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Disgusting. Get that fixed.
The words resonated in his mind, along with the look of utter repugnance in his King’s eyes.
Yes, my King. This Qinghua will require some time off. A week or two.
Make it quick.
His chest hurts. His lungs, full of crystal blue forget-me-nots bubbling up his throat, their roots taking place deep in every air vessel, from the smallest bronchioles to the very top of his esophagus. He hasn't eaten in nearly a month.
He can only find some measure of humor on the fact they're forget-me-nots. As if he could ever forget the sheer amount of love he's held for this man, enough for two lifetimes. As if he hadn't broken the laws of the universe of his original and of this new world for him.
His heart hurts even more. Heartbreak doesn't begin to cover the extent of pain he finds himself in. No matter how much he rubs his chest (and he has been futilely trying to, for the better part of the past three months), it doesn't abate. Nothing helps. Nothing can help, not anymore.
And oh, he's tried. He's tried everything . Since the first fever, the first cough, he's been gathering all the magical remedies he didn't already have in hand, risking flesh and blood to fix it fix it fix it fix it .
But it's been almost an entire year. An entire year of constant coughing fits, fevers, sore throats, days upon days of being unable to speak, nights of scouring texts, hours upon hours of spitting flower seeds, flower petals, flower buds, flowers, flowers , flowers , until the first roots made their way past bloodied lips, and he knew he had run out of time.
He had already prolonged it as much as he could with all he found. And now, there was nothing else to do. He loathed the idea of confessing. He knew what would happen. It didn't make anything hurt any less. He knew the next steps now. To find Mu Qingfang and undergo surgery to physically remove the plant system that had slowly overtaken his body, to purge his qi.
To purge Mobei-Jun from his heart.
The mere thought nearly makes him stutter on his way to his rooms, breath faint, body aching. He hasn't felt this much pain since the Ascension.
He really thought that maybe there could be a chance when his King made him that bowl of noodles and cared for him until he could walk.
He should've known better.
That's the theme of his lives though, isn't it? He should know better. He should've known he wouldn't be enough for his parents. Should've known they'd abandon him mid university once they found out he liked men. Should've known he wouldn't be able to write anything good that he could be proud of and still make enough to at least house himself. His scores crashed, and so did he.
Ten thousand words per chapter, and for what? For hate and vitriol, for cheap noodles and a cheaper apartment that once got broken into and had more things in it than before, as if the burglar had pitied him.
Certainly, he should've known better when he died. Stupid stupid Shang Houhua, spilling cheap food on his cheap notebook, and electrocuting himself.
For a moment, back then, he was thankful. Finally, finally rest. He didn't mind going to hell or purgatory, or roaming the earth as a ghost, didn't mind if there wasn't Anything in the after-life, as long as he could stop feeling so much like he amounted to so little.
But things were never easy for him, and he should always know better than to hope . Becoming the cruel, vengeful and equally worthless Shang Qinghua, had felt like a slap in the face.
A miserable second childhood, being sold off as a slave, running away, and being forced to enter Cang Qiong, always a goal after another, no time to breathe, no time to appreciate a second chance (as little as he wanted the first one to start), no time for himself.
He lived like he had become ten thousand words per day, but with no commas, no periods, no breathing, no pauses. Absolutely nothing to help alleviate him after what had been some odd twenty years of hectic survival, and another eleven years of a dejected and neglected childhood added onto it.
A harsh second teenagehood, abuse by his shidis, shimeis and shixiongs, and from the boy he called a King.
He should've known better.
By the time he's reached his rooms, he's collected more blood stained flowers in hands than he can carry. His qiankun bags are full of work related papers, he can't stain them, or he'll have to redo all his work. So he lets them fall. They scatter on the smooth ice floors of the palace, the blue matches the decor, and the red of blood adds an accent to them that he's sure demons would enjoy. They might even enjoy the fact that it's human blood staining them, might want to find out who managed to splatter blood on the odd little blue flowers and spread them in the depths of the Northern Ice Palace.
Blood drips from his lips as he stares at the mess in the hall. He should call a servant to fix it before he leaves. If Mobei-Jun finds it like this, he'll certainly be mad.
