little high, and Shen Qingqiu worries at how tense they are. 

“I read somewhere that when a person loses one of their senses, the other four overcompensate for it.” Shang Qinghua murmurs. “... Do you think that’s why?”

Shen Qingqiu ties off the braid with the ribbon he has wound around his wrist, and then leans forward to peer at his friend’s face. 

Shang Qinghua’s eyes are wide open, staring unblinkingly down at the tops of his knees. There’s a hazy film over the irises and the pupils, making the normally vivid hazel a murky, opaque color that reminds Shen Qingqiu of when his disciples accidentally added too much thinner to the pastel green paints.

It’s incredibly unsettling, to be staring directly into those eyes and knowing that Shang Qinghua probably has no idea he’s even looking at him. Shen Qingqiu sits back, heart pounding. The floor creaks beneath him. 

Shang Qinghua squeezes his eyes closed and lets his head tilt forward, hiding his face into his knees. It happens so slowly, like the joint isn’t working right, but it’s only because Shang Qinghua seems like he’s afraid he might accidentally slam his kneecaps into his eye sockets or something if he moves too fast. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, feeling guilt tug at the very bottom of his stomach. He hadn’t meant to—

“It’s fine,” Shang Qinghua breathes out, despite the fact that it obviously very much isn’t. He reaches out a plaintive hand. “I — the bandage, can you—?”

“Yes,” Shen Qingqiu says quickly, snatching the gauze up from the table beside him. “Here, give me a moment to…”

He threads the bandage underneath the braided hair at the back of Shang Qinghua’s head. He pulls it through until he has enough on one side to wrap snugly but not too tightly over the man’s eyes. He ties it off on the side of his head, and readjusts it so that the tied part is hidden underneath the braid. The leftover lengths are left to dangle alongside the braid. 

“There,” he says, and lets his hands fall into his lap now that he has nothing to keep them occupied. 

“Thanks,” Shang Qinghua whispers. 

There’s a long, stilted moment of silence. Shen Qingqiu kneels uncomfortably behind his friend and watches as Shang Qinghua slowly folds himself in half, minute tremors running along his entire frame. 

“Hey,” he says quietly. “Let’s get you into bed. You could do with some sleep.”

“Yeah,” Shang Qinghua croaks out. “M tired.”

“Okay, come here. I’ve got you.”

He helps his unsteady friend up from the floor and leads him over to the bed, guiding with each step. Shang Qinghua climbs into it with aching slowness, each motion shaky and hesitant as he lowers himself onto the mattress. 

Shen Qingqiu bites his lip. It’s heartbreaking, watching Shang Qinghua be so uncertain of his own movements, and having a front row seat to how his confidence in his own self awareness sharply sank to absolutely nothing. Even worse is how deeply it affects his friend, how Shang Qinghua is constantly on the verge of another fit of tears, from the obvious frustration with himself over not being able to do anything.

He steps forward and sits himself on the edge of the mattress, reaching out to place a hand on Shang Qinghua’s shoulder. His friend flinches back at the touch with a smothered yelp, and Shen Qingqiu hastily retracts his hand, horrified. 

“I — I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I… should have warned you.”

Shang Qinghua shrinks in on himself, appearing impossibly smaller as he once again curls into a ball. It’s jarring, to see the man so afraid when there is nothing in this room that could possibly hurt him. 

“You shouldn’t have to warn me before you —” Shang Qinghua cuts himself off with a growl, rubbing furiously at his face with a palm. “God, the crying — I’m sick of it, Shen-ge. I want —”

Shen Qingqiu presses a hand over his mouth, listening quietly as his friend sucks in a hitching breath, face scrunching up to fight off another bout of tears. 

“I want — to not,” Shang Qinghua whispers thickly, “feel like this… anymore.” 

“I know,” Shen Qingqiu replies as steadily as he can, failing horrendously because his voice shakes nonetheless. “I’m going to hug you, Shang-ge. I’m going to wrap my arms around you, okay?”

“Please,” his friend whimpers, and it takes nearly all of Shen Qingqiu’s self control not to throw himself at the other man and wrap him in blankets and never let him leave the safety of this house again. 

He goes slow, inching forward to first press a hand to Shang Qinghua’s shoulder blade. He curls that around his friend’s shoulders, pulling him carefully to his chest before wrapping his other arm around Shang Qinghua’s waist. The other transmigrator shakes minutely, small trembles coalescing all along his every limb, as if he’s freezing. He huddles into Shen Qingqiu’s embrace like he’s been starved of every sort of affection for his entire life. 

