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And I love you at first for your wicked eyes
And the laughter that loosens your bones
And your soft curls
And the passions that I’ve never known
...
There is no Valentine’s Day in Xianxialand. For that matter, there’s no St. Valentine either.
Shen Qingqiu isn’t actually sure if there’s a Europe attached to this geographical nightmare plane of existence at all. If there is, he’s certain that it’s been butchered to fit Airplane’s ridiculous ideas about how the world works.
Shen Qingqiu very purposefully does not think about the plate tectonics of this world. Because if he did, he would feel morally obliged to murder Shang Qinghua, and that would take more effort than he’s willing to expend on that trashy hack.
Ah, but he’s gotten off-topic.
There is no Valentine’s Day in Xianxialand, so there is also no White Day. It’s a shame - he had rather liked White Day, back before his death. He had spent the day with his meimei, both of them single, viciously tearing into the mindless commercialism as an excuse to hang out. They had always needed excuses.
There are, of course, love festivals. Airplane had to include any potential way to find a new wife, after all, no matter how low-brow or tacky. Unfortunately, this means that most romance festivals cater to singles ready to mingle or serve as mere excuses for papapa. (Not that he hasn’t attended the latter kind with Luo Binghe once or twice. Or, well, more often than that.)
Ah, but where is the romance, Airplane? No 520 Festival? No Qixi Festival, even? Shen Qingqiu grips his fan tighter as he laments the author’s seeming inability to write relationships beyond the getting together stage.
“Shizun?” Luo Binghe inquires.
Shen Qingqiu mentally shakes his head, refocusing on his breakfast.
“Is Shizun feeling well?” His husband’s face is open with concern. “Is there something wrong with the congee?”
“No, no,” Shen Qingqiu replies quickly. “This master is simply feeling… melancholic this morning. Lost in thought.”
Luo Binghe does not frown, though Shen Qingqiu gets the feeling that he doesn’t quite accept this answer.
Shen Qingqiu brings his chopsticks to his mouth rather pointedly and chooses simply to savor the protagonist’s five-star cooking in lieu of further discussion.
It is a beautiful spring day on the mountain, the air still a touch frosty in the early morning and smelling of rain. Luo Binghe is off to his palace to carry out his duties as emperor. Disciples carry on their tasks, long used to the hours, as Shen Qingqiu takes the time to walk around Qing Jing Peak lazily.
He has grown quite fond of his peak and his disciples. No longer does he consider them to belong to the original goods. His mark on this world, these people who are not characters, not anymore, is obvious, as obvious as his husband’s affections should have been.
Shen Qingqiu stops dead in his tracks as an idea strikes him.
Quickly, he returns to his bamboo house and begins drafting plans.
...
Shizun is behaving oddly.
Luo Binghe is (almost) over the idea that Shizun could leave him or revert at any moment. He (mostly) understands that his husband loves him, and will (likely) never hate him again.
Shizun is distracted, lately.
He makes time for Luo Binghe, of course, with smiles he believes are meant to be subtle. Since the qi deviation, Shizun believes he is better at concealing his thoughts than he truly is.
Shizun is hiding something.
Luo Binghe trusts Shizun that it is nothing bad. Shizun writes it down in that strange script he shares with Mobei Jun’s little rat-husband, the script he uses for his secrets. Luo Binghe sometimes can recognize patterns in the symbols, like Naruto and fuck , though he has spent no dedicated time deciphering what they mean.
This time, these patterns are absent. The writing is scribbled, fevered, like that of a man possessed.
Shizun is not possessed, of course. Luo Binghe would have noticed right away, and surely his martial aunt and uncles would as well.
The best guess that Luo Binghe has is that Shizun is making plans. For what, though, he has no idea.
...
Remember what Shen Qingqiu said about not thinking about the geography of this accursed plane of existence? He takes it back. Won’t someone give him a standardized map, please ?! Ancient geographers, this master humbly apologizes three times over!
Chocolate is sparse in Xianxialand. Of course it is. Because the anachronistic, biologically, geographically, geologically bullshit layout of this ancient faux-China would not deign to help Shen Qingqiu out when he needs it.
But no. Chocolate is rare in Xianxialand, so that it can be exotic and expensive, a display of true love for Bingge’s wives to tide them over until the next time Airplane remembers that the existing wives need romancing, too.
Shen Qingqiu makes piles of notes, everything he recalls about where to get chocolate. Unfortunately, the directions he remembers are from after the joining of the realms, so they’re not accurate to this world.
He will have to make do with what he has, then.
...
Shizun has begun taking regular trips without Luo Binghe.
This is fine. It’s fine. Shizun is loyal. Shizun has never once looked at anyone else the way he looks at his Binghe. Luo Binghe can be so fine with this.
