Work Text:
Liu Qingge’s sword wobbled beneath his feet, his pulse hammering in his ears, drowning out the sound of the wind whipping past his cheeks.
Stupid.
He had been so stupid!
He knew better than to go hunting when he was distracted, when his brain was turned to congee by Shen Qingqiu and his damnable husband. Why had he let them get to him? He knew the brat had been trying to provoke him, his smug smile and dark eyes amused at Liu Qingge’s lack of control.
And Shen Qingqiu, watching it all behind his fan, green eyes sparkling with amused humor.
Cheng Luan wobbled beneath him again and he forced himself to focus.
He had not fallen from his sword since his earliest days of training, he would not do so now. He just had to reach Mu Qingfang. Once he was safely on Qian Cao, Mu Qingfang would tend to him, would deal with whatever poison he had been dosed with. Mu Qingfang always tended to him, always made things better.
Five years of nearly constant battle with that demon had made sure Liu Qingge knew the way by heart. He would always know the way to Qian Cao and those hands which had held him together through the darkest days of his life. How many times had he woken up, still broken, still tender, and fled anyway, gone to fight that horrible brat in a futile attempt to regain his shixiong’s body?
Useless, in the end. All the pain, all the blood he had shed, and Shen Qingqiu had still chosen Luo Binghe over him.
Liu Qingge shook his head, trying to dispel the worthless thoughts. Whatever that creature had done to him, his concentration was certainly taking a hit. But just ahead, rising like a monster from a serene lake, Cang Qiong loomed, beckoning him. He flew faster, his breath quick and stuttering in his chest as he passed through the wards and pointed his sword to Qian Cao.
His vision was blurry, but he knew the way, and when he saw the strip of mossy ground Qian Cao used for cultivators to land on, he almost wept. Sparkles filled his vision as he felt the shudder of his body meeting the ground, pain distant but still enough to draw a groan from his chapped lips. He had made it.
“Shidi!”
Distantly, he was aware of Shen Qingqiu’s voice, of an answer from his wretched husband, followed by Mu Qingfang’s more familiar version of distress.
He couldn’t make out the words, his consciousness slowly fading.
“Liu Qingge!” Mu Qingfang’s voice snapped, and he felt pressure on his chest, the cool inflow of qi not his own.
Darkness.
&&&
He was sweeping steps.
Liu Mingyu blinked down at the broom in his hands, surprised to find it there.
His gaze wandered from the steps of the Bai Zhan peak lord’s house to the familiar training fields below, and his brow creased.
Something… wasn’t quite right.
Hadn’t he been somewhere else, just a bit ago?
“Mingyu!” a voice chastised, and he turned his attention to his master's house, swallowing down his guilt at having been caught letting his thoughts drift. “Are you going to sweep, or daydream?”
“Sorry, Shizun,” Liu Mingyu apologized, turning his focus back to his chore.
Of course, he hadn’t been anywhere else, he was a first year Bai Zhan disciple! His only duty now was to train and learn and hope to be able to defeat his master one day.
He turned his attention back to his sweeping, the small clouds of dust whirling around his feet.
“Anything can be a meditation,” his shizun’s voice floated to him, sounding more distant than just the length to his house, but Mingyu kept his head down and nodded. “Focus on your movement, on what your body is telling you. If you are tired, then change your form. Nothing is below you, from sweeping the floor to washing the steps. Everything is training when looked at correctly.”
Of course his shizun was correct, someplace deep in his soul agreed.
Sweeping, pulling weeds, taking care of the peak’s horses, all of these chores required different states of being, different muscles. All of it could be focused on growing the small golden core within him.
Feeling slightly more settled, Liu Mingyu continued to sweep.
&&&
Time seemed to pass funnily. One moment he was sweeping his shizun’s steps, the next he was fighting other Bai Zhan boys twice his size, his practice sword barely holding against their spirit swords.
Someone had slipped something funny into his food that morning as well. That was the only thing he could think of as his arms shook, and it felt as though he were being consumed by a fever.
Even if he couldn’t remember eating, that was the only explanation for why the boys were taunting him so.
“Mingyu thinks he’s going to be the next peak lord,” one of the boys sneered, his face blurred by the blood running into Mingyu’s eyes.
Another blow to his sword, his wrists complaining against the strain.
“He thinks he’s special,” another laughed, and he barely avoided the kick to his leg that would have had him stumbling.