Shen Qingqiu swallows, suddenly desperate for conversation. It’s rarely so quiet around his friend, and —

“So,” he says. “An Ding.”

Shang Qinghua barely twitches from where he’s curled up in his arms. 

“How… how are the disciples?” The man asks in a voice barely above a whisper. “Did they —? Are any —?”

“They’re all accounted for,” Shen Qingqiu quickly assures him. He reaches up a hand and smooths his friend’s hair back. “Everyone is fine. There was some chaos getting them back in order, but every single one of them is safe. There was a sect conference on Qiong Jing, Yue-ge explained to all the disciples what happened and that the danger was over, and then kept yours behind so Ju-shidi, Qi-shimei and I could get them situated back on An Ding.”

Shang Qinghua slumps against him. “Oh. Good.”

“We had quite a lot of whining when we wouldn’t let any of them come see you,” Shen Qingqiu recalls amusedly. “Your head disciple gave an especially thorough dissertation of all the reasons why we should change our minds, but Mu Qingfang’s word is final.”

“A-Kao should know that,” Shang Qinghua mumbles. “It’s one of the first things I teach those brats when they come to my peak.”

He sniffs, rubbing the back of his hand along his nose. The action is achingly slow and hesitant, like he isn’t entirely certain where his hand is in relation to his face, and it makes that knot inside Shen Qingqiu’s chest tighten. 

Finally, Shang Qinghua turns to press his face into Shen Qingqiu’s shoulder, and very quietly asks, “Did you… tell them…?”

Oh, his dear friend. 

Shen Qingqiu runs his hand through the man’s hair and does his best to keep his voice as nonchalant as he’s able. 

“Yes, it’s part of the events that Yue-ge explained to the disciples before we sent them back to their individual peaks. They know. Like I said, you have quite a number of disciples who are very eager to see you and check on your condition for themselves.”

Shang Qinghua is silent. He turns his face to hide it in the Qing Jing lord’s collar, and Shen Qingqiu is hit with the feeling that he’d just somehow stuck his foot in his mouth. 

He tugs gently on a strand of hair. “... Airplane?”

There’s a quiet sniffle. Shen Qingqiu presses his lips together and smoothes back his friend’s bangs, slightly curly still from the bath. He tucks his friend’s tense and motionless body deeper into his arms and helplessly clings to him, feeling a little useless. 

He knows that, if he were in Shang Qinghua’s shoes, he’d likely be experiencing the heavy whiplash of grief and frustration as well, but at the same time it’s vaguely off putting how little his attempts at comfort are succeeding. 

Shen Qingqiu frowns, gently shaking the terrible thought away. How selfish of him, to be feeling such a thing at a time like this. 

“Airplane,” he says softly, rubbing a hand up and down along the man’s back, and he finally stirs. 

“I don’t— Nn.” Shang Qinghua pauses to suck in a deep, steadying breath. It doesn’t quite work, and he continues tearfully, “I don’t want them to see me like this.”

“Oh, Shang-ge,” Shen Qingqiu says sorrowfully.

“And I — and I,” Shang Qinghua presses a hand over the bandages and makes a truly pathetic sound. “I don’t want them to come in here while I — and I can’t see them.”

Shen Qingqiu makes a soft sound, wrapping both arms securely around his friend and rocking them back and forth as he shudders. 

“I wanna be able to see them,” Shang Qinghua whines.

“I know you do,” Shen Qingqiu tightens his grip and leans down to press his cheek against the still-damp hair. 

“I wanna be able to see them, Yuan-ge,” Shang Qinghua says bitterly. “I — I wanna see them and — and make sure they’re okay. I wanna see that they’re all okay.”

“I know,” Shen Qingqiu whispers back. 

He curses himself, for being unable to do anything else for his friend. He wishes that he had the power to just fix this and make everything okay again. 

“I want—” Shang Qinghua cuts himself off with another whine and buries his face into Shen Qingqiu’s chest. 

“I know,” Shen Qingqiu whispers. “I know.”

And they rock.

Chapter Text

An Ding manages to last five entire days without their peak lord, which is honestly more than most of them had bet on — Qi Qingqi is going to be smug as hell later — and it’s not long before someone comes looking. 

