Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The room was dark, but not silent. There was the sound of the pendulum—
click
—and then again—
click
—a subtle scrape like something metal brushing against stone.

Xie Lian sat in the centre of it all, a single stool beneath him, legs tucked neatly together, hands hovering just above his lap as though he’d forgotten what to do with them.

He wasn’t bound. He wasn’t restrained. But he didn’t move.

The pendulum swung in front of him: back and forth, back and forth. A slow arc carved into shadow.

His eyes followed it with a vague, vacant interest—only because there was nothing else to look at. Or maybe because it felt like there should be. He couldn’t remember.

He couldn’t remember why he was here.
Or what he was meant to be doing.
Or what came before.

And stranger still, he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

A breath left him—quiet, small, the kind that barely stirred the air. His shoulders slumped a little more.

The weight of his own body no longer registered. He wasn’t even sure if he was tired. Or awake. Or dreaming.

The pendulum swung.
Click.

Something in him twitched at the sound. Not quite a thought—more the ghost of one.

He blinked.

In the silence that followed, the air shifted faintly. A presence—not loud, not forceful, but there. Behind him. Watching.

The hair on the back of his neck lifted.

Still, he didn’t move.

The pendulum swung.
Click.

“Good” said a voice, low and warm, as if coaxing a songbird to perch on a finger.

“You’re doing so very well.”

A hand settled on his shoulder—light, like it had always belonged there.

Xie Lian didn’t flinch. He didn’t even glance up.

The pendulum swung.
Back.
And forth.

The hand gave a gentle squeeze, fingers curving with something that might have been affection, or reassurance, or ownership.

“Relax” the voice murmured, closer now, warm enough to stir the fine strands of hair by his ear. “You’re safe here.”

The words curled around him like smoke.

And then—lips, soft and slow, pressed to the back of his neck. Right where his spine met the base of his skull. The kind of kiss meant to comfort, or calm, or claim.

Xie Lian’s gaze didn’t shift.

Back.
And forth.

The pendulum moved as if by the beat of his heart.

Was it beating? He thought maybe it was.
Maybe.

There was a thought—something vague and cold at the edges—like a forgotten name or a face turned away in a dream. But the pendulum moved and the thought slipped away.

Back.

Forth.

“Good” the voice said again, low and fond. “There’s nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.”

And Xie Lian nodded faintly, his eyes still fixed.
Yes. That made sense.

Was something missing?

No.
No, of course not.

The pendulum moved. He watched it move. He sat very still, the breath in his lungs slow and steady, his hands folded almost on his lap, as if in prayer.

Everything was quiet.
Everything was calm.

Nothing was wrong.
Nothing was missing.

…Was it?

The hand then left his shoulder only to find his cheek. It cupped his face like one might hold something fragile, something cherished. A thumb traced the edge of his jaw, brushed beneath his eye.

Xie Lian didn’t lean into it. He didn’t lean away.

The pendulum swung.
Back.
And forth.

“You were always too kind” the voice said, coaxing. Not unkind, but not kind either. “Too soft. Too trusting.”

The touch smoothed over the curve of his cheek. It felt like it should matter. It didn’t.

The pendulum was easier to follow than words. Easier to understand.

“You know it’s his fault, don’t you?” the voice went on. “All of it. You were doing fine before he arrived. You were whole.”

Xie Lian blinked slowly. The pendulum shifted ever so slightly in its arc, then righted itself.

“Everything you’ve suffered… He brought it to you. Like a stray dog dragging rot into your house. You should’ve shut the door.”

The thumb moved to trace his bottom lip.

Xie Lian watched the pendulum.

Back.
And forth.

“You should hate him.”

A pause. Xie Lian might have nodded. Or maybe he imagined he had.

“You should destroy him.”

Another gentle pass of fingers across his temple, as if the voice pitied him. As if it knew better.

And still—

Back.
And forth.

The pendulum was steady. Simple. Predictable. Unlike the words. Unlike the sudden curl of fingers in his hair, the warm breath that ghosted over his ear.

“He’s ruined you” the voice whispered. “Left you weak. Unmade. You’d be so much more if you let go. If you stopped clinging to him like a child, like a broken thing.”

Yes, Xie Lian thought faintly. That sounded true. Or close enough to true. Or at least not worth arguing about.

The pendulum moved.
The world was still.

“You understand, don’t you?”

“Mm” Xie Lian said, soft and distant. His eyes didn’t waver.

There might have been pain, once. Love, too. There might have been a name that set his heart alight like spring fire.

But that had been then.
Now there was only this:
Back.
And forth.

The voice smiled against his skin.

“Good” it said. Then it floated away.

------

The pendulum ticked.

The hand was back, smoothing hair behind his ear, brushing gently down his cheek as if to memorise him. A slow, reverent motion. Then it stopped.

The voice leaned in one last time, close enough to blur the edge of breath and thought, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Soft. Final.

“I trust you” it whispered. “You won’t forget this.”

The pendulum swung.

“Destroy Hua Cheng.”

