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Steam from the tea rose in lazy spirals between the two of them. Shang Qinghua’s room was quiet, save for the occasional crack from the kettle resting on the warmer and the muffled sound of wind brushing against the paper windows. Sitting on the cushion in front of the table, Shang Qinghua kept his hands tightly wrapped around his cup, as if the tea’s warmth could help him keep his composure.
Across the table, Yue Qingyuan calmly sipped his tea, his gaze resting peacefully on some undefined point among the furniture. Or perhaps... not so undefined.
Shang Qinghua couldn’t quite understand what Zhangmen-shixiong was doing there. Yue Qingyuan never visited him. Let alone without an apparent reason. He was busy, important, distant, one of the most distant among his martial siblings. Not the kind of person who stopped to have tea with the most forgotten peak lord of the sect.
And yet, here he was. Sitting with impeccable elegance, his expression serene as always, but with something in his eyes that made Shang Qinghua uneasy. Not threatened, no, Yue Qingyuan would never do anything to intimidate him. It was just... strange.
Unusual.
It was a look similar to the one he’d seen Yue Qingyuan give Shen Qingqiu—just without the pain and misery that usually came with it. It was much softer.
“Is the tea good?” Shang Qinghua asked, a polite attempt to break the silence.
That tea was a new one, actually. He’d managed to convince Mobei to fetch it from a small mountain east of the Northern Realm. It had been hard to obtain because of its healing properties and the fact that it wasn’t widely harvested, Shang Qinghua had only gotten it by promising Mobei Jun he would plant it and cultivate it exclusively for Northern use.
Of course, as soon as it sprouted, he ground it down and turned it into tea and pastries. But Mobei didn’t need to know that. No one did.
“It is,” Yue Qingyuan replied with a gentle nod, his eyes briefly meeting Shang’s. “You’ve always had a refined palate, Shidi.”
The compliment was calm, direct, but it sounded different. As if there were something else behind that quiet, controlled voice. Shang Qinghua quickly looked away, trying to convince himself he was imagining things. He always imagined things when he was nervous, and he was very nervous now.
He disguised the flush rising on his cheeks with a quick sip. He couldn’t remember Yue Qingyuan ever complimenting anything before. Or at least, not in that soft, attentive tone.
Yue Qingyuan didn’t usually visit him. Didn’t usually have tea. And definitely didn’t usually look at him for that long with such patient calm that made his skin tingle.
Shang Qinghua gripped the teacup tighter.
“I thought it might be too bitter… or too astringent. Some of the leaves hadn’t fully cured,” he murmured, trying to sound casual, though his voice trembled at the end. He didn’t know why he was saying any of that. It hadn’t seemed appropriate to call a disciple during teaching hours just to brew tea, and besides, he usually liked to prepare it himself, it was one of the few pieces of knowledge he’d brought from the original world, thanks to years of PIDW research.
“It’s perfectly balanced,” Yue Qingyuan said, looking at him with softness. He placed the cup back on the table with care and tilted his head slightly. “You prepared it yourself?”
Shang Qinghua nodded, his fingers tightening further around the still half-full cup.
“Yes… It’s a habit that stuck. Helps me think.”
“I see.”
“I also thought a lighter tea might be more appropriate for today.” And he nearly bit his tongue after saying it.
Appropriate for today?
What was that supposed to mean?
Yue Qingyuan didn’t respond right away. He simply looked at him, as if studying him. As if trying to understand something that wasn’t in the tea.
Shang Qinghua remained still, his loose hair cascading over his shoulders and neck, restless inside but trying to appear composed on the outside. He didn’t know what Yue Qingyuan saw when he looked at him like that. But he felt the weight of the gaze like a touch.
It wasn’t the tea.
It wasn’t just the tea.
Shang Qinghua’s hair had been down for days. Wei Qingwei had insisted he take better care of it, and he was trying, even if it still felt strange to look at himself in the mirror. But that day in particular, he hadn’t even bothered with a hairpin. He’d left the curls loose, slightly tangled, hanging over his shoulders wrapped in layers of pale fabric. It wasn’t like he was expecting visitors. Even his own disciples weren’t allowed to see him that day. Only his head disciple had, the one who brought Yue Qingyuan to him. And no one else.
But Yue Qingyuan didn’t seem to disapprove. In fact, the way his gaze lingered every now and then was... contemplative.
Shang Qinghua felt his spine go cold every time Zhangmen-shixiong’s eyes stayed on him a second too long. It was as if he was being observed with a kind of quiet curiosity. Not judgmental, not critical, just... attentive. Too much so.
He tried to busy his hands, straightening papers near the kettle, adjusting a cushion that didn’t need fixing, running a finger along the rim of his cup. Anything to avoid meeting the firm yet gentle gaze of the sect leader.