Today, it’s Ju Qingsong’s turn to hang out in his shixiong’s leisure house, ensuring that the man eats and rests as per Mu-shixiong’s orders, and keeping Shang Qinghua as comfortable as he can be given the circumstances. 

Saying it like that makes it sound like it’s a chore, but Ju Qingsong is actually enjoying himself. He’s glad for the opportunity to spend extra time with his martial brother. He only wishes that Shang Qinghua was able to enjoy it too. Right now, his shixiong is really going through the wringer, and it’s visible to anyone who looks at him. 

Pale face, silk ribbon hiding his eyes from view, his hands shaking with uncertainty whenever he’s handed something — if Ju Qingsong didn’t agree that it weren’t either of their faults to begin with, he’d be the first one to punch Liu Qingge and Chang Qingzhi in the face. 

Maybe not the first. Shen Qingqiu would probably get there before him. The man had an extremely short fuse with the two other peak lords as of late, but Ju Qingsong personally thinks it’s because he finds their recently massive guilt complexes profoundly irritating, rather than blaming them for his sworn brother’s current injury. 

Shen Qingqiu has little patience for foolish people. If more of them would realize that, Ju Qingsong is certain that the level of drama that plagues their sect would diminish astronomically. 

He arranges the tea set on a tray and lifts it in both hands — it’s a nice set, and he would hate to accidentally drop and break it — before heading to the stairs, watching his step so that he doesn’t trip himself up. He's never been the most coordinated outside of a battle, something that Qingsheng is always teasing him for. 

Ju Qingsong pouts at the thought. It’s not his fault that he’s clumsy! If cultivation cannot fix it, then that’s just how it is!

Up ahead of him, the door to the room within which Shang Qinghua has sequestered himself bedridden is open. 

Ju Qingsong slows his step. He’s certain that he’d closed the door behind him when he’d left a few minutes ago. 

Voices sound from within. Ju Qingsong crouches and sets the tea set-bearing tray silently on the floor, against the wall of the corridor. He stands and inches his way forward to prowl just inside the crook of the doorway, out of sight from anyone within the room itself. 

“Shizun, this useless disciple apologizes —” He hears, and has to stop himself from barging into the room to drag this trespassing, foolish disciple away. 

What is he doing, sneaking into his master’s house and bothering him like this? The An Ding disciples had been told, rather strictly, to leave their shizun alone. To not even enter his leisure house. To not even consider coming to him for anything. Mu Qingfang had ordered that what Shang Qinghua needed most right now was rest, and he wouldn’t get that if he was too stressed about the administration of the sect. 

But, to enter now would be to startle them both, and Shang Qinghua doesn’t need anymore scares, so Ju Qingsong leans against the doorway outside and listens. 

There’s a shift from the bed. “... A-Kao?”

“They told us to leave you alone, so that you could rest.” The head disciple of An Ding reports to his peak lord. And yet, the boy is still here anyway despite orders coming from the sect leader himself. “However — and this disciple again apologizes profusely — but… he desperately needs Shizun’s advice. There is an issue that none of An Ding trusts anyone but Shizun to make a decision on. This disciple deeply regrets bothering Shizun when he is recuperating, but —” 

Jin Kao’s voice breaks halfway through this word, and he instead trails off his explanation with a final, watery-sounding, “Sh- Shizun… .”

Ju Qingsong directs a line of Qi along his lung meridian and holds his breath in, oxygenating his blood solely with cultivation so his breathing cannot be heard. He tiptoes toward and peeks around the door, waiting within the shadows. 

The An Ding head disciple, Jin Kao, is kneeling almost prostrate on the floor before the bed that contains his Shizun. There is a stack of paper set carefully beside him, neat and tidy. 

Shang Qinghua pushes himself up into a sitting position, slowly, and Jin Kao immediately shoots up from his bow, rushing forward to help ease him upward. The peak lord flinches back, and the expression of horrified grief that eclipses Jin Kao’s face is almost too much to watch. Before he can pull back and start apologizing again , however, Shang Qinghua then takes the opportunity to capture his disciple’s hands within his own and holds him in place. His eyes are shielded by the ribbon he had so quietly (heartbreakingly hesitant) requested Ju Qingsong to tie around his head just that morning, and his face is tilted downward toward the sheets that lie across his lap. 

But there’s a small and gentle smile that tilts up at the corners of his mouth, of the likes that Ju Qingsong has not seen in days. 

“A-Kao.” His shixiong says warmly. “Your shizun has told you before that you can come to him with anything, be it a question or for help. Despite whatever the circumstances may be, this master is pleased that A-Kao has listened to him.”

