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Yanqing is good with directions. Relatively. Maybe. He is continually reassessing this opinion as he wonders about the streets aimlessly. Yanqing is not lost per se, but he doesn’t know where he is. He thinks he does, had been confident when he first began his trek. But it ebbed into an uncertainty that left his next steps hesitant and unsure, a frown drawn across his face. That doesn’t make sense though. Yanqing recognizes the building on his right, vaguely. He’s sure that he used to play there, when he was unattended and boredom led him to break away from Jing Yuan’s estate. He’d shuffle into the place while looking over his shoulder conspiratorially to ensure that no one had followed him, like the place was his own secret base. And there never was any witness because — Yanqing’s frown deepens. Because the area had long been abandoned after one of the wars had rendered it dreary and destitute. When Yanqing had explored, there had only been ruined building foundations to climb and the blackened aftereffects of a surge in mara. He grimaces.
Correction: Yanqing is really bad with directions. He must be, he thinks, a little hysterical as he lowers himself into a crouch right in the middle of the street, ignoring all the blatant stares of passersby as he wraps his arms around his knees and buries his face into his thighs as he, very manfully, does not scream. Yanqing, being as bad with directions as he is, has somehow not taken a wrong turn down the street, but a wrong turn down time. Silly him.
Yanqing slowly raises himself into a steady walk, taking measured steps like he wasn’t just on the brink of a mental breakdown in front of some poor vendor’s stall. Fuck. His speed picks up a little, the pace of an increasingly delayed student to an observer, before he turns a sharp corner and presses his back into rough cement, sliding down as the friction pulls painfully against his skin. Yanqing is so fucked.
Yanqing buries his face into his hands and screams.
Time travel, as it turns out, is completely, wholly, and utterly boring. Yanqing has nothing to do, bereft of all his companions — who probably haven’t even been conceptualized yet — and stripped of his duties by way of temporal displacement. Lucky him. Now, Yanqing might be tempted to scream again, but he’s done that already. Several times in fact. Which means he’s coming dangerously close to using all his screams up. And if that happens he might be forced to confront the very real consequences of his actions and have an actual mental breakdown. So, instead, Yanqing chooses to turn to something familiar in this thoroughly unfamiliar place.
Now and in the future, the only reliable constant is the presence of the mara-struck. Really, it’s like the choice is already made for him.
It doesn’t take long for Jing Yuan to hear whispers of the golden-haired stranger who’s gone about offering his services to the Luofu, clearing out droves of mara-struck with uncanny efficiency. It doesn’t take long for anyone, really, to hear about him; the rumours begin abruptly and with such ferocity that Jing Yuan can’t help but find them contrived and absentmindedly dismisses the entire thing as some manufactured farce. It’s when murmurs follow him to the training hall and into the crevices of the vendor alleys that he really begins to wonder. His comrades swear by the legitimacy of their claims and the granny who hands him his songlotus cake makes an offhand mention of a peculiar foreign customer who’d visited earlier. Despite himself, Jing Yuan cannot help the growing curiosity that gnaws at him. He hums in amusement, his lips quirking. Perhaps he would personally look into the matter. If the rumours were not exaggerated, he should have a satisfactory opponent to temper his blade against, and if otherwise. Well. Jing Yuan only has shallow expectations for this venture anyways.
Yet, in spite of sightings of the foreigner being pervasive and encompassing, Jing Yuan never manages to catch even a glimpse of the man. It’s strangely upsetting. Mostly because no one else seems to be experiencing the same issue; his comrades have daily news on him and rumours have become so commonplace that they’ve grown to encompass even his favoured tea house. But when Jing Yuan, after days of trying (and failing) to find him, eventually resorts to loitering about the shop, the stranger is notably absent. It’s almost as though he’s being avoided. Which is absurd. Jing Yuan doesn’t know the man; why would he be singled out from among the countless Cloud Knights?
Although, as long days drag by with minimal progress, Jing Yuan considers the possibility in more depth. Bemusement wanes and frustration begins to blossom in its wake. It’s an unpleasant feeling.