Mingyu focused on his breathing, his chest aching and his throat raw from his gasping breaths.
He just had to hold on. He couldn’t remember why, but he knew… There was something that would happen if he just hung on, just kept himself together long enough.
“What do you think you’re doing?” a young voice shouted, followed by the sound of fists hitting flesh, of the other boys’ cries of dismay and pain as someone gave them a taste of their own brutishness.
Liu Mingyu didn’t lower his sword to wipe the blood from his eyes until he was certain his opponents had fled, then he hastily turned to his rescuers and bowed.
Normally he would be upset about having someone rescue him.
It wasn’t the way of Bai Zhan, to have others fight your battle. But the sound of that voice… there had been something…
Something…
He finally wiped the blood from his face as he stood straight, surprised to see two Qing Jing disciples before him. One of them was obviously older, probably a third- or fourth-year disciple, while the other seemed around his age or younger.
The older one was pristine in the green and white robes, a plain white fan held in his hand, his smooth, shiny black hair pulled back into a half bun while the rest fell to his waist.
The boy beside him seemed more awkward, still growing into his limbs, his own hair a wild tangle of curls that he had tried to capture into a ponytail that was failing.
Liu Mingyu was not going to judge either boy, based on his own shameful appearance. He knew he was covered with dirt and blood, his eyes swollen, a cut on his forehead continuing to bleed.
He hoped his robes had at least survived intact. Shizun got so angry when they had to be replaced and he had to speak to the An Ding peak lord.
“Thanking Shixiong,” Liu Mingyu said, trying to keep the anger and weariness out of his voice.
The older boy looked at him strangely, green eyes intent, taking in all of Liu Mingyu’s appearance with a fascinated kind of wonder.
Did they know each other? He couldn’t remember meeting him, but he seemed familiar.
“Is Shidi well?” he asked.
How could a boy so young sound so composed? Surely, he would be a peerless beauty when he grew older.
“Thanking Shixiong, this one is well,” Liu Mingyu replied, bowing once again. He waited a moment, and when neither spoke, he prompted, “May I know to whom this one is speaking?”
“Ah,” the older boy said, looking a bit sheepish. “This one is Shen… Jiu.” He cleared his throat and continued, as though hoping Liu Mingyu would ignore the strange pause at his name. “This little one is Luo Binghe.”
They all bowed to each other, introductions complete, and Liu Mingyu kept his questions to himself. Perhaps it was a bit out of character for him, but neither boy seemed to want to cause trouble, and Liu Mingyu was not eager to cause more fighting between the peaks. The last time, all of Bai Zhan had been made to run laps around the mountain several times.
“Does Shidi require assistance?” Shen Jiu asked, keeping his face partly hidden by his fan.
“No, this one –“ Liu Mingyu gasped as sudden pain flared in his stomach, a sharp, stabbing pulse that had his knees almost buckling.
Strong arms, stronger than should be possible for a young disciple of a scholarly peak, wrapped around his waist, holding him up as he gasped for air.
“Shidi?” that smooth voice called, worry making it sharp.
He would gladly cut himself on those edges, if it meant he could hear a few more words directed his way.
He blinked at the strange thought, shaking his head as he tried to reorient himself.
“I –“ he gasped, then doubled over and vomited, the mess black and tarry.
It was shameful, so shameful, that he couldn’t control his body, especially in front of someone so elegant and refined. Whatever the Bai Zhan boys had slipped into his food was doing its best to wring him inside out.
“Binghe,” the older boy’s voice rang out, imperious and as authoritative as any young lord.
The hands holding him up shifted, and he found himself lifted easily, too easily, into the arms of the younger disciple. His vision greyed, then darkened, and only the muffled murmurs of that voice lingered as he passed out.
&&&
Liu Mingyu blinked, staring down at the sword in his hands.
His balance was off, and he corrected automatically. The training dummy before him waited for his next blow, but his arms suddenly felt weak. Hadn’t he been… wasn’t there someone else with him just a moment before?
Now, however, he was alone, the grey of twilight slowly descending as he looked around the training field. He was the only one here. The others must be at supper, he thought, though his gut told him that was not right. There was always someone training, at all hours, in all weather. It was the way of Bai Zhan.
“Shidi!”
He turned, surprised, to find the friendly Qing Jing disciples heading his way, both of them walking with far more elegance than boys their age should contain. He often felt like a pig in slop whenever they stopped by, though he couldn’t remember at the moment why they did.