He leaves the flowers where they lay, and enters his rooms. It doesn't take long to find what he's searching for. He leaves clear guidelines for the servants to follow while he's out for a few days. Make it quick. echoes in his mind. Five days. He needs at least five days. He knows it won't be easy to tell Mu-shidi, but it'll be even harder telling Cucumber-bro.
He leaves by sword after delivering the orders for the week.
His precious little disciples greet him when he's back. If he had to think about it, An Ding is possibly the thing he's the proudest of in both life times. He knows some amount of bullying still occurs, but he's done his very best to erase it from his peak. His bumblebee disciples learn, instead, to trust and help one another. These children already suffer far too much reaching Cang Qiong, he won't allow them to hurt any longer if he can stop it.
His hallmasters and older disciples are surprised to see him, but glad, until they glance at the bloodstains on his hands. Their lips purse.
“Shizun! Should I write to Mu-shishu?” Asks his head disciple. Their hands grip the books they're holding tighter, and the frown in their face is pronounced. Mei Hao has always been overprotective of him. His eyes soften in response, and he pats their head with careful and gentle hands.
“No need, A-Hao,” his throat is too sore to speak loudly, and he can't infuse as much cheer as he usually would, but he knows even if he could, he wouldn't fool his Head Disciple. “This shifu promises to write him soon, but I must speak with Qingqiu first.”
“Should I prepare tea?”
“A-Hao, you're far too busy to be handling minor tasks!” He scolds, lightly, if only to see their pout, “This shifu will be visiting Qingqiu-shixiong instead.”
“I'll send word of your arrival then,” they nod, and start scribbling a note immediately, puffy brown hair bouncing with the movement.
“A-Hao, shoo! You have more important tasks! Qingqiu-shixiong already expects me.” In truth, he doesn't. At All. “This shifu only wanted to check if everything was in order beforehand.”
“Everything is running smoothly shizun! Don't worry!” They bob their head, and flash him innocent eyes. He only raises a single eyebrow in response, “...There might've been an accident with the Many-Handed-Pigs on Ling You Peak but I promise it's being handled by He-shidi and Sun-shimei!”
He's far too tired to deal with it, but still, he tells them, “Make sure they write a report on the situation for me by tomorrow, yes? Run along now, A-Hao.”
They nod, very cutely if you ask him, and runs off with a “Yes, shizun!”
He drops his qiankun bags on the nearest table inside his Leisure House, before hopping onto his sword once more and heading to Qing Jing, faster than he should.
It's easy to shed the persona when he's flying, easier when he's standing in front of his friend's bamboo house.
It's hard when it's Binghe that answers the door.
The sweet smile on his protagonist’s face has turned into a scowl, and immediately into shock once he sees Shang Qinghua’s state.
“...Shishu?” He asks, confused, and, dare he say it, worried.
They had formed an odd friendship during Cucumber's death, that didn't turn into animosity once the man was back, and helped when they had to work together, which, considering Shang Qinghua was the main man responsible for the running of the Empire for a long time, was plenty.
Still, this was his protagonist , in many ways, it's the man he wanted to be . The ultimate power fantasy Airplane could come up with, unbeatable, uncomparable, a conqueror above conquerors. Even as Bingmei, he still has all Shang Qinghua actually wanted. Acceptance, happiness, love .
He doesn't have the energy in himself to care about it when he barges past the emperor with a rushed Excuse me, Junshang , and heads deep into the house, finding Qingqiu lazing with a book on a divan, probably hand sewn by Bingmei himself.
“Shidi-?” His friend starts, but he's cut off immediately by the choked sob he lets out, and the way his feet stagger, before his legs give under him.
“ A-Yuan ,” he sobs, voice rough with the abuse it's been under for months now, and that had increased immensely lately, “ Didi. ”
The face his friend makes would be comical if he could appreciate it, but as it is, Shang Qinghua is too preoccupied with breaking down and throwing up more and more bloodied flowers.
“A-Hua, what-” His friend tries, dropping all formalities, throwing his book to the side, and joining him on the floor where he fell, barely three steps into the room.
He's never seen Cucumber be this gentle, this caring, this soft, not even with his husband. In moments, he's cradled against his chest, with Shen Yuan rocking them both back and forward, making soft shushing noises, comforting him more in this one moment, than he has ever felt in both his lifetimes.
It's possibly hours that pass in that manner, and by the time that the hiccuping sobs slow into shuddering and quieter sniffles, there's a tray with warm tea under a stasis talisman waiting for them.
