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The wind howled outside Fuling Palace, sharp and cold, rattling the wooden shutters as if demanding to be let in. Snow had fallen steadily for days, covering the gardens and pathways in a thick, glistening blanket of white snow. The world beyond the windows was silent and still, save for the occasional groan of trees.
Inside, the palace was a cocoon of warmth. The faint crackle of the hearth filled the main room, casting shadows across the walls. Song Qingshi sat at his worktable, hunched over a delicate frost lotus specimen he’d painstakingly salvaged before the storm began. His black hair, usually tied neatly back, fell loose over his shoulders, giving him a slightly disheveled look. The soft glow of the fire highlighted the furrow of concentration on his pale face as he carefully ground herbs into powder with a mortar and pestle.
The room was cold, extremely cold. It was a risk bringing the frost lotus inside since it only thrives in cold climates and due into its delicateness, it would melt away or become damaged into nothing. So Song Qingshi freezes up one of the rooms he works in and began studying and working on the lotus. Working hours, non-stop, not taking even a moment to step out. He always did this, spend hours and hours by himself either studying something new to understand it or testing on his mice.
Often forgetting to eat until he thinks about it, but brushes it off by living off the fasting pill. Or forgetting he needed to sleep, until he looks at the time and realizes it’s past 2am.
The door to the freezing room opened but Song Qingshi was either did not realize it or he payed no attention to who it could be.
“Qingshi,” Yue Wuhuan’s voice was soft but insistent, cutting through the quiet. He stood at the doorway, dressed in layers of fur-lined robes that accented his graceful figure. His golden eyes gleamed with an unreadable mix of amusement and exasperation. “You’ve been sitting there for hours. The storm isn’t going anywhere, and neither is that flower. Come and rest.”
“I’m almost done,” Song Qingshi replied without looking up, his voice distracted. “This could be the breakthrough I need to stabilize its medicinal properties in cold climates.”
Yue Wuhuan sighed and crossed the room in a few fluid steps, his movements so light they barely disturbed the warmth in the air. Without a word, he reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind Song Qingshi’s ear, his touch lingering just long enough to pull the alchemist’s attention away from his work.
“Even you need to warm up,” Yue Wuhuan murmured, his lips curving into a gentle smile. “Your hands are like ice. Come sit by the fire before you freeze.”
Song Qingshi hesitated, glancing between the frost lotus and Yue’s softly commanding gaze. Finally, he relented with a quiet sigh, pushing his chair back and allowing himself to be led toward the hearth. The moment his hands were wrapped in Yue Wuhuan’s, their warmth seeping into his cold fingers, Song Qingshi felt his chest tighten—not with discomfort, but with a quiet, fragile contentment he was still learning to name.
Yue Wuhuan’s firm yet gentle grip refusing any argument. The warmth began to seep into his skin, melting the chill from his hands and gradually loosening the tension in his shoulders. Yue Wuhuan pulled Song Qingshi down to sit on a plush cushion near the fire. Without a word, he retrieved a thick fur blanket from a nearby chair, draped it over Song Qingshi’s shoulders, and knelt before him. His golden eyes, flickering with reflected firelight, lingered on Song Qingshi’s face, taking in the faint dark circles under his eyes, the delicate lines of his brows, and the pale hue of his lips.
Yue Wuhuan murmured, his voice as soft as the snowfall outside. He reached for Song Qingshi’s hands again, his fingers deftly massaging warmth back into them. “How can you take care of others if you don’t even take care of yourself?”
Yue Wuhuan’s hands moved with quiet determination, his warmth slowly chasing away the frostbite-like chill that clung to Song Qingshi’s fingers. Song Qingshi shifted slightly, his eyes flickering toward the frost lotus on the table as if it might demand his attention at any moment.
“Master,” Yue Wuhuan murmured, his tone gentle yet firm, “I know you value your work above all else. But your body can’t be replaced, no matter how brilliant your mind is.”
Song Qingshi hesitated, his lips parting as if to respond, but nothing came. His mind raced, searching for the right words to deflect Yue Wuhuan’s concern, but the sincerity in those golden eyes left him disarmed. The firelight flickered across Yue’s face, casting soft shadows that made his expression seem both tender and unyielding.
And then, Yue Wuhuan’s hands tightened ever so slightly, as if silently urging him to stay in this moment, to feel the warmth being freely offered.
Yue Wuhuan took both of his wrists and held them up to his shoulders, his hands going around his neck. “Master’s hands are cold, like they’ll freeze off your wrists any moment.” The sides of Yue Wuhuan’s neck underneath the fur lining was warm, his fingers began to sting from the numbness. Then felt the stinging on his waist when Yue Wuhuan placed his hands around them. It made the skin beneath his robes burn, his clear eyes darting down to where Yue Wuhuan’s hands rested.
“Do you feel that?” Yue asked softly, his voice low and intimate. His fingers pressed just slightly, anchoring Song Qingshi in place. “This warmth? It’s mine. And I’ll share it with you if master will let me.”