The words slid into him like breath drawn in too deep—slow, seeping, final. They didn’t pierce; they settled. Slipped behind his eyes, into the quiet place where memory used to live.

Destroy Hua Cheng.
Destroy Hua Cheng.

The pendulum was all he could see now. The world reduced to that smooth arc, the small click at the peak of each swing.

Back.
And forth.
Back.
And forth.

His lips parted.

“Anything for you” he said.

His voice was low, like a prayer spoken half-asleep, like an old habit forgotten and rediscovered in the dark.

He didn’t know who he was saying it to. The voice. The pendulum. The shape of something once loved, now absent.

None of it mattered. Only the swing.
Only the rhythm.
Only the command, planted like a seed behind his eyes.

Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.

And outside that narrow arc of motion, the dark room hummed with quiet satisfaction.

------

Xie Lian woke with a start.

The first thing he noticed was the light—grey and soft, filtered through a cloudy sky. The second was the pounding in his head, dull and thick like he'd been struck with something heavy and left to sleep it off.

He groaned softly and sat up, one hand pressed to his temple. Dirt clung to his robes. There was a smear of mud across his sleeve. Leaves in his hair. His back ached like he’d slept on stones.

And he had, apparently.

He was on a riverbank. The water moved slow beside him, carrying stray branches and pale petals in its current. A dragonfly hovered near the surface, darted away.

“Wh–what?” he said aloud, voice hoarse.

He blinked. Sat still. Tried to think.

He had been… with Hua Cheng. Yes. They were searching through some forgotten outskirts for old shrine relics. He remembered Hua Cheng teasing him about the way he crouched in the underbrush—“like a rabbit sniffing for divine carrots”—and the way Xie Lian had laughed, rolling his eyes.

And then…?

He frowned. The memory stopped short, like a road swallowed up by fog.

Did he trip? Fall? He must have. That would explain the headache. The soreness. Hua Cheng must be worried sick.

“San Lang” he muttered, already brushing himself off, standing with a wobble. “Ah—he’s going to scold me for this…”

He glanced around. The trees here were unfamiliar. Tall, damp with mist. The river wound like a lazy thought between the hills. There were no signs of firelight, no trace of Hua Cheng's crimson silhouette or silver butterflies.

A faint chill licked down his spine.

No—he shouldn’t panic. First, find a road. Then retrace his steps. Hua Cheng was surely nearby.

Still, something tugged at him. A wrongness he couldn’t name. Like a weight in his chest, too light to see, too heavy to ignore.

He pressed a hand to his heart.

It beat slow. Steady.

He shook his head and turned toward the trees, eyes scanning for a path.

Behind him, the river whispered on.

Xie Lian pulled himself up the low embankment, boots sinking slightly in the damp earth. The trees around him whispered faintly in the breeze, thick with moss and fog, their boughs draped like half-forgotten thoughts. Each step felt heavier than it should have, legs aching with that drained, boneless weariness that follows a fever dream.

He paused at the top of the slope to catch his breath, squinting into the mist. A line of shrubbery hugged the edge of the forest, overgrown and thorny, but something about the way the trees curved beyond it struck him as familiar. Faintly, like a remembered song.

Xie Lian pushed through the underbrush with a wince as branches scraped across his sleeves. And then—there it was.

The path.

A narrow trail of packed earth winding between the trees, worn down by time and the tread of boots. A broken wheel rut. A discarded sandal he vaguely remembered laughing about when they passed by earlier.

He gave a breathless, relieved laugh and hurried forward, heart quickening not just from exertion but from recognition.

He knew this way.

The mist was thinner here. The river curled far behind, its voice distant. With each step down the path, the tension in his chest began to unwind—only a little, only on the surface.

He could see the outline of the temple through the trees now, its half-collapsed roof and crooked gate no less endearing for their age. A warm flicker of red wavered at the front, and then—

Hua Cheng.

He was standing just outside the temple door, one hand on his hip, the other two fingers to his head. His brows were furrowed in worry, and the moment he caught sight of Xie Lian coming down the slope, his whole body seemed to ease.

“Gege?” he called. “Where did you go? You weren’t answering—”

“I’m alright” Xie Lian said quickly, waving both hands as he jogged closer. He smiled as naturally as he could, ignoring the way his voice felt hollow in his throat. “Sorry, I think I ran out of spiritual power and just—took a nap.”

Hua Cheng strode to meet him, eyes scanning him head to toe. “You ran out of spiritual energy and fell asleep?” he repeated flatly. “In the woods? Without telling me? You scared me to death, gege.”

Xie Lian laughed—weakly, awkwardly. “Ah, well, you know me…”

His eyes crinkled with the shape of his smile, but it didn’t quite reach them. Not entirely.

Because now that Hua Cheng was in front of him—real and close and alive—something twisted deep in his gut.

His stomach turned. A hot spike of something jagged, crawling beneath his ribs. It lanced through him before he could name it. Not fear. Not confusion.

Anger.

No, that couldn’t be right.