Jing Yuan takes to searching with more effort, more than he should realistically be expending with his position in the Cloud Knights. And when even those efforts prove fruitless, he resorts to changing his tactics. While Jing Yuan is generally more direct and brash, perhaps due to his youth, this time he feels the need to deal in entrapment and subterfuge. It doesn’t take considerable energy to come up with a plan. The foreigner appears where there are mara-struck and has a recorded history of focusing his efforts on situations involving distressed civilians — particularly children. While it may not necessarily be born out of natural fondness, it is, at the very least, a tested fact — a weakness. One that Jing Yuan is all too happy to exploit. Even for his age, he looks relatively youthful, and provoking a dozen or two mara-struck is hardly an insurmountable task. If anything, Jing Yuan is anticipatory, his blood thrumming under his skin.
Maybe, just maybe, Jing Yuan should have been more careful. Being surrounded by two dozen (maybe three dozen-) mara-struck while acting like some hapless individual is actually surprisingly difficult. Huh. In all honesty, Jing Yuan would have a much easier time of it if he could actively defend himself. But that would ruin the whole setup.
He sighs, narrowly dodging a blade that trails harshly across the ground beside him, kicking up dirt and muddying his already disheveled clothes. The things he does to satisfy his curiosity.
As the battle — if a one-sided affront could be classified as such — draws long and Jing Yuan feels the first brush of exhaustion settle against his bones, his efforts finally prove worthwhile when blond hair sweeps past him with almost unnatural grace. The stranger parries their weapons easily with effortless moves, weaving through the thrall of mara-struck in a complicated dance that leaves Jing Yuan slightly breathless. It’s like watching a dancer on stage, a practiced master in their natural habitat; a bird in flight.
By the time Jing Yuan’s lungs remember how to properly function, the last of the mara-struck has been felled, a beautifully grotesque picture of discoloured flesh embellished with vibrant ginkgo leaves. Oddly, the image leaves Jing Yuan more nauseous than it has in a long time. He shakes off the feeling and turns to the other man with a bright smile, generic words of gratitude on the tip of his tongue as his eyes rake over the stranger’s form, lingering on his unsheathed (?) blades before darting up to his face curiously.
Any word he might have offered dissipates, his expression falling. The stranger is looking at him, expression so stricken that if Jing Yuan didn’t know better, didn’t know that this was a man capable of killing mara-struck with the flick of his hand, he might’ve assumed that he was, for some confounding reason, afraid. Of Jing Yuan.
Jing Yuan quickly fixes a smile onto his face. Right. A grateful civilian, intent on thanking his benefactor. That’s what he’s supposed to be right now. Focus.
His lips part, “Thank-“
And he doesn’t even get to finish the sentence before the man — no more than 200 surely, now that Jing Yuan can see just how young he looks. Not that appearances mean anything, not for people like them — flinches away so violently that it’s a miracle he doesn’t fall. Although it’s a very near thing.
Jing Yuan closes his mouth. Frowns. Takes a step forward. The stranger takes a step back. Jing Yuan steps closer. And. With the turn of a heel, the man’s back is on him as he runs away. From Jing Yuan of all people.
He’s left gaping openly for an admittedly embarrassing amount of time before his mind catches up to what he’s seeing. And then just as suddenly, Jing Yuan is breaking into a full sprint and chasing after the man, a lion pouncing on floundering prey. Catching up is surprisingly easy, although Jing Yuan thinks that mostly has something to do with the gasping breaths the man takes, gorging himself on air desperately like he’s just run a brutal marathon and not a handful of meters.
Jing Yuan can’t help the surge of jubilation that sings under his skin as he grabs hold of the vexingly elusive man’s flowing sleeve, watching as he stumbles at the sudden anchor opposing his movements. The man looks back at him uncomprehendingly, sweat condensing along his hairline as his chest stutters with ragged wheezes. His eyes move between his sleeve and the hand holding it hostage. Not a second later, the cloth is severed in a movement too fast for Jing Yuan to follow, the man turning decisively as he continues his retreat.
Left alone, Jing Yuan stares down at his hand, blankly regarding the blue cloth trapped between his fingers. He shoves it into his pocket with only a moment’s hesitation.
Jing Yuan lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, beginning to walk in the opposite direction than the stranger had escaped to. The silken fabric is feather-light and impossibly heavy. His steps are leaden. Jing Yuan feels an inexplicable guilt settle against the base of his stomach and he can’t even begin to fathom why.