Yue Qingyuan said nothing more. He simply drank, looked, breathed in that light silence that seemed to carry something Shang couldn’t name.
Time stretched. Outside, birds sang their midday song. Inside the room, there were only the two of them. Just the two of them. Tea. Silence. Nothing else intruded.
And Shang Qinghua’s hair, soft and unbound, falling around his temples as if it had always belonged there.
But he didn’t know that yet. He didn’t know that was why Yue Qingyuan had come. That the zhangmen-shixiong, usually so composed, had allowed himself a pause in the middle of the day just to see for himself how this shidi, who had always seemed so small, could suddenly look so… beautiful.
But Shang Qinghua was only thinking about how not to spill the tea.
Yue Qingyuan smiled, barely noticeable, before taking another sip. And he remained there, just watching. As if time could slow down a little, just in that place. Just on that afternoon.
Just with him.
Yue Qingyuan set the cup down with the same careful touch, as if not wanting to break the spell of the moment. His gaze, once more resting on Shang Qinghua, asked for nothing. It just lingered. Held in that shared stillness.
“Shidi,” he said suddenly, gently, as if the name itself had a rare flavor in his mouth. “Have you been working too much?”
Shang Qinghua blinked, surprised by the simple question and the soft voice that carried it.
“Not as much as you, Zhangmen-shixiong,” he replied, flustered. “Just enough to keep things running around here.”
Yue Qingyuan nodded, as if that answer was more than satisfactory. Then let the silence return, calm as a light blanket.
And for the first time, Shang Qinghua stopped trying to move.
He stayed there, hands still in his lap, eyes lowered, but his heart a little less tight. Because someone was on the other side of the table. Someone who had come just to be there.
Yue Qingyuan’s presence was quiet, but it didn’t disturb. It was as if he wasn’t there to demand anything, but simply to share the same space as Shang Qinghua, without urgency or expectation. Just... contemplating.
Shang Qinghua took a deep breath, trying to adjust to the closeness of someone so near—without the rush to fill the silence. With Wei Qingwei, it was easy; they’d shared many silences before, long and comfortable, shaped by years of companionship. With Mu Qingfang, the ground was still new, but there was something slowly being built, step by step, toward what might become a friendship. But Yue Qingyuan... Yue Qingyuan was different.
He couldn’t say how long it had been since the last word was spoken. Maybe minutes. Maybe more. But strangely, he didn’t mind. Time, inside that room, seemed to slow down, as if bending the rules of the outside world and creating a small refuge where urgency didn’t exist.
The kettle, nearly empty, let off a faint hiss. The soft afternoon light bathed the space, and the shadows of leaves danced on the walls. It was an ordinary afternoon, yet far from mundane.
Shang Qinghua looked at Yue Qingyuan again, a faint blush returning to his cheeks. He forced himself to breathe, the tremble in his fingers hidden beneath the table.
It was hard not to think about Mobei Jun—about everything they had built together since they were young, about everything he kept hidden just to survive the system. Maybe he was here to probe. To look for signs of betrayal, a misstep, a slip. Otherwise, why would the sect leader stop everything just to have tea with him? If it were an inspection, it would’ve been direct. If it were an accusation, he would’ve come with evidence.
But Shen Qingqiu had watched him with narrowed eyes at the last meeting, and Shang Qinghua knew that was a bad sign. That judgmental look, as if he suspected something he wasn’t quite ready to say aloud. It wouldn’t be surprising if he had whispered “concerns” into the sect leader’s ear. Lies, perhaps. Or guesses dangerously close to the truth. And Yue Qingyuan... Yue Qingyuan carried that same odd air, the same full silence that had settled over everyone lately.
“Zhangmen-shixiong…” Shang Qinghua began, hesitant. His trembling voice faltered at first, but soon steadied, as if forcing itself past the fear. “I... don’t know what exactly you’re looking for here.”
Yue Qingyuan raised his eyes slowly, and then smiled—a small, calm smile, free of judgment. A smile that seemed to wrap around him, comforting without needing further words.
“I’m not looking for anything. I’m just here to talk, Shidi. And you’re here, too. There’s no need to search for anything else. Not today.”
The words floated gently between them, like leaves caught in a warm breeze. Shang Qinghua blinked, surprised by the reply—not because he thought it was a lie, but because he hadn’t expected something so simple.
And still, it felt like something inside him gave way.
There were no expectations hidden between the lines. No questions. No accusations. Just this: two cultivators sitting across from one another, sharing tea on a quiet afternoon. And for the first time in a long while, Shang Qinghua felt... light.
He didn’t have to defend himself.
Didn’t have to justify.
Didn’t have to keep up the automatic smile he wore like armor.
He could just be.
And there, in the presence of Yue Qingyuan, that was enough.
Just for now.
Just for today.