He blinked. Shook his head minutely. It was just the headache. The exhaustion. The disorientation. He was fine. He was back.

He looked up at Hua Cheng again, tried to focus on the soft line of worry between his brows, the way his crimson robes were slightly rumpled like he’d been pacing. The place in his chest that should have lit with warmth… didn’t.

“San Lang” Xie Lian said, gently reaching for his sleeve, “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

Hua Cheng caught his hand in both of his. His grip was firm, grounding. His voice softened. “It’s alright. You’re back now. That’s what matters, lets go home okay?”

“En. Lets” Xie Lian nodded and smiled again. This one looked better. It almost felt real.

Behind his eyes, something pulsed faintly.

Destroy Hua Cheng.

No.

Of course not.

Ridiculous.

The thought was gone before it was fully formed. Or—no, it hadn’t been there at all. Just a headache. Just nerves.

He let Hua Cheng guide him gently toward the temple steps, fingers still laced together. The sky above was grey but calm. The trees swayed.

Everything was fine.
It had to be.

Chapter Text

All in all, a wonderfully productive day.

Xie Lian leaned back against Hua Cheng’s chest, nestled comfortably in the crook of his arm, the warm flicker of lamplight softening the edges of the room.

Paradise Manor glowed with its usual golden calm, firelight playing off dark wood and glimmering glass.

The table before them was strewn with their spoils—bits of rusted coins, old bells, broken charms, cracked statuettes. Some worthless. Some quietly lovely. All gathered with care.

Xie Lian laughed as he held up a lopsided incense holder shaped like a turtle. “Remember this? You swore it was cursed.”

“It is cursed” Hua Cheng replied, voice muffled where his chin rested against Xie Lian’s shoulder. “You’ll see. In three days it’ll start whispering things in your sleep.”

“I’ll have someone to keep me company, then” Xie Lian said lightly, placing it gently on a pile to the side. “You can help me banish it.”

They sorted together in companionable silence, Hua Cheng occasionally pressing a kiss to Xie Lian’s hair, Xie Lian humming a small tune as he examined a cracked porcelain fox.

The warmth of the moment settled around them like a quilt.

Then Xie Lian reached for something near the edge of the table.

A jagged shard of metal. Part of a broken ornament, maybe. Twisted into a strange, sharp bloom. It caught the light like a blade.

He picked it up and tilted it thoughtfully, watching the way it gleamed. His smile lingered, soft and idle.

That would look pretty, he thought, absurdly, in Hua Cheng’s chest.

Right where the light would hit it. Right where the red would bloom—

What?

He blinked. The smile didn’t falter, but a bead of cold bloomed at the base of his spine.

Haha—no. That was ridiculous. He chuckled under his breath and shook his head.

“What is it?” Hua Cheng murmured, nuzzling at his neck.

“Oh, nothing” Xie Lian said easily, placing the metal down with careful fingers. “Just got pricked by the edge.”

He turned slightly, letting his forehead rest against Hua Cheng’s. “I’ll find a place to display it tomorrow” he added, voice gentle.

Hua Cheng beamed at him, utterly unaware but soothing a hand other xie lians. “I’ll help.”

Xie Lian smiled.

Of course he would.

And everything was fine.

Just fine.

Xie Lian’s eyes were beginning to droop.

The warmth of Paradise Manor, the low hum of cicadas outside, the steady rhythm of Hua Cheng’s breathing behind him—it all pulled at him gently, like tidewater drawing a lantern boat out to sea.

The scraps on the table blurred into one another: bronze, bone, clay, ash. He let his head tilt against Hua Cheng’s shoulder, content and drowsy.

He felt weightless. Full and empty all at once.

Hua Cheng reached over, taking Xie Lian’s hand, and pressed a soft kiss to each fingertip. One, two, three, four, five. Slow and reverent, like a quiet ritual neither of them ever named.

“Come on, gege” he murmured, voice barely more than a breath against his skin. “It’s bedtime.”

Xie Lian made a low sound of protest—not quite a whine, not quite a laugh. “I’m not done sorting.”

“You’re practically asleep sitting up” Hua Cheng said, chuckling. “Even ghosts have bedtime, you know, would you deprive your poor husband of sleep hm?”

“Untrue, San Lang makes a point to stay awake and call me pretty” Xie Lian replied, but let himself be pulled to his feet anyway.

The room swayed a little as he stood. Not unpleasantly—just enough to remind him he wasn’t quite tethered.

He leaned into Hua Cheng, eyes slipping closed again, even as his body moved on habit: leaving the scraps behind, letting his hand be held.

As they padded slowly toward the bedchamber, Xie Lian whispered something without realising he’d spoken, something faint and formless:

“…so pretty.”

Hua Cheng glanced down at him, puzzled. “What is?”

Xie Lian blinked, then looked up with a soft smile. “You.”

Hua Cheng flushed instantly, ears turning red. “Mn—gege-Dianxia, how could you say something so dangerous right before bed?”

Xie Lian laughed lightly, letting himself be drawn into the room, into the sheets, into the waiting quiet. He curled beneath the blanket, letting Hua Cheng pull him close.