Jin Kao gives a quietly wounded noise, leaning forward to press his forehead briefly to Shang Qinghua’s shoulder in a moment of weakness. He stays there for a moment’s breath, and then sits back again to straightens his spine. 

“Shizun is kind, as always, to be so forgiving of this disciple’s blunders.” Jin Kao says, sounding as touched as Ju Qingsong feels.

“Can they be called blunders, when the disciple is only doing as he is told?” Shang Qinghua asks in amusement. “No, I’m glad you’ve come, A-Kao. I was getting a little lonely.”

Ju Qingsong abruptly crouches down in the hall, pressing his face into his knees wretchedly. Ah, so he wasn’t enough for his shixiong? He’s been trying so hard, too! But only one person, for someone who was more used to being right in the middle of a hundred working people day in and out — huh. Maybe, perhaps, Mu Qingfang is wrong? Just about this one thing?

“Shizun,” Jin Kao says earnestly. “This disciple is, as always, at your behest. Is shizun hungry? I can —”

“A-Kao,” Shang Qinghua gives a brief laugh. Jin Kao falls quiet. “Tell me what it is that you came here for.”

“Too see Shizun.” The disciple admits, unashamed. 

Ju Qingsong begins silently to hit his head against his knees, again, and again. At least pretend, foolish little disciple, that you’re not so shameless! 

But Shang Qinghua just sounds like he’s smiling, still. “And?”

Jin Kao hems and haws for a brief period, hesitant, but then the sound of papers scrape across the floor, and he says, “Martial uncles and aunt have been overseeing An Ding in your absence, shizun. Disciple’s have all agreed, however, that they… should not oversee certain aspects of the sect administration. Such as requisitional affairs and finance. They tried on the first day — shizun need not worry, the disciples have all been in agreement, and we have hidden the paperwork. I have it with me here, but. Shizun…”

Shang Qinghua is quiet. He lets out a sigh. “No, you’re right. I can’t exactly read it like this, A-Kao…”

They’re both silent for a long moment. Ju Qingsong sits in the corridor without a sound, knees tucked up under his chin as he contemplates this conundrum. He glances at the tray of tea he had prepared and nearly forgotten about, and that fact is made more urgent when he realizes that steam no longer wafts out the spout. 

Ju Qingsong surges to his feet, sucks in a breath — cultivation is fine and all, but nothing beats the real thing — and grabs the tray. Then, he knocks on the door. 

“Oh, shit,” Jin Kao says quietly from inside the room, and Ju Qingsong bursts into laughter as he pushes the door all the way open with his shoulder. 

“Don’t worry, head disciple Jin. I knew you were here already,” he says, enjoying the sight of the boy’s flushed face at being caught red handed. He sets the tray down on the table. “It’s okay, it’s okay! Trust your shishu to keep a secret, huh? Shixiong, I have your tea! Want anything to eat?”

Shang Qinghua coughs into his sleeve, a small grin hiding behind the silk. He’s still pale, but there’s some life to his cheeks now where there wasn’t before. 

“No, thank you Ju-shidi. I’m not really hungry.” He says.

Ju Qingsong tries not to wilt. He’s been trying all morning to get the man to eat something, but the answer is always the same. Maybe Shang-shixiong would rather practice inedia at this time, but… really, it would be better for him if he got something in his stomach. 

“Not even some congee?” He asks a little pitifully. The disciple turns and regards him with a sharp, calculating look. “Qingsheng says I make a mean bowl of congee. I mean, of course he doesn’t say it exactly like that, but I know that’s what he means! If you’re really not that hungry, I can slice some fruit for you, shixiong, while your disciple here reads those reports to you.”

Shang Qinghua sighs, then tilts his head consideringly. Jin Kao launches to his feet and clasps his hands into a bow that his master cannot see.  

“Shizun!” The disciple gasps, “Forgive this one for being so simple-minded, to not think of it before. What Ju-shishu says is true! Please allow this disciple to present the reports aloud.”

Ju Qingsong pours the tea into a cup, feeling a little full of himself. He wraps his hand around the cup, relieved to feel the heat that seeps through the ceramic. He lifts it up and walks over to the bed, carefully pressing a knee into the mattress to make it dip down a bit, and places his free hand on his shixiong’s shoulder. Then, he reaches down to grasp Shang Qinghua’s hand in his, and presses the cup into it, guiding it up toward his face. 

