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The woman looks apologetic, her eyebrows drawn up, eyes half-moons as she gently informs them that only one room remains available in the inn. “I hope the esteemed guests will understand. The storm has been relentless, and it brings us more travellers than usual.”
Behind them, as if to punctuate her words, lightning strikes close to the courtyard, splitting the sky in a jagged white scar. A deafening crack follows, cutting through a tall, bare plum tree and sending embers spiralling into the night. The rain, now a torrential downpour, lashes against the wooden lattices of the inn windows, drumming an incessant rhythm, a pitter-patter that drowns the noises of the inn.
Liu Qingge casts a glance at Shen Qingqiu, gauging his reaction. His shixiong stands tall, looking at the woman with a neutral expression, forefinger idly tracing the lacquered edge of his fan. If anyone is uncomfortable, it is the proprietress, shifting uneasily under their prolonged silence.
“We’ll do our best to provide our esteemed guests with the utmost comfort and care,” she says, her voice high and slightly strained. Liu Qingge never understands how people grow so nervous, how they fidget and falter under nothing at all. He’s already exhausted just watching her.
“We’ll take it,” Shen Qingqiu tells her at last, his voice smooth, decisive. The woman’s face flushes—whether in relief or some misplaced admiration, Liu Qingge neither knows nor cares. As long as Shen Qingqiu is fine with the arrangement, he will be too.
They have been on the road for five days now, and even cultivators have their limits when it comes to expending qi against the elements. Liu Qingge wouldn’t have minded—rain is just water—but his shixiong does, and Liu Qingge would rather stop and rest than be met with his ire. Avoiding the downpour was a simple enough decision. The lack of choice, however, is mildly irritating. This is the only inn within a radius of several li, and while Liu Qingge does not think it befits their status, he has no choice but to accept it.
Shen Qingqiu pays her half a tael of silver before they follow an attendant up the main staircase and all the way to the top. Their room sits at the centre of the third floor, past a short corridor lined with red-painted wooden railings. Ornate lanterns sway from the ceiling beams, casting flickering shadows over the polished stone tiles beneath their feet. The rain drums steadily against the tiled rooftop, filling the hallway with a muted, rhythmic hum, occasionally broken by the howl of the wind.
The attendant slides open the wooden door and bows low before stepping aside to let them in. It’s the scent of incense that greets them first, mingling faintly with the thick humidity of the storm outside. The room itself is modest but well-kept—tall walls of smooth cypress, a simple carved chest in the corner, and a low round table set with a porcelain teapot, two tea cups and a container of tea leaves. There is a single bed at the far end of the room, its dark wooden frame adorned with a canopy of sheer, embroidered gauze. The bedding looks clean, the silk coverlet dyed in deep indigo with faint traces of plum blossom motifs stitched along the edges.
To the side, a folding screen painted with an ink-wash landscape divides a smaller alcove from view, its thin panels almost gleaming under the flickering lantern lights. Beyond it, a wooden tub sits beneath a latticed window, a small brazier nearby to keep the water warm. A lacquered rack rests against the wall, with neatly folded linen and a few clay jars—likely containing fragrant oils or herbal soaks.
Liu Qingge steps inside, sweeping his gaze over the room before exhaling through his nose. One bed. He supposed it could be worse—there could have been no inns for a hundred li, forcing them to take shelter somewhere much less favourable. The bath is private, which is more than he expected from an inn of this size.
Shen Qingqiu, beside him, is very, very still—his posture tall and rigid, stiff like a blade driven into the earth. He stares, unblinking, at the bed. His shixiong has never been one to not verbalise discontent—if he’s uncomfortable, he makes it known with cutting precision. But now, this quiet, this absolute stillness, feels unsettling.
Has he made him uncomfortable?
As far as Liu Qingge knows, it has been several decades since Shen Qingqiu last had to share a space with anyone—he has always kept to himself. Even when travelling on sect business with the other peak lords, he has never attended the communal baths, rarely joining them for meals. More often than not, he strays away, choosing solitude over company, exploring the town or the countryside on his own.