His eyes closed.

Warm lips pressed to his forehead.

And somewhere in the dark, a thought passed across his mind like a shadow behind silk—silent, sharp, and oddly shaped.

Wouldn’t it be prettier covered with red?

But the thought fell away. The tide took it.

And he slept.

------

In the hush of sleep, there was no bed. No San Lang. No warmth.

Only the dark.

And in the dark, a pendulum swung.

Back
and forth.
Back
and forth.

Tick.
Tick.
Tick.

The world pulsed with it. Each swing carving a line through the silence, through his mind. Steady. Gentle. Unrelenting.

He sat, though he didn’t remember sitting. Limbs slack, back straight. Eyes open. Watching.

Back
and forth.
Back
and forth.

A whisper like breath against his ear.

A kiss to his cheek—soft, close, unearned.

“You remember, don’t you?”

Back
and forth.

“Kill Hua Cheng.”

Back
and forth.
Back
and forth.

Another kiss, colder this time.

“Good. You’re doing so well.”

Tick.
Tick.
Tick.

The pendulum was all there was.
The swing.
The weight.
The rhythm.

Back
and forth.
Back
and forth.

“Kill Hua Cheng.”

“Kill Hua Cheng” he whispered, though he didn’t know who he meant.

And the dream held him there.
Still.
Watching.
Obedient.

Back
and forth.
Back
and forth.

------

Xie Lian woke to the weight of an arm slung over his waist and a tangle of limbs twisted beneath the blankets, their legs hopelessly entwined.

Hua Cheng’s breath was warm against his throat, his hair a soft spill of black across the pillow. The room was still dim.

Xie Lian smiled sleepily and shifted a little, only to be pulled closer by the arm around him.

“Mnnh” Hua Cheng murmured, not quite awake, burying his face in Xie Lian’s shoulder. “Don’t go. Warm…”

Xie Lian laughed under his breath and pressed a fond kiss to the tip of Hua Cheng’s cold nose.

Hua Cheng flinched with a grumble. “Cold…”

“Well, whose fault is that?” Xie Lian whispered, amused, and leaned his head against Hua Cheng’s chest for a moment longer.

He listened to the slow thump of his fake heartbeat he insisted on keeping on at bed—steady, sure. Familiar. The kind of sound that makes you forget there’s anything in the world to fear.

“I should get up” Xie Lian said softly.

“No” Hua Cheng said, voice muffled in his hair.

“I have to—”

“No” he repeated, a little firmer this time, wrapping himself more securely around Xie Lian like a vine refusing to let go. “Stay. Just a bit more. Just until the moons higher.”

Xie Lian laughed again, breath warm against Hua Cheng’s skin. “You always say that.”

“I always mean it.”

For a moment, Xie Lian nearly gave in. The bed was warm. The world was quiet. Nothing pressed on him but comfort.

But his stomach grumbled softly, and the memory of ingredients they'd bought in town yesterday floated into his head.

He kissed Hua Cheng’s temple, then pulled back slightly, though it took effort.

“I’ll go make breakfast” he said gently, brushing his knuckles down Hua Cheng’s cheek. “You’ll forgive me, won’t you?”

Hua Cheng cracked his eye open. “Tch. Not if you leave me in bed alone.”

Xie Lian grinned. “Not even for a meal from your husband?”

That made Hua Cheng pause. His expression shifted, lips curling into a sleepy smile that softened all his sharp edges.

“Well… when you put it like that…”

Xie Lian sat up with a stretch, the sheets falling from his shoulders. “I’ll be quick.”

“Mmm Dianxia-” Hua Cheng whined playfully, already sinking deeper into the blankets in retreat.

As Xie Lian rose and padded barefoot across the floor, he glanced back once. Hua Cheng’s form was half-hidden in the covers, a dark splash of hair across the white pillow, face turned toward the space Xie Lian had left behind.

Something stirred in Xie Lian’s chest. Strange. Muddled. He placed a hand there for a moment.

Nothing. Just a heartbeat.

He smiled again—soft, serene—and slipped out toward the kitchen.

The morning air was cool. The house quiet.

And everything, for now, was as it should be.

------

The knife in Xie Lian’s hand gleamed as it rose, fell, rose again, slicing rhythmically through the vegetables on the cutting board.

Carrot, then spring onion, then thin slices of mushroom, fanned out in a tidy crescent. The sound of the blade against the wood was steady, measured, precise.

He was focused, almost too focused—the glint of steel, the exactness of the angles, the faint shimmer of something still clinging to his thoughts.

Then, arms wrapped around his waist.

Xie Lian startled slightly, the knife pausing mid-chop.

A familiar laugh tickled his ear. “Good morning again, gege.”

He felt Hua Cheng’s chin settle on his shoulder, breath warm against his skin. “You’re so serious when you cook. Like a general going to war.”

“Mn, maybe I’m just trying to make sure I don’t poison my husband” Xie Lian said, but the tease was soft, affectionate. He didn’t pull away.