Respectfully, Jin Kao directs his eyes down toward the reports, shuffling through them busily. 

Shang Qinghua doesn’t move for a few seconds. Eventually, he sighs and inches forward to press his lips to the cup. Once he finds the edge, Ju Qingsong lets go and allows him to maneuver it on his own. 

“The reports, they sound super important,” he says conversationally while his shixiong sips cautiously at the tea. He’s learned that it’s best to make noise when he can — Shang Qinghua seems more unnerved by the silence than at rest. “Shixiong, I’ll slice the fruit while you deal with these matters. Isn’t it best to not leave them unhandled? I promise I won’t tell Shen-shixiong that you don’t trust him to handle the money.”

“Oh,” Shang Qinghua snorts into the tea, grinning around the rim of the cup. “He’d be so offended. I almost want you to — But,” he makes a face. “Not until after I’m fixed. I wanna see his face when you do.”

“It’s a plan, shixiong!” Ju Qingsong cheers, quickly before the man can think to fall back into the glum and despondent state he’d been in all day at the reminder of his current disability. “Yes, okay! This shidi will go immediately to prepare the snack! Please be done with the boring number stuff before this one gets back,” he begs, just to see Shang Qinghua smile again. 

“Um, for Ju-shidi, I think it could perhaps be managed.” His shixiong says slowly, tilting his head away from him and sipping once again at his tea.

“Shixiong is kind!” Ju Qingsong claps his hands — quietly, and backs out of the room, sliding the door closed behind him. 

Hm, he thinks he did pretty okay back there!

Now, for his next mission: to get shixiong to eat something actually substantial.

Ahhh, but wrestling a meteor boarhound might be an easier task.

Ju Qingsong sighs. 

—

“— it has been decided amongst the peer-review council that the best course of action might be to just let them be for now, so we’ve set that aside until a time comes when you are able to sign off on it. There is no urgency, but this disciple thought it prudent to inform you in case you wished to overturn their decision — Shizun, are you still listening?” 

“I’m listening, A-Kao, yes. Thank you for checking, though.”

“Ah, certainly. If shizun is tired, perhaps we should take a break? This disciple can go and prepare some tea.”

“Mmm.”

“Shizun?”

Shen Qingqiu closes his eyes and takes a short breath before stepping into the room. Luckily for the head disciple within, Ju Qingsong had already informed him of the situation before he’d left. The man had insisted that this seemed to be doing some good for Shang Qinghua, and had begged him not to go and stop it. 

Shen Qingqiu doesn’t see how work could possibly be good for his friend’s recuperation, but he’s elected to wait and see before he makes his judgment. 

The moment it all proves detrimental to Shang Qinghua, however….

He taps the door with the heavy end of his fan and slides it open, stepping into the room. 

“Tea is a good idea, A-Kao.” He says. “Please go and see to it. This master will provide company for your shizun in your absence.”

“Ah — Shen-shibo! Yes, of course.” Jin Kao climbs to his feet from where he’s been kneeling at the foot of the bed Shang Qinghua has set up camp on. He bows toward his teacher. “Begging shizun’s pardon.”

“A-Kao has been working hard all week,” Shang Qinghua murmurs, a pillow hugged loosely to his chest. “He should prepare three cups for tea, and take a break alongside his shizun and shibo.”

Jin Kao bows again — certainly already knowing the action is useless, since Shang Qinghua cannot see it. But, such is a habit, difficult to rid yourself of. 

Then again, Jin Kao is one of the most polite teenagers Shen Qingqiu’s ever met in either of his lives, and fiercely respectful toward his peak lord specifically, to boot. Maybe it’s just within his nature. 

As the boy exits the room, Shen Qingqiu sits himself down on the end of the bed and crosses one leg over the other.

“I still don’t see why you don’t leave the work to us,” he complains, fan flapping idly before his face. “We can manage it, you know. You don’t need to worry yourself over it.”

Shang Qinghua coughs into his sleeve, face turned away from the sound of his voice as if avoiding him. 

“It’s a nice distraction,” he says. “Like this, I can just pretend I’m closing my eyes for a bit, instead of… you know.”

“Okay, yeah. I get that. But I do want you to take a longer break than just a snack recess. Ju-shidi says you’ve been at it all morning, and I know your disciples have hidden all the more… crucial documents for your sole approval. Your kids are very territorial, bro. They barely let us help with anything. The only reason I haven’t gone to Yue-ge about it is that, despite it all, the peak seems to be in perfect working order.”