Yanqing finds a blissfully isolated alcove, all but shoving himself into it. Silence rings loudly as he sinks down and curls into himself, unable to help the pitiful whimper that escapes him as blood rushes past his ears and irregular breaths ring painfully through his head. Fuck. That’s- that’s Jing Yuan. Half the size Yanqing is used to maybe, but still undoubtedly him. Suddenly, bafflingly, Yanqing is struck with a fierce anger. That is not him. His General had always been larger than life, his back broad enough that Yanqing had never been able to see over it until it had disappeared. And then Yanqing had seen too much — done too much (hands covered in crimson and gold, a smile pressed against the junction of his neck — an apology, an absolution — as cobalt robes bled deep purple, tears blurring his vision. Calloused fingers running through his hair, impossibly gentle, before falling away. Falling limp, falling dea-).
Yanqing deflates, pressing his palms against his eyes roughly, willing away useless ghosts.
It isn’t fair, Yanqing thinks, more childish than he has allowed himself to be in a long time.
He inhales, chest seizing uncomfortably. He tries again. Takes another breath and exhales a disbelieving laugh. It raises in pitch and volume, cresting into heaves of air that leave him gagging. Yanqing throws up.
Their second meeting is much more anticlimactic, Jing Yuan observing the stranger passed out on a sturdy branch meters off the ground. He winces; that can’t be comfortable. Giving a cursory glance to their surroundings, Jing Yuan sighs in relief at the relative seclusion. His hands dig into rough bark, hoisting himself up. He falls. Twice.
Jing Yuan’s expression sours, eyes narrowing at the man from where he lies aloft. Unreasonably, Jing Yuan thinks that the man has chosen such an inconvenient napping spot with the primary goal of getting back at him.
Most likely, the man didn’t even think to factor him in when making his choice. He huffs.
The third try is only marginally better, in that he finally manages to clamber up onto a branch that can support his weight reasonably enough. Which begs the question of the man’s own mass. Even though Jing Yuan is a good head shorter than him, a tenuous crackling of wood sounds whenever he shifts too suddenly. In contrast, the branch bearing the man’s burden is markedly still. Jing Yuan frowns, feeling a troubling amount of concern over the diet of a stranger.
He pushes the thought aside for the moment, twisting until he’s settled within reach of the man. Jing Yuan pauses, his eyes trailing over the visage of the man he’d been, admittedly desperately, chasing. His skin is pale, golden hair cascading haphazardly around him and spilling onto the bark beneath him, lovingly camouflaging ginkgo leaves. His gaze travels down, lingering at his chest as he counts its rhythmic rise and fall. Strangely, he was under the impression that it would lay still and silent. Jing Yuan shakes his head dismissively, absentmindedly wondering where the thought arose from.
The minutes grow long and Jing Yuan feels restless. His hand inches up, indecision freezing his limb a hair’s breadth away from the man. But Jing Yuan is anything but cowardly so it takes little time for his stuttered movement to start up again. His hand hovers closer and Jing Yuan, against possibly all rational thinking, pokes the man’s cheek.
It’s cool to the touch.
Jing Yuan blinks and quickly draws away, staring at his hand as though it had somehow betrayed him. He tenses in anticipation, internally debating whether to resume their game of cat and mouse or simply let leave when the man inevitably startles into a run. However, much to his surprise, the man does little else but let out an indistinct hum, eyes opening blearily. With a speed that betrays his sleepiness, his hand reaches out to grab Jing Yuan’s, pulling it back against his cheek as he nuzzles into it softly. His eyes crinkle at the edges, forming narrow crescents, expression somehow both impossibly fond and deeply sad. A warm droplet of water strays against his hand and Jing Yuan instinctively wipes it away. On the wind, he thinks he catches a faint expression of gratitude. He knows, with an overwhelming certainty, that it is not directed at him.
Jing Yuan’s insides churn, filled with the oppressive weight that he is intruding.
He rips away from the man violently, staunchly ignoring the resulting whine of confusion.
Jing Yuan is not a coward. But this time, he is the one to run away.