Luo Binghe shakes the front of Shang Qinghua’s blue robes, darker than the color of his peak, befitting for a Queen Consort.
“Ah, Junshang, please,” the little man sputters. “I really don’t know!”
Luo Binghe thrusts a paper into his face. “Read. It.”
“Yes, Junshang!” the rat squeaks. His eyes flicker, blown pupils making them look dark and beady as he rushes to read the strange script. “Huh.”
“What.” Luo Binghe demands, his grip tightening.
“Well, it appears that, ah, Shen-shixiong is very interested in maps, Junshang?” Shang Qinghua’s hands wring nervously before him.
“Maps?”
“Yes, Junshang. He has written a, ah, complaint about the lack of… adequate maps in his library.”
Luo Binghe generously puts his martial uncle back down.
Is Shizun… searching for a good map?
Shizun! Allow this husband to provide!
...
It has taken him several months, but Shen Qingqiu has done it.
He has found chocolate, which is, of course, harvested from fruits that look like oranges. Because Shang Qinghua is a fucking hack who never bothered to look up what cacao is.
Regardless, he has gathered enough chocolate and commissioned the skills of a talented confectioner. His mock-White Day is finally possible.
His platonic gifts are all wrapped in soft green bags while his Binghe’s is in rich red, embroidered with bamboo stalks. It is larger, of course, with only the best the confectioner turned out.
He makes sure to make an itinerary for his day, saving his husband for last.
In the morning, he has tea with Liu-shidi, who turns red when presented with his gift and storms off with it in hand.
He takes his noon-day meal with Yue Qingyuan, whose eyes barely manage to absorb his own tears as Shen Qingqiu explains that this is merely a custom from his hometown.
In the early afternoon, he harasses Shang Qinghua and leaves his chocolates on his desk.
When he returns to his peak, he gives Ning Yingying and Ming Fan their gifts and accepts their sobbing hugs.
Luo Binghe is there, just setting out dinner, when he enters their home. For a moment, he stands in the doorway, simply admiring his husband’s form, before gliding into the room.
“Shizun,” his husband greets him with a smile.
“Binghe,” Shen Qingqiu responds warmly, kissing him chastely.
His Binghe is practically vibrating where he sits all throughout the meal, teeming with energy that does not leave him even as he clears their bowls and puts their chopsticks away.
“Shizun,” he breathes, “this husband has a gift for you.”
Shen Qingqiu blinks curiously, and then smiles.
“This master has a gift for you as well.”
Luo Binghe’s gift for him is a scroll, bound with a neat green ribbon and bearing his official imperial seal. Shen Qingqiu runs his hands along the edges, admiring the good paper and soft fabric.
Luo Binghe does not touch his own gift, enraptured by his husband revealing his own, and oh, what a gift it is!
The map is edged in gold, with rich paints and a lengthy key to one side. The compass itself is a work of art, and the landmasses and bodies of water are all marked cleanly in excellent calligraphy. This is an expensive gift, one that must have reached deep into the imperial coffers.
“Binghe…” Shen Qingqiu gapes, truly speechless.
“Shizun was searching so hard for a good map. This Binghe hopes that this one is sufficient.”
Shen Qingqiu taps his forehead lightly. “You know it’s beyond sufficient. It’s gorgeous, Binghe. Thank you.”
“Anything for Shizun.”
Shen Qingqiu clears his throat. “This master’s gift cannot hope to compare, but he still hopes Binghe will enjoy it.”
“This Binghe will treasure anything from Shizun,” his sticky husband replies earnestly, picking up his bag.
Luo Binghe studies the treats quietly before biting one, upon which his eyes fill with tears and Shen Qingqiu most certainly does not bite his lip behind his fan.
“Binghe does not like it?” he inquires softly, deftly hiding any hint of disappointment.
Luo Binghe shakes his head furiously before launching himself into his husband’s arms.
“Shizun found something so rare and precious for me?” He cries, clutching at his husband’s robes. “Thank you, Shizun. Shizun is generous and kind.”
Shen Qingqiu pulls back and takes his Binghe’s face in his hands.
“Binghe is loved,” he utters quietly, pressing their foreheads together. “Always.”
...
“Do you want to tell Shizun that Liu-shishu’s definitely gonna take him up on his proposition?” Ming Fan asks, staring into the middle distance.
“Nope!” Ning Yingying bolts upright, dashing off.
“Hey!”
“Good luck, shixiong!”
...
Yes we bargained for doubtful tomorrows
But our past grows richer each day
And more and more I cannot see me going away
With happiness here for our taking
Resting easy, feeling strong
As I delight in this life we are making
I sing you this Valentine Song