Didn’t Qing Jing hate Bai Zhan? Why were these two always seeking him out?
Weren’t they?
“Shixiong,” he greeted, lowering his sword and moving over to the fence that separated this training ground from the spectators or instructors who often watched. “Shizhi.”
He couldn’t remember why he called the younger boy that, when they were so close to him in age and status, but he couldn’t imagine calling him anything else. Neither of them had ever corrected him either.
He thought.
His memories were hazy and muddled. It hurt to think about such things.
“Greetings, Shishu,” Luo Binghe called, his smile impish even as his eyes, older than the sweet, innocent face they belonged to, looked him over, seeming to take in everything with only a glance. “How is Shishu doing today?”
“This one is fine,” Liu Mingyu answered automatically.
“Hmmmm.”
Shen Jiu had taken out his fan and was observing him over the silk, eyes just as quick and all-knowing as his companion.
“Mingyu was ill last we spoke,” he observed, his green eyes narrowing slightly.
“I –“
Had he been ill? His cultivation was strong enough now that regular illnesses shouldn’t affect him. But he had felt rather weak just a moment ago, his sword heavier in his hand than it should be.
“Will Shidi walk with us?” Shen Jiu asked, his face as blank and stoic as ever, though his eyes held a hint of wanting.
“Of course,” he found his mouth answering without conscious thought.
He blinked, confused at himself.
He should be practicing, not going for walks with handsome boys who liked to tease him.
His sister –
A sudden, piercing pain cut through his head, a stabbing, vicious pain that seemed to wrap around his eyes and his neck like a vice.
“Shidi!”
Once again strong arms were supporting him, muffled voices floating to his ears.
“He’s getting worse! You have to steer him back to us!”
“We’re trying! Do you realize how stubborn he is?”
“More stubborn than you two?”
“Shidi, breath with me,” Shen Jiu ordered, a hand on his back rubbing a slow circle. “Breath in, hold it, then out. Good, Shidi, again.”
Slowly the pain began to ease, but Liu Mingyu felt as though he would crumble to dust if the other boy let go of him.
His bones would turn brittle and collapse, and he would be nothing but a pile of dirt, to be kicked out of the way as those around him continued to live their lives.
“Don’t…” he managed to gasp, closing his eyes tightly, desperate not to see their expressions. “Don’t leave me.”
He barely recognized his voice. It sounded at once too old and too young, breaking on the last word.
“Shishu need not worry,” Binghe whispered close to his ear, and it was the child’s strong arms that held him secure, his strong chest that he was pulled to. How could a boy so young have such a physique? “We will not leave you here.”
“Binghe, take us away,” Shen Jiu ordered, and darkness once more descended.
&&&
He was warm. The bed he lay in was soft, the mattress just the right sight of supportive and firm, and his head was cradled by a pillow softer than any he had experienced. His bones ached, his chest a dull pang that seemed to sharpen with each breath.
“Hush, Shidi,” Shen Qingqiu whispered from above him. “Mu-shidi is almost prepared with the cure. Just rest for now.”
“Shixiong,” Lui Qingge whispered, his voice sounded broken and lost.
“Yes, Shidi. All will be well. Trust Shixiong.”
Long, elegant fingers brushed across his temple, down his cheek, along the curve of his ear. They brought the soothing tickle of qi with them, easing the ache he hadn’t even been aware of.
“Shizun,” Luo Binghe’s voice broke through the peace, and Liu Qingge tensed unconsciously.
“None of that,” Shen Qingqiu scolded, then, softer, “What is it, Binghe?”
“I can… make things easier, until Mu-Shishu is ready.”
Was it his imagination? Did that arrogant brat actually sound uncertain?
“If you will,” Shen Qingqiu agreed, and the fingers continued to rub gently across his face.
“Don’t worry, Liu Shishu,” Binghe’s voice whispered. “It will be better soon.”
&&&
The bamboo house was quiet, with only the sound of the wind to accompany the gentle clink of cups as the three figures drank tea in peaceful harmony. Binghe, ever the dutiful disciple to his shizun, made certain their cups were always filled, and didn’t once sneer at his shishu, as was his want.
The teacup was warm and delicate in his rough hand, the tea lightly scented and pleasant on his tongue.