Yanqing wakes up with an undignified groan. He blinks curiously as his face feels cool against the breeze, hand rubbing thoughtlessly at his cheek and coming away wet. He frowns; his sleep had seemed peaceful for once.
Their third meeting is perhaps their most disastrous. Jing Yuan is embroiled in a fight with a creature of Abundance, panting laboriously as his legs threaten to give out under him. A cut mares the skin above his eyebrow, rivulets of blood sluggishly trailing down, already drying tacky and matting his lashes shut. His vision is impaired, and he does not have the luxury to be without it. He heaves, arms trembling with exhaustion as he wearily levels his blade at the beast, stance sloppy. He’d been arrogant, he thinks to himself furiously. He’d dismissed the threat, confident in his abilities — too confident. Jing Yuan knows, that if he falls in this battle, it will be deserved. But that does not make acceptance come any easier.
It is only when his blade falters in its trajectory, limbs buckling until he’s forced into a kneel, that he reluctantly comes to terms with his apparent demise, head bowed in bitter defeat.
However, a strangled cry pulls his attention back to the beast in front of him. Or better yet, the remains of it. Where the creature had stood, a corpse now lays, fur dusted with frost spread from glistening icicles that ruptured through its flesh and frozen its blood. Jing Yuan can do little else but stare openly as the blond stranger stands over the body, staring down at it with an unforgiving chilliness as though it had personally offended him.
With resolute steps, he moves to stand in front of Jing Yuan, a complicated look in his eyes as he crouches down to pick Jing Yuan up, disregarding his surprised flailing. “Your skills are dull.” He sounds oddly disappointed.
Jing Yuan wants to gnash his teeth. He curls in on himself in shame.
Seemingly realizing that while not necessarily misspoken, he could have chosen a more opportune time to share his observations, the stranger hastily pushes the conversation forward. “It’s good to maintain a strict training schedule.”
“I know that!” Jing Yuan snaps in frustration, almost directed wholly at himself.
The stranger winces, picking up his pace.
He releases Jing Yuan once they are in sight of the Alchemy Commission, steadying him with a firm hand as he regains his bearings. He bites his lips, licking them hesitantly. “I regularly train in the forest outside the Commission at noon.” He leaves as soon as he finishes speaking, a faint trace of regret lingering in his steps.
Jing Yuan is in the middle of getting his head wrapped when he realizes the invitation for what it is, an unbecoming excitement causing his lips to quirk in spite of his grievous injuries.
Yanqing does not know why he extends the offer to Jing Yuan. Maybe it is the frustration of watching him struggle with something that he would’ve found effortless at another point in time. (Maybe it’s the oppressive concern that coils through him, dragging hateful memories to the surface.)
Even still, despite Yanqing being the cause of this situation, Jing Yuan stumbling into the open clearing and looking around with unabashed curiosity, he cannot help but feel a little resentment build up. His General is de-. Gone. Unreachable. He does not want to train this paltry imitation — an unpleasant reminder of unthinkably halcyon days.
And yet when he closes his eyes, all he sees is the little thing caked in grime and blood, seconds away from being felled. He grits his teeth. No one with his face should be so weak. So defenceless.
The training is, without question, the most brutal regiment that Jing Yuan has ever endured. But his improvements are obvious enough that even the Arbiter General comments on it and so he happily keeps attending.
“Thank you, Master.” Jing Yuan sighs as picks himself off from the ground and brushes the dirt off his clothes. The stranger pauses at the title, his gaze settling heavily on Jing Yuan.
But he is not outright rebuffed.
Jing Yuan counts it as a silent victory, his lips curling into a bright smile.
It’s hard to hate someone. Harder still when that person is Jing Yuan, any iteration of him, Yanqing finds. This Jing Yuan is so unbelievably unburdened that it leaves Yanqing a little dizzy. A little nauseous. ( Yanqing’s Jing Yuan had never seemed as such. Even when Yanqing had tried his hardest, there was always a lingering pensiveness that trailed his actions, lethargy built on apathy tempered by grief and disguised as lazing. Was Yanqing not enough? Was he not worth improving himself for? To at least attempt to slow his descent into the mara?).
Yanqing swallows, an audible sound that draws a worried glance from Jing Yuan. Fuck. Yanqing wants to hate him so bad. It’s not fair.