He's gently bullied into drinking two cups before he speaks, and it helps. Binghe must've added something to soothe his throat when it became clear that this wouldn't be a casual social visit.
He doesn't know when Shen Yuan let down his hair from the bun it was held in, but he's grateful, especially due to the gentle finger combing.
“What happened, A-Hua?” It's a gentle and completely understandable question to ask to your friend when they crash into your house into a crying fit that lasts so long that the sun has completely set. Still, he flinches at the memory.
“...I told him.” He's so quiet, staring into his half empty cup, tracing the bamboo pattern on the side, that were Shen Yuan not an immortal master, he's sure he wouldn't have heard.
“You… told him? And…” Shen Yuan frowns, swallows harshly, and mumbles under his breath the rest, “...And now you're here.”
Shen Yuan was the first person he went to once he realized what was happening. His friend had been helpful, if not a bit judgy, assuring him there was nothing to fear into confessing. Turns out he was deeply wrong. It's wrong to feel so, but Shang Qinghua can't help but blame him partially for it. He knows there was never going to be a different ending, still, he's not quite rational right then.
“And now I'm here.” He looks up, eyes squinted and puffy after crying for so long. He doesn't care enough to use his qi and lessen it. His voice breaks when he speaks next. “He told me to fix it. Quickly.”
His friend takes in a sharp breath, “What-”
“He said it was disgusting. I was disgusting.” He laughs, humorless, and he breaks once more in soft, quiet tears, “You should've seen his face.”
And truly, there's nothing his friend can say to that, so he does what he can. He holds him, doesn't let him be alone for a single moment. He promised to be in the room the next day when Mu Qingfang eventually does the procedure.
That night, he sleeps on the floor, with his friend cuddling him. It's oddly reminiscent of one of the few times he had a sleepover. Not for a single moment, Shen Yuan stops petting his hair, or holding him.
Shen Yuan writes the note to Mu Qingfang in his stead, and had it delivered even before the ink is fully finished drying.
—
In the morning, his friend has Binghe bring him a fresh change of clothes from An Ding, and washes his hair for him. He helps Shang Qinghua whenever he has another fit, be it of tears or coughing the cursed, mocking, forget-me-nots.
There's a soft knock on the front door, and Binghe answers it once more, this time, his face shows his worry.
“Shizun? Mu-shishu is here.” He announces, softly into the bedroom Shang Qinghua and Shen Yuan occupied.
“Shixiong…s?” Mu Qingfang starts, and in less than a blink, he's already in front of Shang Qinghua, silently asking for his wrist. “Did something happen, Shang-shixiong?” His voice is soft and clear, the perfect bedside manner.
“Shidi, I…” Shang Qinghua tries, but he's caught in a coughing fit.
“Qinghua has The Unrequited Flowering.” Shen Yuan adds, squeezing his friend's knee through his robes, and receiving a tired, albeit thankful smile, and a nod. It conveys Please, explain , to Shen Yuan as clear as day, “He's had it for close to eleven months, has tried all alternative methods and stopgaps, and now he…” His eyes fill, and he clears his throat, but Luo Binghe beats him to it.
“He's been rejected.” His expression clears, as if finally understanding the extent of Shang Qinghua’s state, “Mobei-Jun has rejected him.”
The mere mention of his name causes a rough coughing fit, and for five new blooms to fall from his lips. A cloying aura slowly fills the room, making his lungs ache even further.
“Binghe.”
“Sorry, shizun, shishu.”
Mu Qingfang sighs, he knows now why he's been called.
“We'll head to Qian Cao immediately, I'm afraid we can't delay this any more.” He helps Shang Qinghua to his feet and casts a glance to Shen Qingqiu, “I assume Shen-shixiong is coming with us, yes?”
“Yes. I'm not leaving him alone.”
Mu Qingfang nods, and they head off with quick but careful steps. From a qiankun bag, Mu Qingfang procures a stretcher, and slowly loads Shang Qinghua onto it. “Shixiong, if you would fly in the back, please?”
Shen Qingqiu nods, and in moments, they're off.
It's not a long flight, but this is the first time Shang Qinghua has made it while laying horizontally. The sky is incredibly clear, and he catches glimpses of other cultivators in swords coming through and from the other peaks.