It must be a dream, Liu Qingge thought, gazing around the perfect setting. Only in his dreams had things ever been so peaceful.
“Shidi looks tired,” Shen Qingqiu said softly, that deep, rich voice just as devastating as it had been when Liu Qingge was barely more than a boy and uncertain of his own desires.
“Shishu should rest for a while,” Binghe coaxed and made certain to top up his tea.
Liu Qingge looked at the brat for a moment before taking a sip.
“Why are you being so nice?” he asked bluntly.
Binghe blinked wide, innocent eyes at him, but he was no Shen Qingqiu, easily manipulated by that pitiful face, and merely stared back, taking another sip. Slowly, the innocent expression morphed into something more genuine, a trace of humor on those lips and an impish gleam in those eyes. But his voice, when he spoke, was not the arrogant sneer he usually used.
“Shishu has been unwell for a while, and my shizun is worried. I only want my shizun to be happy, and that means doing what I can to ensure your health. And,” here Binghe paused, for just a moment looking honestly vulnerable and young. “I miss sparring with you.”
Liu Qingge snorted but didn’t offer his regular snappish comeback.
He did feel tired, like a smear of ink too light to be legible on the paper. What words would he write against their hearts, if he could make himself understood?
“This shixiong worries for his shidi,” Shen Qingqiu said softly, gently wafting his fan, though not hiding behind it. His eyes seemed sorrowful as they looked at him. “It pains me that my shidi runs away from me when we come home, and that he would prefer risking his health than sitting down to tea with me.” And then, almost too softly to be heard, “I miss my friend.”
Liu Qingge, once a boy named Mingyu, who had fallen in love with his shixiong at one glance of those clear, striking green eyes, does not know what to say.
His ink is too faint, his heart too muddled to be precise.
“This one…misses his friend, as well,” he finally says. It is easier to speak to his tea, rather than look into those knowing eyes. It is easier still to avoid the look Luo Binghe is giving him, the demon mark on his forehead pulsing gently. “This one –“ Liu Qingge pauses, then forces himself to speak.
He has never been a coward, and he will not start now.
“This one does not know how to be around Shixiong.”
They are all quiet, Luo Binghe continuing to fill their tea, the teapot seemingly bottomless.
“Perhaps,” Shen Qingqiu says softly, and places his cup on the table with a gentle tink. “It is time we all learn how to be around each other. Perhaps there are other, newer ways to be.”
“Perhaps,” Luo Binghe agrees, and smiles when Liu Qingge looks up at the strange note in his voice. “It would be nice. Learning to be together.”
The idea is not so strange as it may have once been. The spars he engages in with Luo Binghe have long since stopped being ones of anger or hatred, and have become more playful, a match of equals that it is hard for either man to find elsewhere.
And Liu Qingge finds he is tired of running away, of watching the man he loves walk with another.
“Be plain with your words,” he finally says. He will not dance around this anymore.
Shen Qingqiu blushes, but he still does not hide his face. “This one is saying that, if you wish, there is room in my heart for both of you.”
Liu Qingge blushes himself even as he meets their eyes evenly, and considers.
Everything can be a meditation, his master had said.
He listens to his heart, to the gentle breaths of those beside him, and nods his head.
“En,” he whispers, and sips his tea.
&&&
He opens his eyes, his head pounding with a dull throb, his throat dry and sore, his limbs aching. He is once again in Qian Cao, the familiar ceiling one he knows almost better than his own bedroom.
The smell of herbs hangs in the air.
Beside him, there is the sounds of someone breathing deeply in sleep, and when he manages to turn his head, he sees Shen Qingqiu, his head resting on his arm, face elegant even in sleep, one hand clutching Liu Qingge’s gently.
There is a rustle to his other side, and he turns to see Luo Binghe carefully mending a small tear in one of his shizun’s robes, work to keep his hands busy. He stills when he feels eyes on him, and for a moment the two of them stare at each other.
“Would Shishu like some water?” Luo Binge finally asks, setting aside his mending.
Liu Qingge nods, and the other’s hands are gentle as they help him drink, the sword callouses familiar and comforting against his neck.
“This one will let Mu-Shishu know you are awake,” he says once Liu Qingge has finished.
He is nearly to the door before Liu Qingge whispers, “Thank you.”
He doesn’t hesitate before leaving, but he did not expect him to.
Beside him, still breathing deep, Shen Qingqiu gently squeezes his hand.