Instead, he closes his eyes and learns how to forget.
It takes several weeks after their first training session together before Jing Yuan is able to successfully bully him into coming to live in his estate, exasperated (read: worried) by all the times he’s found the man lounging in the wild.
This Jing Yuan looks at him with an adoration that is as winsome as it is stifling and Yaning wonders who it is he thinks he sees.
Because the only thing that stares back at Yanqing when he looks into Jing Yuan’s eyes is the reflection of the boy he once used to be.
“Master! The Sword Champion extended a spot on her team to me!” Jing Yuan rushes into his Master’s room in excitement, feeling some of it abate as he catches the man’s expression.
His smile is placid, eyes dim as he hums in acknowledgment. “An invaluable opportunity indeed. Learn well from her.” Suddenly, Jing Yuan feels a gaping distance between them, the man’s gaze settled on a distance so faraway that Jing Yuan thinks it’s unreachable even to him. He swallows past the lump in his throat.
He steers clear of the topic from then on, but the impacts of his interactions with the newly formed High-Cloud Quintet are apparent — in the unfamiliar rigidity his stance takes, in the expertly forged glaive that he brings home without explanation one day.
The man never inquires into his affairs with them.
Jing Yuan is taller than the man now, his body beginning to fill out nicely as he enters into the stage of his life before reaching the limit of his physical maturation.
(Sometimes, instead of looking up at Jing Yuan, the man’s gaze drifts past him — through him — before centring himself with a weary sigh. Despite no reason to believe so, Jing Yuan thinks that his expression is one of mourning. Uncomfortably, he feels too big, like he’s outgrown himself. He wants to curl up and shrink back into the size when it was still appropriate for him to sneak into his Master’s bed after a nightmare, tucked protectively against his chest.)
Talking to him is a lot like pulling teeth, Jing Yuan finds. But, perhaps that’s not the best phrasing. It might be more comparable to having a nail hammered into the joints of one’s fingers, slowly, methodically, and effortlessly. Because Jing Yuan has had a tooth pulled — and then another one came in and he promptly never thought about it again, can hardly even remember the ache. Conversely, talking to his Master has the opposite effect. It’s like something lancing through him and impaling him so deep that he can’t possibly get it out. (And would Jing Yuan let him, is the question — would he allow himself to become crippled if his Master curled his lips into that rare smile of his, reserved and sad but still better than nothing? Which is a silly thought. Jing Yuan would happily let him rend the flesh from his body — rip the marrow from his bones and toss it aside carelessly as he sifted through his insides for something of use so long as Jing Yuan could hoard another one of those smiles reverently close to his heart.)
When he, after hours of coaxing and prodding, finally convinces his Master to forgo his preferred tea in favour of bitter alcohol, Jing Yuan is cautiously optimistic of the opportunity presented. His Master, even after countless hours spent in the training grounds and shared under Jing Yuan’s singular comforter on colder nights, still proves to be fiercely secretive of anything regarding himself. His past, how he came to be on the Luofu, the reason that Jing Yuan sometimes has to rouse him from his sleep (when he finds him thrashing fitfully, salty tracks dried under his eyes, hands grasping aimlessly for something — someone? — out of reach-).
(Often, Jing Yuan is afraid that when his concern inevitably draws him to check on his Master, he’ll find him gone, having sunk right through his bed — sunk so deep into that obscure past of his that he’ll drown in it. And. Jing Yuan doesn’t want that. Not now, and preferably not ever. He knows of the transience of life, knows that such a notion is pure childish obstinacy, and that’s why he’ll never communicate it to his Master. There is already an ever-present weight that swaddles him and wraps him in an unapproachable melancholy. Jing Yuan cannot bear to add to it when he already wants to viciously strip him of his grief. Wants to tear it asunder with his glaive and force contentment on him.)
So. Alcohol seems like an inoffensive tool to pry his secrets from him — less dramatic than a confession whispered on a final breath, or any other such nonsense that Jing Yuan refuses to entertain.
“Seems” being the operative word. As it turns out, with his Master gazing down at his cup languidly, eyes glassy and far away as tears fall and mix indistinguishably into his drink, alcohol is apparently a lot less harmless in practice.