Song Qingshi swallowed hard, his chest tightening. He wasn’t used to this—to the way Yue Wuhuan could strip him bare with just a few words, with a touch that carried more weight than any gesture he’d known. He didn’t know how to respond, so he simply nodded, his fingers curling slightly where they rested against Yue Wuhuan’s neck. Everything slowly felt hot, making arms shake a little, like a leaf being hit by a cold breeze. Song Qingshi couldn’t resist leaning closer into Yue Wuhuan’s embrace, feeling the intense heat of his body touch his. Yue Wuhuan’s arms tightened resting his head above Song Qingshi.
Maybe next time he should remember to grab a cloak next time. Yue Wuhuan’s cloak draped over Song Qingshi’s shoulders, enveloping him in a cocoon of warmth. The soft, fur-lined fabric shielded him from the lingering chill, while Yue’s steady embrace anchored him, offering both comfort and security against the cold that had seeped into his bones.
Yue Wuhuan kept him close as if he had no intentions of letting go for a while…or ever. The on the lives the most in his arms felt nothing more than comforting to him. His promise to offer him everything especially warmth will always be his most special priority. Yue Wuhuan’s noticed Song Qingshi staring at him, pink hues in his cheeks contrasting his pale skin. Black eyes bright yet tired and exhausted of overworking himself out, and in dire need of rest.
“Wuhuan…” he uttered, his freezing hand grazing up to touch his husband’s face, cupping his warm cheek. “I want a kiss.”
Yue Wuhuan listens chuckled softly at the cute request. “Is that all?” He said.
“Yes.” Song Qingshi was barely audible but it really didn’t matter since Yue Wuhuan was the only one that can hear him.
He tilted his head slightly, the distance between them vanishing in a breath. Yue Wuhuan’s lips brushed against Song Qingshi’s, his lips felt so soft and plush, as if he were afraid the fragile medicine king might shatter beneath his touch.
Song Qingshi’s breath hitched, his icy fingers trembling as they clung to Yue’s Wuhuan’s cheek.
As Yue Wuhuan held Song Qingshi close, a faint shimmer filled the freezing room. The frost lotus, resting undisturbed on the worktable, began to react to the rising warmth in the air. Its delicate petals, previously pale and translucent, released a soft, silvery glow, as if sensing the love and care that surrounded it.
Tiny particles of frost-like dust floated into the air, catching the firelight and sparkling like a cascade of stars. The shimmering dust swirled gently around them, drawn toward the heat of their embrace, before settling softly onto their robes and hair.
Song Qingshi stirred slightly, catching sight of the frost lotus as it pulsed faintly, almost alive. “The frost lotus…” he murmured, his voice laced with both awe and scientific curiosity.
Yue Wuhuan followed his gaze, his lips curving into a gentle smile. “It seems even the lotus wants to be close to you, Qingshi,” he said softly, brushing a glowing speck of frost dust from Song Qingshi’s cheek. “Perhaps it knows it’s in the hands of someone who cherishes life.”
Song Qingshi blinked, a rare flicker of emotion crossing his usually composed face. “It’s responding to the change in temperature…But I didn’t know it could do this.”
“Not everything needs to be explained right away,” Yue murmured, pulling him closer. “Some things are meant to be felt, not analyzed.”
For once, Song Qingshi didn’t argue. He let himself relax in Yue’s arms, the glittering frost dust around them blending with the firelight to create a moment that felt otherworldly. The frost lotus, now softly glowing like a delicate star, seemed content to share its beauty with the two figures basking in its presence. Song Qingshi stood up and took the flower in his hands and at back down, staring at its glowing petals, he’s never seen any flower so beautiful like this before. He wasn’t that cold anymore thanks to Yue Wuhuan, but it was now just his hands that returned to turning into frost.
Song Qingshi turned his body toward his husband. Holding the flower, then, he felt Yue Wuhuan’s hands cupped Song Qingshi’s, warming them again.
“If I can, I could make something out of this for you. I could make a hair ornament out of this, or at least make a replica.”
Yue Wuhuan’s lips curled up, kissing his forehead. “Whatever master makes for this one is fine. I love anything Master makes for me.”
As they sat there, the frost lotus glowing gently in their hands, the cold of the night seemed to retreat. Yue Wuhuan’s hands never left Song Qingshi’s, their warmth a constant reassurance. Around them, the frost dust danced like tiny stars, creating a serene, almost sacred atmosphere.
“Do you think it’ll last?” Song Qingshi murmured after a long pause.
Yue Wuhuan tightened his hold, his smile soft but unwavering. “If it doesn’t, then we’ll cherish it while it does. Beauty is fleeting, but the memories we create will last forever.”
Song Qingshi’s lips curved into a rare, genuine smile. For once, he let himself bask in the fleeting magic of the moment, the frost lotus in his hands a symbol of something fragile yet enduring—much like their bond.