“Well, if you do, I’ll haunt you” Hua Cheng murmured, grin audible in his voice. “Wait. I already do.”

Xie Lian smiled faintly and raised the knife again.

It happened quickly.

A slip—not a real one, not exactly. His mind wandered—red in the sink, the weight of a sharp thing, a flash of how pretty—

And the blade caught flesh.

Hua Cheng jerked back slightly with a sharp hiss, still half-laughing. “Ah-”

Xie Lian turned immediately, horror flashing across his features. “Ah! I—I didn’t mean—San Lang, I’m so sorry!”

Hua Cheng looked at his hand, where a thin line of red was already welling up. “It’s fine, it’s fine, don’t look like that. If you wanted to add me to the menu, you could’ve just said so.”

Xie Lian gave him a flat look, eyes still wide with worry. “That’s not funny.”

Hua Cheng snorted. “It’s a little funny.”

“Sit down” Xie Lian ordered gently, guiding him by the uninjured wrist to the table. He retrieved a small bandage from the drawer, already unwrapping it with quick fingers.

“Gege, you don’t have to—”

“I know you can heal yourself” Xie Lian interrupted, dabbing at the wound with a damp cloth. “Let me do this anyway.”

Hua Cheng quieted instantly, watching him with something soft and helpless in his eyes.

Xie Lian’s brow furrowed slightly in concentration as he cleaned the cut and smoothed the bandage over it.

It was barely bleeding now, the skin already starting to close, but still—he handled Hua Cheng’s hand like something delicate, like something precious.

“There” he said at last, brushing his thumb over the bandage lightly.

Hua Cheng looked down at it, then up at him. “I feel so pampered.”

“You are pampered.”

“I don’t deserve you” he said, more serious now.

Xie Lian looked at him for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his gaze.

“Don’t say that” he said quietly.

Hua Cheng smiled. “Then I’ll just say thank you.”

Xie Lian nodded, fingers lingering just a moment longer around his hand. Then he rose again, back to the cutting board, back to the blade.

“Try not to startle me again” he said lightly. “You might lose more than a finger next time.”

Hua Cheng chuckled, leaning back in his chair with his bandaged hand propped dramatically on the table. “If it’s you, I’ll consider it a worthy sacrifice.”

Xie Lian didn’t answer.

The knife rose, gleamed. Fell.

------

By midday, the smell of stir-fried vegetables still lingered in the air, but the knife lay untouched on the countertop where Xie Lian had set it down with a quiet sigh of decision.

“No more sharp things for me today” he said, half to himself, rinsing his hands in the basin.

Hua Cheng glanced over from where he was drying a dish, one brow arched. “You sure? The vegetable peeler still looks a little too smug.”

Xie Lian gave him a withering look. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.” Hua Cheng tossed the towel over his shoulder and sauntered over, slipping his arm easily around Xie Lian’s waist. “Gege’s banned from all weapons of culinary destruction. I’ll make lunch next time.”

“You ended up making breakfast.”

“And I didn’t bleed once. Impressive, right?” Hua Cheng grinned, tipping his head to brush a kiss against Xie Lian’s temple. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from the evil cutlery.”

Xie Lian sighed, but didn’t push him away. “What a hero you are.”

Hua Cheng winked. “A hero who accepts payment in kisses.”

“Shameless.”

“So you’ve told me.”

They ended up back in the front room, where a newly acquired collection of scraps and treasures lay scattered across the table in disorganised heaps.

Old metal charms, a rusted lantern frame, fragments of porcelain, a cracked flute with a faint engraving near the mouthpiece. The late morning light made them all look oddly precious.

Xie Lian sat cross-legged beside the table, sleeves rolled up, sorting the pieces with practiced fingers. He picked up a tiny bronze bell and inspected the loop where it had broken off its string.

He was trying to concentrate. Really.

But Hua Cheng was not making it easy.

Leaning lazily over him from behind, he pressed a kiss to the crown of Xie Lian’s head.

“Mn…”

Xie Lian’s hand paused, the bell hovering between one pile and another.

Another kiss, just behind his ear this time. “You smell like ginger and steam.”

“I was cooking” Xie Lian muttered, refocusing on the next object.

Xie Lian's fingers grazed over a small shard of mirror—clouded at the edges, the silvering mostly gone, but catching the light just enough to flicker.

He turned it over in his palm, wondering absently what it once reflected. A dressing table? A face long forgotten?

Then, suddenly, he saw something else.

The same shard—plunged, not held.

Into Hua Cheng’s throat.

Blood like spilled lacquer. Hua Cheng’s eye wide, then soft, as if sorry he couldn’t smile through it.

The image bloomed, vivid and visceral, too quick to catch, too sharp to ignore.

Xie Lian’s hand trembled.

The shard clattered to the table as he dropped it like it burned him. A bitter taste rushed to his tongue, and he swallowed hard, bending forward with a hand braced against the wood. For a moment, he thought he might be sick.