His Master remains unnervingly silent as Jing Yuan observes him with trepidation, the ceaseless chatter from the first floor idly trailing up to their table. He takes another sip and Jing Yuan tenses — glares at the offending object in his Master’s hand as his ribcage expands and contracts with a shuddering gasp, murmuring words too quiet and unintelligible for Jing Yuan to pick up. Except when his voice cracks, high and choked with emotion as he calls General-. Jing Yuan’s hand tightens around his own cup until he feels porcelain splinter, shards digging unforgivingly into his palm.
(Jing Yuan doesn’t know who this General is. But he doesn’t have to. It’s easy to hate someone, easier still when that someone is cause for his Master’s tears.)
The night draws unbearably long before his Master gains any semblance of his bearings back, tugging Jing Yuan out of the establishment after his cup has long run dry, his silence pointed and sharp as he sobers up. Jing Yuan’s face burns red the entire way back to his residence, despite not having had a sip of alcohol. Shame heats his skin and makes his tongue heavy, sticking unpleasantly to the roof of his mouth. He cannot bring himself to ask for forgiveness.
Still, the first thing that his Master does when they arrive, is pry Jing Yuan’s hand open, gently — ever so gentle, as though Jing Yuan was the one at risk of shattering between them — and inspects the damage he’d inflicted upon himself in a lapse of restraint. He cleans the wound, bandages it, and returns to his own room without a word. Jing Yuan feels cold.
(He is restless, unable to quell the desire to follow him, check if he really only returned to his room and not absconded as a result of Jing Yuan’s invasive curiosity. Wants to rip his door open and be reassured that his bed is occupied by a person and not a deep yawning chasm that has swallowed him up indelibly.
He wants to crawl out of his own skin and wear the General’s if only to get his Master to open up to him. The thought leaves him nauseous.)
Did Yanqing make the right decision? Should he have ignored Jing Yuan back then? Contented himself to taking a less hands-on approach?
He can’t help but question it now. He’s already unquestionably altered Jing Yuan. But for the better or for the worse?
Decades of companionship and Yanqing begins to come apart at the seams.
A ginkgo leaf falls overtop their table during breakfast and Jing Yuan idly makes a note to close their windows so that no more drift in on the breeze. Except there is no breeze. Except the windows aren’t open.
Jing Yuan pulls his eyes up slowly. Reluctantly. His Master is staring down at the leaf blankly, completely still. Another leaf blooms beautifully, tucked behind his ear like a parting gift.
His Master is not old, not by their standards. But Jing Yuan is intimately aware of how unstable the man is.
Yanqing is equally as foolish as he is weak. His insides are painted ugly with grief and he knows that there is only a rotting heart trapped in a pitiful husk that moves in tandem with his thoughts. He has not lived as long as his Jing Yuan had, barely half his age, when he falls. It is not a surprise; he never expected to last without him. But Yanqing had been given a responsibility — a duty — when he was taken in as a pitiful ward on a lonely whim, to repay all the efforts directed at him and become a useful tool for the Luofu. His General’s absence only meant that someone else had taken his reigns. And he let them. Because Yanqing, above all else, has only ever wanted to do right by his Jing Yuan and make him proud.
All this amounted to nothing when he ended up in this Luofu of the past. He thinks, faintly, that he might be able to understand his General a little better now, although Yanqing is only left with speculations.
He can appreciate Jing Yuan’s selfish death now that he has his own precious disciple. This does not make Yanqing any less bitter.
And though it is not revenge that impels him, there is something comparable in the weight of his movements. Yanqing stands in front of Jing Yuan, the boy that he has helped nurture into a warped reflection of his own Master, and feels an anguish so profound that it leaves him unbearably weary.
Surely, somewhere, there is an Aeon laughing at him.
“Will I see you again?” Jing Yuan asks with an aching longing in his bones, only half-sure that the entirety of the grief he is experiencing is his own.
