Work Text:
Shang Qinghua is not having a good day.
“My king,” he tries again, emerging like the creature from the lagoon from the mess of cloaks and loose scraps of fabric and oh fuck, is that a hand-stitched feather cloak. He gets the edge of his foot on the bare floor of the Northern Desert palace and a large clawed hand to the face for his trouble.
It’s barely a push by Mobei-Jun’s previous standards, just an introduction of an immovable object in the trajectory of his nose, and Shang Qinghua flops back onto the pile of cloaks with a yelp. He draws his legs up over the curve of his belly, pushing himself upright to stare up at Mobei-Jun. He cuts an imposing figure, just like Shang Qinghua had written him to be, his blue robes sitting wide on his shoulders and tied at the waist, his dark hair loosely gathered at the nape of his neck by a bone-pale tie and the majority spills over one shoulder and over his bare chest. That’s where Shang Qinghua’s attention sits, in that narrow valley of pale skin of his most beloved creation.
“My king, I could be of more use to you down in the main hall.” Shang Qinghua doesn’t pout, he’s the Lord of An Ding Peak who has maintained a double, no, a triple life for decades with barely any mistakes, his reactions are meticulous. Mobei-Jun folds his arms tighter over his chest before he raises his hands to the catch of his cloak. Shang Qinghua flinches, scuttling backwards an inch into the fabric beneath him. It’s better than sitting on the bare floor of the Northern Palace, frost beginning to pick spiralling flowers over the stone in the corners of the room.
Mobei-Jun drops his cloak over Shang Qinghua, not body-warm but faintly smoked — regional scrub bushes instead of trees, desperate clinging things that flower one month out of the year and get woven into firewood for all the others — and Shang Qinghua clutches it to his shoulders as he tries again.
“My king, this servant wishes to be of use to you.”
“Qinghua.” Mobei-Jun reaches down, catches Shang Qinghua’s ankle in one clawed hand and pulls him closer. He drops Shang Qinghua’s ankle to grab at the robes at the nape of his neck instead, lifting him like that.
Airplane always had to walk a careful balance when he was writing, just enough setting to hang the plot onto — regardless of what Cucumber-bro would strangle his keyboard over — and enough papapa scenes to keep his lights on and some instant noodles in his emergency slash every other day supply. Starving for his art isn’t cute when he’s the one starving for it and his story reflected that, but Mobei-Jun… Mobei-Jun, Airplane wrote for himself.
“This king—” Mobei-Jun shakes Shang Qinghua gently, twisting in his grip like a disobedient kitten as Shang Qinghua tries to squirm free “—has decided where Qinghua will be for the Night of a Thousand Stars. Is this servant going to disobey him?”
If Shang Qinghua thinks about it, he’ll never be able to deny Mobei-Jun anything, even when it will lead to his death. He made that choice on the day when he followed a sub-quest marker through the woods to find a demon prince pinned beneath a net and slowly bleeding ice crystals over the leaf litter. His survival had been optional and Airplane couldn’t continue in this world, in his world, knowing Mobei-Jun no longer existed in it. He’s never going to reach the same depths as the original Shang Qinghua, but he will die the same as him. But, the original never woke cradled on their king’s lap from an impromptu nap.
Shang Qinghua still thinks about that when sleep bleeds through his fingers and the scent of Mobei-Jun fades from his clothes.
“No, my king. This servant would never.”
⁂
Shang Qinghua skips two steps for every one of Mobei-Jun’s, scurrying in the shadows at his side as they make their way to the raised dais that will serve as a receiving platform and stationary target for the royal family and favoured court members.
He’d changed out of his robes at his king’s insistence, exchanging the pale lightweight fabric for a dark blue tunic with silver fastenings and beneath it, a shirt with long flowing sleeves. He’s covered from neck to ankle, the warmest he’s felt since arriving in the Northern Desert palace, and his slippers are fur-lined, the most comfortable thing he’s ever worn, and he is going to be bringing them back to An-Ding peak. Mobei-Jun slows as they reach the towering doors, the unsettling growls and hisses of a demonic gathering audible beneath the haunting music.
“Qinghua will stay on the dais and observe.” Mobei-Jun cups the back of Shang Qinghua’s neck carefully, his claws a sharp pinpoint against the line of a throat, a threat and an order braided together. “This king will collect him and then Qinghua will advise this king on his allies. Qinghua will not reveal that he is human.”
“This servant understands.” Shang Qinghua clasps his hands in front of himself, fighting the urge to rock backwards onto his heels. It does make sense, Shang Qinghua is acting as a spy for Mobei-Jun in the human world, a valuable asset that could be exploited by a rival demon so the change in clothes and the extensive coverage would keep him safer. The Night of a Thousand Stars is a yearly event held in the Northern Desert, an orbiting meteor shower that’s said to be the remnants of the first queen’s necklace, destroyed when her fourth born child ripped through the ranks to claim the throne and the title. Shang Qinghua created the event chapters before he’d sent Luo Binghe to seduce wife number three hundred and something from one of the frost demon tribes, just so Mobei-Jun, entirely fictional and beloved by his creator all the same, could have something beautiful.
Mobei-Jun releases him, tugging the thin cloth mask up over Shang Qinghua’s face, smoothing it over the curve of his nose, his cheeks with one delicate claw. “Watch for this, king,” he murmurs, his voice pitched entirely for Shang Qinghua’s ears.
Shang Qinghua will die for this man and he might even do so willingly at the end of it all.
He’s never felt further from the original who’s body he wears and who’s storyline he follows, and he would have been great if he didn’t care so much about his creations, he would have been a god.
“This servant will watch for his king,” Shang Qinghua promises, the weight of everything could be light on his shoulders.
“Good.” Mobei-Jun nods once, some unknown tension falling from his shoulders. He turns towards the door, Shang Qinghua at his side, as always