“Gege?” Hua Cheng’s voice cut through the haze, sudden and clear with concern. He was at Xie Lian’s side in an instant, hands hovering near his shoulders. “What’s wrong? Did something—are you hurt?”

Xie Lian breathed in, slow and shallow. He forced a smile before he fully raised his head. “No, no. I’m fine. Just... a little dizzy.”

Hua Cheng crouched in front of him, eyes dark and sharp. “That wasn’t nothing.”

“Truly, it’s nothing” Xie Lian insisted, smiling wider now. Too wide. “I probably stood up too quickly or skipped a breath or—maybe the spices from lunch hit me late. You know how I am.”

Hua Cheng didn’t move. He watched him carefully, as if trying to read the truth in the lines of his face.

Xie Lian nudged him lightly. “Come on, San Lang. Don’t look at me like that. You’ll make me feel guilty for being dramatic.”

“You’re not dramatic” Hua Cheng said immediately, firm.

Xie Lian laughed—bright, too casual. “You say that only because you’re worse.”

The tension in Hua Cheng’s jaw eased, just barely. He still didn’t look convinced, but he let it go, standing with a sigh and offering Xie Lian a hand.

Xie Lian took it, steadying himself as he rose. His smile didn’t waver.

“Let’s finish sorting” he said, as if nothing had happened at all.

And if he didn’t touch any of the sharper scraps again, Hua Cheng didn’t comment on it. He only stayed close, watching quietly, like he was waiting for the wind to shift.

Chapter Text

Xie Lian sighed, quiet but deep, as he sat back down beside the table. He rubbed at his temples with both hands, fingertips pressing into the corners of his brow.

The pressure didn’t help, not really, but it was something to focus on—something grounded.

Really, he thought, what is going on with me?

His eyes drifted to the window where sunlight still poured in gently, catching on dust motes in the air. The whole world seemed soft, golden, calm. Nothing was out of place. Nothing was wrong.

Except for him.

He dragged his fingers down his face and exhaled again, this time through his nose. “I must have hit my head” he muttered to himself, barely audible.

Hua Cheng glanced over from where he was reorganising a pile of tangled metal rings. “Did you say something, gege?”

Xie Lian looked up, blinking once, then smiled. “Ah—just talking to myself. Thinking out loud.”

Hua Cheng tilted his head, red eye narrowing slightly, but didn’t press.

Still, the thought wouldn’t go away.

When he’d woken by that riverbank, he’d dismissed it. A slip, a stumble, an accident. But was it? He didn’t remember falling.

He didn’t remember much at all, just… swinging, and stillness, and then nothing. A blank spot in his memory like a void, stretched taut and cold.

And now?

Now he couldn’t hold a knife without imagining things he should not be imagining. Violent things. Sudden things. Wrong things.

He stared down at his hands. They didn’t tremble. They were perfectly steady. They shouldn’t be.

What was happening to him?

He forced his gaze back to the table, back to the mess of soft rust and bent treasure. He reached for a dulled spoon, the kind that once would’ve made him smile.

But now it just looked like a weapon.

He blinked hard, shook his head, tried to think of something—anything—else.

A little bump nudged his shoulder.

Hua Cheng leaned against him gently, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear with exaggerated care. “You’re spacing out again.”

Xie Lian startled and gave a sheepish smile. “Sorry. I was thinking too hard.”

“Dangerous habit” Hua Cheng teased. “You should let your brain rest. Or better—let me take you out. We can leave the last of the sorting for tomorrow. Take a walk.”

Xie Lian hesitated. The idea of a walk—fresh air, distraction, time away from these creeping thoughts—did sound tempting.

But…

“No” he said at last, shaking his head. “I want to finish this. Just a bit more.”

Hua Cheng didn’t argue. He only leaned in to kiss the edge of Xie Lian’s cheekbone and murmured, “Then I’ll stay with you.”

Always, hung unspoken in the air between them.

And for now, Xie Lian smiled and let it stay there, too.

In the end, Xie Lian never really stood a chance.

Hua Cheng had always known his weaknesses—not just the obvious ones, like antiques and rice cakes and overly dramatic children—but the hidden, softer ones.

The kind of weakness that bloomed when cold lips brushed behind his ear and a warm voice whispered something like, “Gege’s worked so hard. Won’t you let me steal you for a little while?”

Then came the kisses. First one, then another. On his cheek. His jaw. The tip of his nose. Featherlight, insistent, teasing. Between each one, a soft complaint:

“Still working…”

“You’re ignoring your husband…”

“This is abuse…”

Xie Lian’s attempts at composure dissolved into laughter. “Abuse?”

“Spiritual torment!” Hua Cheng declared, voice mock-wounded as he rested his forehead dramatically against Xie Lian’s shoulder. “I’m fading away right now. Look—do you see how dim my eye is?”

“You’re glowing like a lantern.”

“That’s just residual yearning.”

Xie Lian laughed again, breath catching lightly in his chest. He leaned in, bumped his nose against Hua Cheng’s with a smile. “Fine, fine. You’ve kissed me into submission. Let’s go for a walk.”