His Master — the nameless man, the stranger with golden hair — does not answer. Instead, he smiles serenely at him as he reaches for Jing Yuan’s hand and curls his own overtop it around the hilt of his blade. Jing Yuan makes a wounded noise in the back of his throat, shaking his head forcefully. The man hums, “Jing Yuan.” He chides gently. But there is no response he can offer — no response he wants to offer — so Jing Yuan clenches his eyes shut and stubbornly continues to resist. He hears a sigh, quiet and resigned, and nausea pools in his stomach. The man tightens his grip around Jing Yuan’s and forces the pristine blade of Starfall Reverie through his chest with a suddenness that leaves Jing Yuan unmoored, his hand numb as he blinks unseeingly.
Distantly, he thinks that he hears screaming.
His master easily ignores it as his weakening arms move to encircle Jing Yuan, cradling him like the child who’d barely been able to reach his shoulder. Abruptly, Jing Yuan is aware again, his hand trembling as he digs them unforgivingly against the man’s robes. A choked sob erupts from his throat, unintelligible words of apology pressed against his neck.
A laugh, amused and genuine has Jing Yuan pulling away though, sparing desperate seconds to peer up at his Master in righteous indignation. His Master — the man who has given Jing Yuan everything of himself except what really mattered — has no right to appear so joyous on the eve of his own death when Jing Yuan has only the mind to feel intolerable despair.
“Yanqing.” The man says without any preamble, and Jing Yuan’s anger fizzles out like a candle placed under a suffocating current.
His mouth works slow, thoughts viscous and sticky in his head. “What.”
The man — Yanqing (?) — laughs again, and Jing Yuan’s grip tightens punishingly. He does not even wince. “It’s my name.” Yanqing’s eyes twinkle with mirth.
“Why?” Jing Yuan demands breathlessly. Even after all these years of cajoling and teasing and begging, his Master has never revealed such personal information. How utterly unfair of him.
Yanqing gives an aborted shrug, a pained grimace quickly smoothing over into what Jing Yuan is rapidly realizing as a careful display of tranquility. “Perhaps I’ve grown sentimental. Perhaps I’ve grown tired.” He frowns, his words measured. “I did not intend to reveal it. A mistake.”
“One that I am glad for then, Yanqing.” Jing Yuan tests his name out loud, the syllables strange on his lips. Yanqing stiffens against him, as though the utterance of his name had wounded him more deeply than the gaping hole in his chest.
His Master gives a tired noise of resignation. “As long as you are happy.”
A hand finds its way through his hair, playing with his fluffy hair fondly, painting it a sickly pink in the process. Jing Yuan does not think he will ever be able to wash it out. “There is no need to be sad, Jing Yuan.” Yanqing whispers, his eyes threatening to shut. “It’s simply… tradition.” He smiles faintly, amused at something that Jing Yuan cannot even begin to fathom.
The hand carding through his hair stops, eventually.
It falls limp against a cold body that Jing Yuan bundles close, mournful tears spilling silently and mixing indistinguishably into the shallow crimson pool he sits in.
Yanqing does not see a light in his final moments. Instead, there is a broad back in front of him, angled just enough for him to catch the trace of a familiar feline smirk lining pale lips. All at once, the weight that had grounded him for years dissipates and gravity is a construct that is impossibly far away.
With a laugh, Yanqing flies lovingly to Jing Yuan’s side.
It is centuries later that Jing Yuan returns to his estate with a grimy child clutched tightly against his chest.
Jing Yuan keeps Yanqing — the name a benediction on his lips — carefully sequestered within the walls of his main residence. He teaches him calligraphy and starchess and buys him a flute and zealously keeps him away from swords. His Yanqing will not know freedom the way his Master did. He won’t feel his blood sing in time with a masterful strike and Jing Yuan perhaps won’t see his eyes alight with the rare passion that his Master sometimes displayed after an all-too-close brush with death. Jing Yuan can’t — he refuses to take that chance. Instead, Yanqing will never know what he has lost because Jing Yuan will never let him find out.
Jing Yuan takes to clipping his wings gently with loving hands, stripping him of his means of independence and keeping him in a glistening cage with bars so wide that Yanqing won’t even be able to detect it — surrounded by love so visceral that it coils around his throat and chokes him until he has no other choice but to accept it.
In the confines of his chest, trapped within the claustrophobic jaws of his ribs, he feels a beat — the wings of a sparrow picking apart his flesh from the inside out as it tries to fly away. To Jing Yuan, the beat feels like one pumped from his own heart.