Liu Qingge used to think he was scheming or perhaps too arrogant to grace his shidi and shimei with his presence. But now, he knows better. Ever since his shixiong saved his life that one time, he’s had the privilege of glimpsing beneath the prickly exterior, and he has never looked back. Shen Qingqiu is Shen Qingqiu—sharp-tongued, impatient, often unkind—but his loyalties have never truly wavered, his duty to his sectmates always certain in his own strange way, and that is all Liu Qingge needs.
Liu Qingge shifts on his feet now, suddenly unsure. “Do you want me to sleep outside?” He wants to say more—wants to suggest the stable, maybe. It’s been a long time since he’s had to sleep on a straw mat, but it’s hardly outside the realm of possibility if his shixiong doesn’t want him here or worse—is uncomfortable with his presence. He could also find a tree with a good canopy. He might have high standards, but he isn’t fussy when the circumstances call for it.
Something prickles under his skin. He doesn’t know what it is, only that it feels strange, foreign—unsettling in a way he can’t place.
Shen Qingqiu cuts through his thoughts with an even voice. “It’s storming.”
Liu Qingge shrugs. “It’s fine.”
Something about his response makes Shen Qingqiu turn, his eyes narrowing, his lips pressing into a thin line. “What, you don’t trust me now?”
Liu Qingge blinks, caught off guard. That’s not what he said. He isn’t sure when the short exchange took a turn—but then again, he has always found it troublesome to follow his shixiong’s twisting, unpredictable mind. He’s like a bottle of shaken fermented liquor, always on the verge of fizzing up and bursting, volatile and sharp-edged, yet never quite spilling over. But there’s a certain raw beauty in it, too, in the way his jade-green eyes flare, the way they search his, finally—finally—focused on him and him alone. It’s addictive, the way Shen Qingqiu’s attention feels on him—hot enough to burn but all-encompassing, too.
Liu Qingge has always liked tough. He has never been the type to step down from anything challenging, and since learning the truth about Shen Qingqiu, even less so.
“Shen Qingqiu,” he says, using his name deliberately. His shixiong’s attention hooks and holds, and Liu Qingge knows he’s succeeded in making him listen. “I did not say that.”
Shen Qingqiu exhales through his nose, diffused like smothered embers. “I’ll call for the water. You can go first,” he says instead, turning sharply and leaving Liu Qingge alone in the room.
Water. His thoughts snag on the word and stay there. His gaze flickers toward the flimsy screen—the gaps between the wooden frames, the thin, waxed paper stretched across them. Not enough to fully obscure what lies behind it. The silhouette will show like a hand shadow puppet.
Liu Qingge has never seen his shixiong dressed down. Shen Qingqiu is always buttoned up, always layered in silk, like armour, his robes fastened high, covering nearly every inch of skin. His hair, always pinned in a half-updo, adorned with intricate jewellery and gleaming guans. He hasn’t seen it loose since they were disciples, and the thought that they will have to bathe within the confines of a single, unassuming bedroom stirs something in his gut—something warm, disquieting, unbalanced. Something strange.
He’s always had such a good grasp of his emotions, always knowing exactly how he feels and what needs to be done—a simple, rigid certainty, so familiar and grounding.
Yet lately, something has been... different. The undercurrent of change hums beneath his skin, a pinprick where there has been nothing before, not sharp enough to be pain, not irritating enough to be discomfort, but ever-present. A restless warmth, a pulse at the base of his throat, a strange lightness in his chest—like anticipation, like something waiting to be named.
He dislikes what he cannot define, yet somehow, this doesn’t feel like something to fight against.
Liu Qingge wraps his hand around Cheng Luan’s hilt, squeezing hard enough for discomfort to spread down his fingers—then releases. The pressure grounds him, pulling him out of his head just enough to move aside as Shen Qingqiu reappears, a few attendants trailing behind him. They work quickly, filling and setting up the bath, the brazier sparking to life to keep the water warm.
“Shidi,” Shen Qingqiu calls after half an incense stick’s time, gesturing toward the bath with the tip of his fan. His expression is unreadable, but a faint blush dusts his cheeks, spreading over the bridge of his nose like the soft hue of ripened lychee.
Liu Qingge glances at the steaming bath, then back at his face. Is Shen Qingqiu warm?