Hua Cheng grinned. “Victory.”

They left the scraps behind, half-sorted and forgotten, the front doors of Paradise Manor closing softly behind them. Ghost City spread out in endless twilight, its flickering lanterns and twisting alleyways alive with soft colour and quiet bustle.

But Hua Cheng didn’t take them into the city proper.

Instead, they followed a narrow stone path that wound upward, past the outskirts and into the shadowed hills. There, nestled on the slope like a hidden prayer, stood the Thousand Lights Temple.

It had been Hua Cheng’s gift—built in silence, offered with shy pride. A temple that wasn’t grand or gilded, but gentle. Lanterns hung from every branch of the trees surrounding it, glowing with the names of wishes offered and answered.

The courtyard was swept clean, the incense always fresh. A small statue of Xianle’s crown prince stood at its heart, calm and kind in his eternally folded hands.

In the eternal night of Ghost City, it shimmered like a star.

“It really is beautiful” Xie Lian said as they crested the hill, his voice quiet in the hush of soft lanternlight.

“You say that every time” Hua Cheng replied, taking his hand.

“And I mean it every time.”

They stood in the courtyard a while, hand in hand, surrounded by a thousand slow-burning flames. The silence between them wasn’t awkward or heavy—it was full, like a bowl of clear water.

When they finally walked beneath the eaves of the little temple, Xie Lian reached out and lit a single stick of incense.

He didn’t say a prayer. He just watched the smoke curl into the air, dancing like breath.

Hua Cheng didn’t ask what he was thinking. He only stepped behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist, resting his chin on Xie Lian’s shoulder.

And for a little while, Xie Lian let himself forget everything else—his doubts, the mirror shard, the sick twist of dread—and simply breathed.

He was warm. He was held. He was safe.

At least for now.

Xie Lian watched the tendrils of smoke coil upward, pale and dreamlike, as if even the air here in Ghost City dared not stir too harshly.

His own incense rested gently in the bronze holder, still burning. He felt calm. The lanterns blinked softly in the trees.

Then beside him, Hua Cheng reached for another stick, striking the flint with a familiar, casual ease. The spark flared. The tip of the incense caught and glowed red-gold, gentle as a firefly.

And the moment the smoke began to rise—

Xie Lian blinked.

He blinked and the sky was no longer soft.

The lanterns above them burned red, molten, dripping wax and blood. The trees groaned like bones cracking.

The temple, his temple, had collapsed inward, crushed beneath something enormous and invisible.

The statue of the Crown Prince was shattered, its face cracked down the middle, its hands snapped off at the wrists.

And in the centre of it all was Hua Cheng.

On his knees. Coughing up black blood.

A blade pierced cleanly through his chest.

Xie Lian’s hands gripped the hilt.

He stared down at Hua Cheng—his San Lang—who looked up at him with something far worse than fear.

Acceptance.

It’s all right, gege, Hua Cheng mouthed.

If it’s you, it’s all right.

Xie Lian stumbled backward, breath seizing tight in his lungs.

“Gege?”

The vision shattered like glass in sunlight.

He was back.

The lanterns were soft again, rustling gently overhead. The temple stood, quiet and whole. The incense smoke curled peacefully between them.

And Hua Cheng stood beside him, watching him with a worried furrow between his brows, his lit incense still held carefully in one hand.

“Gege?” he said again, softer now. “You went completely pale—what is it?”

Xie Lian stared at him for a moment too long. He couldn’t stop seeing it: the blood, the blade, the way Hua Cheng’s lips had moved.

He forced a smile to his face, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I… I thought I saw something, that’s all. A flicker. Nothing real.”

He reached for the incense and gently took it from Hua Cheng’s fingers, placing it in the holder beside his own.

“There” he murmured. “Now our wishes are side by side.”

Hua Cheng smiled faintly at that, but his eyes searched Xie Lian’s face as if trying to read some hidden script written just beneath the skin.

Xie Lian turned away, just slightly, tilting his face up to the lanterns.

He had to hold it together. He couldn’t tell Hua Cheng—not yet. Not until he understood what was happening to him.

Because whatever this was… whatever he was becoming…

It was getting worse.

Hua Cheng didn’t speak for a moment. He simply watched him, the soft red of his eye dimmed with concern. The flickering light of the incense cast shifting shadows across his face, catching on the faint line between his brows.

Then, quietly:
“Gege… are you really alright?”

Xie Lian turned toward him.

He smiled, and it was gentle—meant to reassure, to soothe—but even as he leaned forward, he wasn’t sure who he was trying to comfort more: Hua Cheng, or himself.

He placed a kiss to Hua Cheng’s lips. Light. Deliberate.

It stopped the question in its tracks.

Chapter Text

Xie Lian lingered a breath longer than he usually would. Not to deepen it—only to stay there. To steal that warmth. To borrow it. His fingers brushed along the edge of Hua Cheng’s collar, like he might tether himself there, keep from drifting.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes had softened again. “I’m thinking about an afternoon nap” he said, as if the last few moments hadn’t happened at all.