It's weird to think that for others, this is just another normal day, but for him, he'll be forever giving up a significant portion of his heart, for a man that has nothing but contempt for him.
The room he's led into is sparsely decorated, and sterile. A group of Mu Qingfang’s most senior disciples join them, and another is tasked with warning the sect leader of what's to happen.
He's not fully under anesthesia, he has to be somewhat conscious to circulate his qi, but, at the very least, he's not feeling any pain. Not even when Mu Qingfang slices into his chest, and painfully and painstakingly removes the physical representation of his feelings, the seed had been feeding onto them for so long, it's nearly the size of a lime. The biggest roots get taken as well, and so do most of the flowers and buds that they can find. The rest, he's been told, will either disintegrate or be coughed out. He's not looking forward for another week of coughing bloodied petals, but everything will soon be over.
Shen Yuan's qi helps purge the sickness out of him, it feels fresh, and minty, more like eucalyptus than the bamboo he's so often associated with. Mixed with the citrus-y feeling of Mu Qingfang's, Shang Qinghua oddly enough, feels like a fruit salad.
He feels it when they're done. He feels lighter, and thinking about Mobei-Jun doesn't bring an overwhelming surge of feelings. In comparison, it's almost a little empty. He doesn't dislike the demon, he just… doesn't love him anymore. It's no longer larger than himself, it no longer threatens to swallow him. He feels like he can breathe, and he does so. A deep breath that, for the first time in months, doesn't cause him to cough a lung out.
The stitches are a little prickly, but they're quick to be done, and in no time, Mu Qingfang is applying a poultice on the wound and wrapping it. He's told to only circulate his qi when someone is with him, to help cleanse and direct it to heal properly.
In the following days, every pesk master visits him. The Sect leader himself spends at least an hour and a half fretfully checking over him like a mother hen, and ensuring Shang Qinghua that An Ding will be handled, and that he can rest for as long as My Qingfang deems necessary.
Liu Qinghe brings with him some heavy fur pelts to drape over his bed, and grunts in embarrassed acknowledgement over Shang Qinghua's profuse and enthusiastic glee over the gifts.
Qi Qingqi brings him enough writing and reading material to last a month, while Wei Qingwei brings him yellow books, and all the dirty jokes he can remember, along with a promise to check over Shang Qinghua's sword as soon as he's released. He gets panflets on breathing forms, a session cuddling baby animals of all sorts of species (including some Many-Handed-Piglets that are cuter than they should be), along with special thrice as effective blank talisman paper and healing talismans. He's told Zhu Xian Peak will send him some of their best liquor once it's done brewing, along with elixirs for health, and he gets a promise that its peak lord will look into an “energy drink”.
Not to mention the amount of times his baby disciples try to visit, going as far as bribing some of Qian Cao’s disciples and even a hallmaster or two (or five).
He gets promises, and gifts, reassurances and company. And it may have taken him extra long to find a place for himself, but he realizes with shocking clarity that these characters, these people , care for him, genuinely. It eases the strain of some old scars in his heart that he wasn't aware he even had.
It's the middle of a tuesday when a portal opens into his patient room in Qian Cao. There's the tiniest of pangs that resonate in his heart when Mobei-Jun passes through, but it's quick to vanish.
“My King,” he greets, with a half bow, “Forgive me, this servant is still in bed rest.”
Mobei-Jun's eyes are wide at the sight of his spy turned advisor, “Shang Qinghua.”
“Don't worry, My King, I've given very detailed instructions to your staff, you shouldn't need me for a few more days. Unless there has been an emergency? I'm afraid I can't deal with it personally, my King.”
“You look awful.”
Normally, such a comment would sting, but then and there, Shang Qinghua only feels a little annoyed, “That's what someone who's been through extensive surgery and bed rest looks like, my King.” He pauses, and let's a small satisfied smile spread on his lips even as he shows off how his chest is so neatly wrapped, “I fixed it, my King. There's no need for you to worry anymore, there will no longer be any flowers sprouting in this servant's lungs. My work should resume as efficient as before sooner or later.”
The demon blinks, nods, and stands in place.
A little confused, Shang Qinghua asks, “Is there anything my King requires?”
A small friend finds it's way to the demon's face. “No, that will be all.”
He turns his back to leave through a portal.
The King's chest, oddly enough, hurts.