He tries not to linger on his shixiong’s reddened face as he passes by. Instead, he makes quick work of his bath—efficient, utilitarian, entirely unremarkable. By the time he steps out, steam still curling at his back, his hair is unbound, damp strands clinging to his shoulders. He’s dressed in simple, loose robes from his qiankun pouch—soft, silvery fabric falling effortlessly around him in a sweep of silk.
As he moves past Shen Qingqiu, he catches the way his shixiong’s gaze lingers—just a breath too long. Just enough to be unusual. His attention snags on it, and something tightens under his skin, unnamed yet insistent.
Shen Qingqiu snaps his fan open like a shield and turns sharply on his heel. “Shidi.” His nod is stiff, almost perfunctory, before he disappears behind the screen—posture composed but unmistakably tense.
Liu Qingge has learned to detect that tension over the past few seasons of civility and companionship they’ve managed to build together. Yet, he tries—so hard—not to think of it now, not as the warmth in his gut flares into something hotter, something that burns and burns.
He sits at the edge of the bed, restless. Every minuscule emotion feels too large, too unbearable for his chest, chafing against his heart. He tries to focus on the pelting rain, on the rhythmic drumming against the roof—but fails.
Because his eyes drift.
Through the flimsy screen, through the gaps in the wooden frame, he catches glimpses of his shixiong undressing. Layer after layer of silk slipping off, carefully folded, placed neatly atop the wooden bench. The divider does little to obscure the shape of his body, the movement of his arms, the long spill of his hair as he undoes the last of his bindings.
Shen Qingqiu is tall and lithe, his skin pale as milk. He would be beautiful under the moonlight. Liu Qingge thinks it before he can stop himself—and the thought startles him. Heat rushes unbidden to his face. What the hell is wrong with him? Thinking thoughts so foolish, so ridiculous.
He grabs for Cheng Luan, considers dragging the blade across his palm—just to anchor himself, just to summon what’s left of his soul back into his body. He is ashamed, and yet—he cannot stop.
His gaze flickers back, drawn once more to the screen. Shen Qingqiu lowers himself into the bath, his movements measured, elegant. As he leans forward, his hair slips over his shoulder, revealing—
A scar.
A long, thin scar cutting under his left shoulder.
Liu Qingge’s stomach twists. The anger that rises inside him is ugly, unwelcome, unbearable. Wanting, too. Wanting to protect. Wanting to undo what has already come to pass. Wanting to hurt whoever dared to lay a hand on his shixiong, to punish them for marring the body of a cultivator of his calibre.
His head swims from it all. He looks away—before his gaze can drift any lower. Before his shame, his frustration, his inexplicable longing eat him alive.
His fists clench at his sides, nails digging into his palms.
What is wrong with him?
What is wrong with him?
The next time he looks up, Shen Qingqiu is emerging from behind the screen, dressed in a fresh robe. His hair falls down his back, unadorned, loose and soft. Liu Qingge wants to touch it. Wants to reach out, thread his fingers through, curl and pull and bury his face in the lingering scent of osmanthus that seems to follow his shixiong around, so sweet and light.
He inhales sharply.
Shen Qingqiu’s eyes flick to him, sharp and wary. “What?”
Liu Qingge forces himself to look away, scowling. “Nothing.”
But even as he glares at the wall, the weight in his chest burns and burns, bearing more discontentment than he can possibly manage or know what to do with. His own emotions feel foreign, untethered, latching onto something too large, too unfamiliar to name.
He has never found things beautiful before, not precisely, not in the way people usually do. Beauty is an ornament, a distraction, something soft and fleeting, meant for scholars and poets—not for him, not when there is so much raw power to wield. And yet, here Shen Qingqiu stands, undone, unguarded, like the most breathtaking thing he has ever laid eyes on.
He has never been drawn to softness either, never understood the appeal of lingering glances or the weight of admiration, yet now his shixiong stands before him, and Liu Qingge cannot look away. There is something unsettling in the way his chest tightens, in the way his fingers twitch as if they should grasp onto something, sink into the softest part of a human and stay there.
