Chapter Text
Ming Fan doesn’t mind Luo Binghe, at first. The boy’s just another new disciple, and not a particularly impressive-looking one. He thinks to himself with fleeting, offhand humor that those wide doe eyes belong more on Xian Shu than Qing Jing.
Then Ning Yingying starts smiling at Luo Binghe during classes and the boy starts picking up sword exercises with unnatural ease—Ming Fan can’t stop himself the first time he swings his blade with too much force for a spar and sends Luo Binghe tumbling to the ground with a crash of steel.
The boy scrambles up, but the damage is done. His curls are in disarray, his robes dirty and askew, his arm leaking blood out a gash in his sleeve where his own sword must have bit into flesh on his way down. He looks pathetic.
“Don’t slack off during a spar, brat,” Shizun berates Luo Binghe. “Is this how you repay Qing Jing Peak’s generosity? You shouldn’t take your shixiong’s guidance for granted.”
Now that—that sounds like permission to Ming Fan.
“Thanks to shixiong for the help,” Luo Binghe pants, retaking his stance.
“Thank me when your form isn’t trash,” Ming Fan spits, and beats Luo Binghe into the ground again.
Of course, Luo Binghe’s form doesn’t exactly improve in the next few weeks. Even the most talented student couldn’t hope to learn when Shizun does no more than sniff disdainfully at his mistakes and the other disciples don’t so much as help him up when he falls. Ming Fan himself takes pleasure in thrashing Luo Binghe whenever they’re paired up.
Four months after Luo Binghe is taken in to Qing Jing Peak, the newest batch of disciples is ready to begin training in spiritual cultivation. Ming Fan passes out cultivation manuals to each young student. By the time he’s worked his way through the row of disciples to where Luo Binghe sits, the only booklet left is an old, somewhat crumpled copy that Ming Fan placed deliberately at the bottom of the pile. Luo Binghe takes it like it’s a scroll from the heavens.
“Don’t lose it,” Ming Fan snaps, eyes lingering on Luo Binghe’s fingers where they cradle the booklet with precious, ginger intensity. “We don’t have resources to waste on you.”
He strides back to the front of the room.
Faulty cultivation methods can be fatal. While Ming Fan is no angel, he’s no murderer either; that ageworn manual he handed over is outdated but not actually incorrect. And Luo Binghe, that brat, is stubborn, stupidly persevering, and absurdly durable—the manual won’t do more than slow his progress, which is exactly what Ming Fan wants.
Yes, it’s exactly what he wants.
Ming Fan watches Luo Binghe fall steadily further behind his peers over the following months. It’s pitiful, how hard he tries and tries to catch up: repeatedly throwing himself through sloppy sword forms, straining to overhear Shizun’s advice to other disciples, biting his lip raw with concentration as his calligraphy brush moves over paper.
Some nights, Ming Fan sees him squint at the outdated cultivation manual in the darkness of night when everyone else is asleep, those brows furrowed in hopeless determination as he tries to follow its instructions. He never notices that Ming Fan is also awake.
Then the other disciples’ treatment sharpens yet again, a dormitory cot loses its occupant, and Ming Fan doesn’t let himself wonder if Luo Binghe stays up so late in the woodshed, too.
Time passes. Ming Fan’s interactions with Luo Binghe continue along the line of smacking him down in spars, assigning him massive lists of chores, glaring at him when Ning Yingying touches his arm, and stringing him up so that Shizun can beat him. A year goes by in this way, nothing changing—until something does.
Unlike some of his fellow disciples, Ming Fan doesn’t take a turn pummeling Luo Binghe whenever he gets strung up. At most, he does the stringing and then exits while Shizun slaps, strikes, or otherwise performs the physical rebuke of the day. He always pretends he doesn’t see the other boys sneaking over to wait for Shizun’s departure so they can get their own kicks in.
To be honest, he doesn’t see the point. Beating Luo Binghe in spars is satisfying because it’s a fight, one that he wins with easy brutality and brutal ease—something to rub into Luo Binghe’s face as he stands over his sprawled form in the dirt. So what if Luo Binghe only rushes in with those crude blocks and haphazard attacks because no one has bothered to correct him otherwise? The result is the result, and Ming Fan comes out on top.
But no matter how he looks at it, there’s simply no way to squeeze any satisfaction out of assaulting the boy when he’s wrapped up and dangling like a sausage at the market.
Ming Fan settles in a clearing along the path between the woodshed and Shizun’s quarters, knowing that at some point Shizun will come along to tell him exactly how long he should leave Luo Binghe in the shed before releasing him. The length of time varies depending on Shizun’s mood, ranging from a quarter shichen to half the night. When it’s the latter, Ming Fan feels mild resentment at having to delay his own sleep, but obeys nonetheless. On Qing Jing Peak, Shizun’s word is law.
To pass the time, Ming Fan meditates and focuses on the flow of qi through his meridians. At this point he’s a late-stage Foundation Establishment cultivator, impressive for his age but just about the minimum for a head disciple of Cang Qiong Sect. He still has a lot of work to do, and he’ll be damned if he lets any of his peers surpass him.