“Perfect?” Shang Qinghua relaxes a little, arms squeezing the pillow. “Oh, good. I mean, I don’t doubt them, they all know exactly how to handle things. But I’m so used to overseeing it all anyway, that now that I can’t , it’s… hard. I don’t know. I’m antsy.”

Shen Qingqiu presses a spoke of his fan into his bottom lip thoughtfully, watching the way Shang Qinghua squirms uncomfortably on the mattress. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I know how boring being bedridden can be. Do you feel up for moving around a bit? Your legs are bound to be restless after sitting for so long.”

Shang Qinghua pauses, lips pressing into a thin line so tight the skin around his mouth turns white. Shen Qingqiu withholds a sigh.

“Like… outside?” His friend asks, voice small. “I—I don’t think….”

“Not outside,” he reassures quickly. “Just, like. Around the room a little? Unless that courtyard with the pond counts as inside, which it technically does, it’s enclosed in the walls of your compound — which I’m a little jealous of, by the way, you’re living a luxurious life here, bro — but we don’t have to leave the room if you don’t want to. I just think you should move around a little. It’s not good to stay in bed all day.”

Shang Qinghua doesn’t reply for a long while. He holds the pillow tight in his arms and ducks his head down to rest his chin on it, teeth grinding enough that Shen Qingqiu can hear the sound. He winces. 

“We can have tea, take a short walk to get some exercise in, and then I’ll go grab my guqin from my place and I can play some music for you for a while, if you’d like.”

His friend, predictively, perks up at the offer. It makes Shen Qingqiu preen a little, like, yes, he’s not too shabby at plucking the strings, if he does say so himself. 

“You’ve got mad skills,” Shang Qinghua sings the familiar praise. “I never say no to that. And you know that. That’s not fair. You’re blackmailing me.”

“I’m bribing you, there’s a difference. Come on, man.”

“Yes, okay,” his friend deflates, chin digging into the pillow. “I’ll get up! But bro, you have to hold my hand and not let go, okay? Ugh, that makes me sound like I’m five.”

“I won’t let you trip, Airplane.” Shen Qingqiu suffuses his voice with as much seriousness as he can muster so that it doesn’t sound like he’s teasing the man. “Did I, before? You know you can count on me.”

“I know ,” Shang Qinghua replies quietly. “It’s just really… really annoying. Sorry to trouble you.”

“Don’t even start,” Shen Qingqiu snaps. And winces — he’s bad at this, okay? “You would do the same for me. At least, I hope you would.”

Shang Qinghua’s head lifts, mouth agape. It’s a little difficult to tell his expression with the ribbon covering his normally tell-tale eyes, but he sounds outraged when he speaks. 

“When have I ever left you hanging when you needed something, bro? Huh? Name one time! If anyone in this sect has their own personal errand boy, it’s you , and I’m not talking about Binghe!”

“Ugh, stop,” Shen Qingqiu waves his fan lazily through the air, buffeting his friend with a gentle breeze. “You’re making me sound spoiled .”

He watches avidly as Shang Qinghua goes still, chin lifting and head tilting back as he feels the breeze on his skin. The man lets out a quiet, appreciative hum that Shen Qingqiu doesn’t think he was suppose to hear, and slowly turns his head to the side so that the air hits his cheek. Shen Qingqiu grins and dutifully keeps the fan going.

“You are spoiled,” Shang Qinghua says. “You’re the most spoiled person I know.”

“That’s so not true! There’s so many people more spoiled than me!”

“Mm. Name one.”

Shen Qingqui opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. He frowns, and slowly closes it, pressing his lips together with a thoughtful frown. 

Can’t he? 

Crap. 

“Yeah. Thought so.”

“You—!” Shen Qingqiu is about to throw his fan at the man, but stops himself at the last moment with the reminder that Shang Qinghua wouldn’t be able to even see it coming. It wouldn’t be fair of him. 

Luckily, neither can Shang Qinghua see his momentary blunder or hesitation, and the man just laughs at him. 

There’s a knock at the door. “Shizun, Shibo. The tea is ready. I made jasmine, is that okay?”

“Oh, my favorite.” Shang Qinghua mumbles, a smile teasing the corner of his mouth. “Maybe I am kind of spoiled, too. But only a little bit.”