His whole life, he has known what he is—a sword, honed and sharp, made for cutting down, not for holding onto.
But now, looking at Shen Qingqiu, he feels something unrecognisable, something vast, and he’s simply—lost.
Shen Qingqiu frowns down at him, closing the distance between them with a few measured steps. “Liu-shidi,” he starts, uncertain. “Are you alright?”
He sits down carefully, his back remaining pin-straight even as he reaches for Liu Qingge’s arm, drawing it from where it rests in his lap, his fingers finding the neiguan point on his wrist with practised ease. A small frown settles between his brows as he concentrates.
Liu Qingge watches helplessly, letting himself be examined. There is nothing wrong with him—his shixiong will realise that soon—at least, not in the way he thinks. Not in the way his worry suggests, carved into the beautiful planes of his face.
Oh, how wrong he’s been about him.
All this time.
“Did you touch anything when we were inspecting the temple ruins? Did anything touch you? I lost sight of you for barely a quarter of a sichen—what did you do? I don’t detect anything irregular, but you look strange. I can’t possibly know all the—”
“Shixiong,” Liu Qingge interrupts, catching his hand mid-gesture, pressing it firmly against his pulse point. “There is nothing wrong with me. I am fine, I promise.”
Shen Qingqiu stares at him, distrust flickering across his face like a cornered cat—tense, wary, ready to bristle at the slightest push. “You—”
Liu Qingge’s skin burns where they touch, every nerve hyperfocused on the press of fingers against his wrist. The sensation crawls under his ribs, lodges itself in the marrow of his bones.
The last time Liu Qingge split someone’s ribcage open, it had been with a single, precise movement—the crack of bone, the spill of gut, the raw finality of it. It’s all the same inside; he’s always known that—ugly and messy, demons and men and gods, all indistinguishable in death.
Yet now, when his own chest splits open under his shixiong’s touch, it is not viscera that spills forth but something unbearable—unfathomable as it is undeniable.
It is want.
A raw, aching thing, too big for his body to contain.
Shen Qingqiu begins to pull away. Liu Qingge sees it in his eyes first—the soft, hazy realisation, like ice cracking over a mountain-top lake, slow still, sluggish. His fingers twitch as if to retreat, his body shifting back ever so slightly, but Liu Qingge is faster, already a step ahead. His grip tightens, firm but not forceful, his fingers circling Shen Qingqiu’s wrist. He feels the way his shixiong stills, the way his breath catches, the way his lashes flicker just once before his gaze returns to Liu Qingge’s face, guarded and uncertain.
“Actually,” Liu Qingge says, voice lower than he means it to be, rough around the edges, “I think there is something wrong.”
Shen Qingqiu frowns, wary now, but he doesn’t pull away. He could—Liu Qingge knows he could—but he doesn’t. “What?”
Liu Qingge exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate. “Here,” he says, and then—without thinking, without allowing either of them the time to second-guess—he moves Shen Qingqiu’s hand over his chest, right where his heart slams against his ribcage. “Listen.”
For a moment, time stills.
For a moment, nothing else exists.
Shen Qingqiu’s palm flattens over his heart, heat bleeding through the thin layer of fabric between them, and his fingers twitch minutely at the erratic rhythm beneath them. Liu Qingge watches, helpless against the weight of the moment, as something soft and open blooms across his shixiong’s face, an expression Liu Qingge has not seen before.
The silence stretches unbearably, each breath shallow and uneven, and doubt begins to gnaw inside Liu Qingge’s chest. He barely knows what this is, and it’s already consuming him. He should hate it.
He should hate it… and yet.
Shen Qingqiu sways forward, a fraction, an inch, a mistake he doesn’t catch until it’s too late. Liu Qingge meets him halfway, drawn in like a moth to a lantern, breathing the same air, catching the warm, honeyed scent of osmanthus in his hair.
Liu Qingge can see the way Shen Qingqiu’s throat moves as he swallows, the way his gaze flickers downward for a fraction of a second before snapping back up, wide and startled, like he’s only just now realising how close they are.
And then—
A deafening crack splits the air, the world outside erupting in a violent blaze of light.