Ming Fan has meditated for almost an incense stick’s worth of time when he opens his eyes. Shizun still hasn’t come to find him. Surely, he hasn’t been beating Luo Binghe for this long? Shizun’s stamina is excellent, of course, but at this point… boredom would be the main problem, right? Ming Fan rises from his position on the grass and heads back towards the woodshed.
The evening dips closer to night with every step he takes, the glimmer of stars appearing in the sky above. As Ming Fan nears the shed, he notices the unusual lack of noise emanating from within. Usually, he’d be able to hear curses at least, or the sound of a fan smacking flesh. He realizes why when he nearly trips over a form in the dirt just outside the shed.
“Luo Binghe?” he exclaims. But no, even as the name leaves his mouth he knows it’s not the brat. A single glance at the person’s robes reveals their identity as Shizun. That doesn’t explain why the Peak Lord of Qing Jing is collapsed on the ground.
Gritting his teeth, Ming Fan kneels down and gathers Shizun into his arms. He tries not to wince at the thought of what Shizun would say if he woke up right now and saw Ming Fan holding him as if he were a helpless maiden. Ming Fan would probably be the one strung up and beaten!
Shizun’s pulse is rapid underneath his fingers. And his qi…
“Luo Binghe, you’d better not be responsible for this,” Ming Fan calls through the cracked door, keeping his voice low in hopes of not waking Shizun. He turns around and hurries as fast as he can up the path. At this hour, most of the disciples should be returning to the dormitories, so he heads in that direction until he runs into someone.
“Ming-shixiong?”
Of course it’s Ning Yingying. “Shizun is having a qi deviation,” Ming Fan says urgently. “Go get help from Qian Cao Peak!”
“W-what?” Ning Yingying cries. Her wide-eyed gaze flits between Ming Fan and the unconscious Shizun, hands fluttering with nerves. “Shizun—he—?!”
Ming Fan does not have time for this. “Go!” he snaps.
While Ning Yingying runs off, Ming Fan carries Shizun to his quarters, cringing as he invades the privacy of Shizun’s living space. He’s never set foot in Shizun’s bedroom before—would never dare, would never want to—but he can’t exactly drape Shizun across the tea table. The bed it is.
By now, he’s gathered a trail of frantic disciples behind him, and he bites out orders to fetch water, towels, and blankets. Shizun’s qi is roiling erratically, and his temperature spikes higher every time Ming Fan lays his hand across his forehead to check. He can’t do anything about the former, but he can at least attempt to mitigate the fever.
He bites his lip and sits down heavily by the bed, glancing at Shizun’s pallid face and then away. It’s—wrong. To see Shizun like this. The lofty immortal Peak Lord of Qing Jing, Shen Qingqiu… He doesn’t belong like this, laid out and overheating and quite possibly on the verge of death.
His fellow disciples are hurrying about wetting towels and anxiously laying them across Shizun’s forehead when Ning Yingying finally arrives with Mu Qingfang in tow. Ming Fan quickly explains the situation to him, though he doesn’t know any more than Mu Qingfang can see for himself with a glance and a touch.
It’s then that Ming Fan realizes he’s forgotten something. Or rather, someone.
Mu Qingfang shoos all of the hovering disciples, Ming Fan included, out of the bamboo house. Instead of going to the dormitories or joining in on nervous gossip, Ming Fan strides down the path to the woodshed. Night has fallen completely, and the stars light his way.
The door of the shed creaks when he pushes it open. A slash of silver falls across the interior, illuminating Luo Binghe’s limp figure hanging from the ceiling. His head shoots up at Ming Fan’s entrance.
“… Shixiong?” He tries to hide it, but trepidation is obvious in his voice.
“Luo Binghe, what did you do to Shizun?” Ming Fan demands.
“What?” He sounds genuinely bewildered.
Ming Fan shoves the door open all the way and steps up so he’s right in front of the other boy. His eyes have adjusted enough to the night that Luo Binghe’s features are clear under the moon’s rays. “Shizun went into qi deviation,” he says, watching closely for a reaction.
“Shizun—Shizun qi deviated—?” Luo Binghe stammers just like Ning Yingying did. Ming Fan tries, but he can’t find a speck of deceit in those inky eyes.
“You really don’t know anything,” Ming Fan concludes with irritation, interrupting Luo Binghe’s stutters. The timing and location was convenient, but there isn’t really anything else pointing to Luo Binghe as the culprit. And what could he even have done? The brat doesn’t even know how to circulate his own qi. “Tch.”
Without another word, Ming Fan reaches for the knots around Luo Binghe’s limbs and begins to untie them as usual. It’s easy to unravel knots he tied himself. Sometimes he can’t avoid touching skin, and bits of startling warmth seep into his fingertips. Luo Binghe always runs hot.
When the last knot loosens, Ming Fan steps back, letting Luo Binghe crumple and barely catch himself on a pile of chopped wood. This would usually be when Ming Fan turns his back and leaves Luo Binghe behind to drag the feeling back into his limbs. Today… he doesn’t.