“Only a little bit.” Shen Qingqiu echoes dryly, and then raises his voice as Shang Qinghua shakes with quiet laughter. “That’s fine, A-Kao, thank you.”

He stands up and goes over to slide open the door, admiring the disciple in. Jin Kao’s arms are laden with a large tray bearing a very fine-looking tea set and an assortment of small plates with arrangements of fruit and other snacks. 

The snacks are gorgeous and smell like heaven, a familiar scent. Shen Qingqiu tilts his head and examines them closely as Jin Kao crosses the room and sets the tray down on the table. 

“Shizun, Luo-shidi dropped by with a gift just now. He said he made your favorites.”

Shang Qinghua’s face lights up with genuine delight, and he inches forward cautiously to swing his legs over the side of the bed. 

“Tell him next time to come in himself! It’s been a while since that boy has had tea with me. This poor shishu feels lonely!”

“Spoiled.” Shen Qingqiu repeats in a stage whisper, fan fluttering up to hide his big grin. 

“I,” Shang Qinghua says grandly, nose high in the hair and a huff in his voice, “am a cripple. You’re suppose to be extremely nice to me, after all.”

He reaches out a hand and wiggles his fingers demandingly. “Help me to the table, I hate eating in bed.”

“I thought you were a cripple,” Shen Qingqiu stated, arms crossed. He would feel bad over the comment if Shang Qinghua’s spirits weren’t suddenly so high. 

Ah, the wonders of his little bun’s cooking. Truly a miracle worker. 

“I am crippled , not invalid!”

“They have, like, the same meaning, bro. Pick up a dictionary sometime, I beg of you. This is why your writing lacks pulp .”

“And that’s why I’ll never read any book you ever end up writing.” Shang Qinghua wrinkles his nose. “Anything you describe, it sounds like a hot mess at the bottom of a jar of poorly sieved juice concentrate.”

“And least I don’t write stuff like ‘she breasted boobily down the avenue’ —”

“I’ve never , in all my existence—!”

“I will leave.” Jin Kao threatens calmly from where he’s kneeling, pouring tea with an expert’s hand. “I will leave and go become a disciple of Huan Hua.”

Oh, right. 

“Sorry, A-Kao.” Both Shen Qingqiu and Shang Qinghua chorus, wincing. 

In their defense, the boy is so quiet, it’s very easy to forget that he’s in the room. 

It’s a little embarrassing, but this isn’t the first conversation where they let their, ah, more modern selves bare that Jin Kao has been privy to. The boy probably knows a lot of strange slang which he literally can’t figure out the meaning of. 

Shen Qingqiu snaps his fan shut and tucks it into his belt, stepping over quickly to grasp his friend’s still outstretched hand to gently guide him from the bed to the table. Once they’re all settled, Shen Qingqiu presses the tea cup into his friend’s hand, and Jin Kao picks up a cream bao and places it between his shizun’s fingers.

“Custard,” the disciple says simply. “There are seven in total.”

“Hm,” Shang Qinghua says thoughtfully. He forgoes the tea to shove half the bun into his mouth. “I’m eating all of them! They’re mine. Nobody else have any.”

“He did make them for you,” Shen Qingqiu sighs out amusedly. “So I guess it’s fine this time.” He reaches out and nudges the hand with the tea. “Drink up, though. Hydrate or diedrate.”

“Guess I’ll diedrate,” Shang Qinghua shrugs, very slowly, and then carefully ducks his head down to take a sip of the cup that he only vaguely knows the exact location of. 

Jin Kao sighs quietly. “This disciple wishes that shizun and shibo would make sense for once….”

Shen Qingqiu muffles a laugh into his sleeve. Shang Qinghua doesn’t bother, snickering openly as he munches on the rest of his steamed bun. Shen Qingqiu tilts his head, watching his friend closely. It’s nice, actually a relief, to see how much lighter Shang Qinghua looks even compared to just yesterday. He’s smiled more in this one afternoon than Shen Qingqiu has seen from him since the incident. He sits straighter, he is markedly less hesitant when reaching for things than he was before, trusting him instincts and other senses more when he was not so caught up over his current lack of sight.

Watching him now, enjoying what’s nearly an actual meal for once and actually talking conversationally with a calm and dutiful Jin Kao instead of in exhausted monosyllables, Shang Qinghua looks more alive than Shen Qingqiu has seen him all week. 

Leaning back, the Qing Jing lord nurses his own cup of tea and figures, perhaps, that Ju Qingsong was right. This is better.