Lightning strikes just beyond their window, so close the walls tremble with the force of it. The room is momentarily illuminated, their shadows stretching and distorting across the wooden walls, until the light disperses in the air like fireflies.
Shen Qingqiu flinches. The moment shatters like a broken glass.
Liu Qingge exhales harshly, his pulse still thundering against his ribs, against Shen Qingqiu’s palm. But then his shixiong is pulling away again—faster this time, deliberate—slipping from his grasp like water through his fingers.
Shen Qingqiu does not meet his eyes as he stands, straightening the folds of his robe with practised ease. His voice, when he speaks, is calm. Measured. “It’s late,” he says. “We should rest.”
And then he does just that.
Or, at least, he pretends to.
Shen Qingqiu settles onto the bed, as far toward the edge as physically possible, his back resolutely turned. His posture is carefully composed, his breaths even—but Liu Qingge isn’t fooled. Even in the dark, he can tell. The way his shixiong holds himself too still, too carefully, like a bowstring drawn too tight.
And yet, even turned away, even pulling back, Shen Qingqiu does not leave. Does not ask him to leave either.
Liu Qingge feels him there—on the other side of the bed, every inhale, every exhale, the flutter of his heartbeat—and it’s driving him mad. Slowly, so slowly, like water drops on stone, wearing him down until he can barely sit still.
Outside, the rain hasn’t let up, a steady, rhythmic downpour against the roof, the occasional roll of thunder low and distant. A candle flickers weakly on the bedside table, almost gone, and casts erratic, swaying shadows against the walls. In the lingering darkness of the room, the air between them feels thick; Liu Qingge is too hot under the thin, linen blanket, too awake for the late hours of the night.
He turns onto his side, eyes fixed on the shape of Shen Qingqiu’s back. It’s always like this with his shixiong; the moment anyone turns to look, it’s always his back they see. Always turned away, always standing at a distance. Always refusing to be seen.
Liu Qingge exhales, slow and measured. He doesn’t think before he acts—not when the thought is already there, pressing against his ribs like something inevitable. Not when he knows, suddenly and irrevocably, what he wants.
“Shen-shixiong,” he calls into the night, but the only answer is the relentless patter of rain against the glass. “Shen Qingqiu.”
“Go to sleep,” is Shen Qingqiu’s harsh response, but even when he makes himself so unyielding and prickly, even when he builds walls impossibly high, Liu Qingge is but the right person to go straight through. He knows that—he knows that now.
So he does what he does back—he goes through.
Under the blanket, his hand moves, reaching. His fingers wrap around Shen Qingqiu’s upper arm. He hears the sudden intake of breath—but Shen Qingqiu lets him. He lets him. So Liu Qingge pulls, firm but patient, waiting for the last speck of resistance to give. Shen Qingqiu turns into the darkness. The sheets rustle between them as he shifts, and then—they’re facing each other.
The dim candlelight does nothing to dull the sharpness of his gaze, bright even in the dark, like twin fireflies in a starless sky. Liu Qingge can see him—the pale outline of his face, the way his dark eyes catch the faint light, wary, guarded. There’s a flicker of something—gone too fast to name.
A heartbeat passes.
Another.
Then: “What do you want, Liu Qingge?”
His voice is quiet but edged with something unreadable. A warning, perhaps.
Liu Qingge doesn’t let go, but he doesn’t answer either—not immediately. He’s never been good with words nor at picking apart Shen Qingqiu’s layers of contradiction. Even if he tried, he wouldn’t know what to say. There are no words for this—this unbearable, restless thing clawing up his throat.
Instead, he does the only thing that makes sense—he moves forward. Action is something he’s good at.
Shen Qingqiu doesn’t move away and doesn’t fight him either.
They are close—so close that Liu Qingge can trace the slow, measured rise of each breath, can see the flicker of uncertain hesitation in Shen Qingqiu’s eyes, can feel the warmth radiating from him in the cool room. The delicate scent of osmanthus clings to him still, soft and enveloping.
“Is this what you want? To stare at me?” Shen Qingqiu murmurs, his voice half-exasperated, half-breathless. His frown remains—but he isn’t pushing him away, isn’t fighting.