Panting, Luo Binghe staggers upright and lifts his gaze. He looks surprised to see Ming Fan still standing there. “Shixiong?”
“What do you want?” Ming Fan snaps, though he knows Luo Binghe wasn’t asking for anything but clarification.
“Nothing,” Luo Binghe says quickly. “This disciple is sorry for the trouble.”
Does he even know what he’s apologizing for? Ming Fan sneers.
He waits in silence for Luo Binghe to shake out his legs, then turns on his heel and exits the woodshed. “Come on.”
“C-coming.”
Ming Fan walks through the trees, hearing footsteps hurry to follow him. Just out of sight of the dormitory building, he comes to a halt and throws a glance at Luo Binghe over his shoulder. “Wait here.”
“Yes, shixiong.”
Ignoring the tiny waver in Luo Binghe’s voice, Ming Fan heads into the dormitory and rifles through his belongings. A few other disciples try to draw him into conversation—they’re all still talking about Shizun’s qi deviation—but Ming Fan brushes them off.
“What are you doing?” one asks.
“I’m looking for my calligraphy brush,” he answers. Hands hidden from view inside a pouch, he tucks something up his sleeve before withdrawing and letting a frown cross his face. “I must have left it this afternoon.”
“You’re going to look for it now?” the disciple asks in disbelief as Ming Fan rises to leave again.
“I want to copy some poetry to wish Shizun well,” he explains. At least that part isn’t a lie, though all of his brushes are safely where they should be.
The disciple perks up. “Then I will too,” he says.
“I’m sure Shizun will appreciate it,” Ming Fan says, and that’s not a lie either. Shizun has always appreciated poetry, ah, except for verses that expound on certain ideas like love and loyalty. (As expected of such an aloof and lofty immortal. What need has he for mortal attachments like love?) Ever the attentive disciple, Ming Fan knows exactly what topics to avoid by now.
He returns outside to find that Luo Binghe is exactly where he left him. If there’s one good thing to say about him, it’s that he follows orders.
Ming Fan takes the jar out of his sleeve and holds it out. “Here.”
Luo Binghe’s eyes widen. “Ming-shixiong, this…?”
“You can’t even recognize a jar of ointment when it’s in front of your face?” Ming Fan mocks. “I didn’t know Qing Jing Peak accepted blind disciples.”
Ming Fan can think of several admirable blind disciples from the other peaks off the top of his head, so it’s not much of an insult. But as he’s learned, the tone in which he says something can do the job anyway. Luo Binghe winces.
“This disciple apologizes,” he blurts. It probably isn’t his fault that the other disciples have bullied him into using such overly respectful language all the time, but it annoys Ming Fan nonetheless. “I just don’t understand why Ming-shixiong—”
Ming Fan snatches up Luo Binghe’s hand, nails digging into his skin, and shoves the jar into his grasp.
“This is bruise ointment,” he enunciates harshly. He jabs a finger into Luo Binghe’s swollen cheek, satisfied with the pained inhalation it evokes. “This is a bruise. Surely even your meager intellect can scrape together a conclusion?”
Luo Binghe’s eyes can’t possibly get any wider. “I—yes. Yes. Many thanks to shixiong!” He folds into a bow, and Ming Fan jerks back to avoid being slapped by Luo Binghe’s flying curls.
“Thank me when you don’t look like shit,” Ming Fan hisses. “You’re an embarrassment to Qing Jing Peak.”
Luo Binghe droops a little, but the sparkle in his night-black eyes doesn’t dim as he clutches at the jar. “Yes, this disciple will take care of his appearance! Ming-shixiong really is kind.”
Ming Fan’s heart clenches in what can only be disgust. “Who’s kind?” he snorts. “You’re stupider than I thought.”
Either that, or he’s a sarcastic little brat. This time, Ming Fan does turn his back and leave Luo Binghe behind.
Shizun still hasn’t woken the next day, but the schedule is the schedule. Most of the Peak’s activities roll on in some semblance of normal. Luo Binghe seeks Ming Fan out, unsurely, after a painting class that Ming Fan leads as the head disciple. In his hand is the medicine jar, still half-full.
“What is it?” Ming Fan snaps. He glances around, but no one’s watching them.
“This one is returning shixiong’s ointment,” Luo Binghe says, thrusting the jar out with both hands, like a child. Reddish rope burns peek out from under his sleeves.
Ming Fan curls his lip. He’s being insulted. “Not good enough for you? Didn’t want my leftovers?”
“No!” Luo Binghe straightens in seemingly earnest, panicked affront. “This one is incredibly grateful for shixiong’s generosity! The ointment was very effective.”
“Clearly not effective enough,” Ming Fan scoffs, looking at the yellowing bruise that still colors Luo Binghe’s cheek. He suspects the ones under the boy’s clothing linger as well. “It’ll take more than one application to make you look presentable, if that’s even possible. If only there was some ointment that could wipe that moronic look off your face.”
He sweeps away with his best imitation of Shizun’s grace, not looking back.