“You’re not stopping me,” Liu Qingge counters.
Shen Qingqiu swallows. Liu Qingge watches the movement of his throat, watches the flicker of his gaze as it drops, for just a moment, to Liu Qingge’s mouth.
Something tightens in his chest. He’s been so dense about this, but some things are simple.
They need to be.
“Shen-shixiong—Qingqiu.”
Liu Qingge doesn’t let him reply; he knows whatever Shen Qingqiu says won’t be what he truly means. He shifts forward, so close the air between them thins, so close he can feel Shen Qingqiu’s breath—warm, uneven, hesitant—against his lips.
Shen Qingqiu tenses, his fingers twitching against the sheets—but still, he remains.
Liu Qingge waits.
A moment. A second. A breath.
And then he closes the distance.
He has no basis for comparison, nothing to measure this against. But if he had ever expected anything from Shen Qingqiu, it would have been something sharp, something punishing—a bite, a fight, a clash of teeth and will.
But this—this is devastating. It is soft. Painfully, achingly soft. It unravels something deep inside him, something knotted and frayed, something he hadn’t even known was there.
Liu Qingge presses closer, and Shen Qingqiu lets him. Outside, the storm rages on, but here, between them, is the quietest thing in the world. A slow drag of lips, warm and tentative, entirely at odds with how severe and cold Shen Qingqiu normally is, and then a soft exhale, minuscule space between them that closes instantly as Liu Qingge deepens the kiss, carefully so, his own inexperience a blind guide.
Shen Qingqiu’s lips part, just barely, still unsure, but it’s enough. The barest brush of breath, the tentative tilt forward—he’s allowing this to happen, rather than demanding it stop—and Liu Qingge presses in just slightly, just enough, and suddenly the kiss is wet and slippery.
Liu Qingge exhales through his nose to centre himself, but it does nothing to calm the slow-burning fire that spreads from the tip of his fingers where he’s still holding onto Shen Qingqiu’s upper arm.
The room is quiet except for the rain outside and the sound of Shen Qingqiu’s breath catching in the space between them. His fingers twitch where they lay on the sheets, curling slightly like he doesn’t know what to do with them, like some part of him wants to push away—but he doesn’t.
With his other hand, Liu Qingge catches these fingers and drags Shen Qingqiu’s hand into the back of his neck as if to say here, hold onto me. And Shen Qingqiu does, curling his fingers in the hair at the nape of Liu Qingge’s neck.
The kiss deepens more like that—not by force, not by need, but by something small, something that tastes like the kind of gentleness neither of them have ever been afforded. Perhaps, for different reasons, but it all ends the same at the end, here in this bed.
Liu Qingge isn’t sure who moves first, only that one of them does. That Shen Qingqiu exhales softly against his mouth, that his lips are pliant under his own, that when Liu Qingge presses just a little more, he isn’t met with sharpness, isn’t met with resistance—just this—and then they’re flush to each other.
“Ah,” Shen Qingqiu says and jerks back, a trail of spit connecting their lips. His hand is still tangled in Liu Qingge’s hair.
Liu Qingge drags his knuckles across the high point of his cheek, hoping he won’t startle, hoping he’ll stay.
“I—” Shen Qingqiu starts, already pulling away, and Liu Qingge tightens his grip, holding him in place.
“Stay,” he says, trying not to sound like he's pleading for it. “Sleep. We have a long day tomorrow.”
Shen Qingqiu frowns, looking at him with searching eyes. Whatever he finds on Liu Qingge’s face makes him relax, and bit by bit, the flight of flight bleeds out of him, and he slumps back into the bed.
“It’s your fault I’m awake,” he mutters, turning his back to Liu Qingge with a huff of feigned indignation.
And then, softer: “Good night, shidi.”
“Good night, shixiong,” Liu Qingge replies and cannot stop the foolish smile that blooms on his face, unbidden.
He lays awake long into the night, sorting through the feelings that, at last, he can name.
Slowly, he accepts them. One by one.
Acceptance. Loyalty. Admiration.
Love.
Gently, he reaches under the blanket and takes Shen Qingqiu’s hand.
Slowly, he drifts to sleep.