“Would San Lang care to join me?”

For a heartbeat, Hua Cheng looked like he might press further.

Then he smiled, crooked and a little helpless. “If gege’s inviting me, how could I refuse?”

“You couldn’t.”

“Then I won’t.”

Xie Lian’s hand found Hua Cheng’s, and they walked together down the lantern-lit path, leaving the Thousand Lights Temple behind, the incense smoke curling faintly after them like a ghost with no name.

And in Xie Lian’s mind, the kiss still lingered. Not the one he'd just given—but the one pressed to his cheek, long ago, in a place that didn’t exist.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

They made it back to Paradise Manor with no rush in their steps, as if the weight of the city had gentled in their absence.

The moment the doors shut behind them, the quiet fell deeper, warmer, like a blanket waiting to be pulled over both their heads.

Xie Lian was the first to collapse onto the couch in the sunlit parlour, arms flung up around a pillow. His hair fanned like ink around him, and he let out a soft sigh that seemed to come from his bones.

Hua Cheng followed right after, kicking off his boots and stretching like a cat before curling around Xie Lian from behind.

One arm snaked around his waist, the other rested lightly over his chest. His voice was already lazy when he spoke.

“We should start tea in two… maybe three sichens” he murmured, his nose brushing against the nape of Xie Lian’s neck. “If we sleep for half a sichen now, we’ll still have time to cook everything properly.”

“Mmn.” Xie Lian leaned into him instinctively, his fingers lightly finding Hua Cheng’s. “That sounds perfect.”

They lay like that for a quiet moment, the hush filled with only the sound of wind drifting outside and the soft exhale of breath between them. Then:

“What should we have with tea?” Xie Lian asked, turning just enough to speak over his shoulder.

Hua Cheng hummed thoughtfully. “I could fry the taro cakes. Or we still have that osmanthus syrup. Or…” his voice dropped, teasing, “we could just skip to dessert. Like gege.”

Xie Lian flushed, pink rising swiftly to his cheeks. “You—! I am not on the menu!”

Hua Cheng grinned into his shoulder. “But you said I was earlier.”

“That was an accident!” Xie Lian huffed, wriggling away and turning his back with mock indignation. “I’m not talking to you.”

Behind him, Hua Cheng made a dramatic little whine. “Gege—how could you turn away from me in my moment of greatest hunger…”

“You’ll survive.”

“But I’m weak! Starving! Withering away!”

“Good.”

A beat of silence. Then Xie Lian heard the quietest, most pitiful-sounding little sigh.

He snorted—tried to hold it in—and failed completely, breaking into a quiet laugh. He rolled back around and looked over his shoulder, only to find Hua Cheng giving him his best kicked-puppy expression.

“Oh no” Xie Lian said, laughing harder. “Not that face.”

Hua Cheng reached for him again with both arms, triumphant. “That face works every time.”

Xie Lian let himself be pulled back in, laughter still caught in his throat. He pressed his forehead to Hua Cheng’s, grinning, their breaths shared in a moment too close to name.

“Fine” he whispered. “But only because you’re so pitiful.”

“I am” Hua Cheng agreed solemnly, kissing his cheek. “Utterly helpless without you.”

And for now, for just this little stretch of time, Xie Lian let himself believe it.

The warmth was perfect. That golden stretch between waking and sleep, where limbs tangled and breath slowed and the world made no demands.

Xie Lian melted into it without resistance, head resting against Hua Cheng’s chest, one hand curled lazily at his waist. He felt safe. He felt—

Tick.

A sound.

No, not a sound. A rhythm.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

Was there a clock in the manor? Had they ever owned one?

The ticking grew louder.

Then a voice—gentle, smooth, almost fond:
Yes. Like that. Good. Tighter. More.
You remember how, don’t you?

Xie Lian shifted, frowning in his sleep. His body moved with the voice, dreamlike, obedient.

Back and forth.
Back and forth.

“Get up.”

“Yes, like that.”

“Tighter.”

“More.”

The voice coiled low, repeating and repeating, like it was breathing against the back of his ear. The pendulum swung again, gleaming. A flash of silver. A glint of red.

“More.”

“Your Highness.”

“Gege?”

A hand on his shoulder.

“Tighter”

“Now!”

“Gege, wake up—”

Xie Lian’s eyes flew open.

He gasped, dizzy with disorientation—and immediately realised something was wrong. Terribly, horribly wrong.

His hands were at Hua Cheng’s throat.

Both of them.

Tightly, unforgivingly.

His nails had dug into the skin. His arms were locked in place, every tendon taut with restraint barely held back. Hua Cheng's body was still beneath him, calm but rigid, and his one visible eye was wide with concern, not fear.

Because, of course—he couldn’t be choked. Couldn’t be harmed that way. Couldn’t die from it.

But Xie Lian could still do it.

Could still want to.

“No—!” Xie Lian wrenched himself back, releasing him at once and falling into a frantic crouch beside the bed. “No, no, no—what—what was I—?”

He stared at his hands like they were foreign, shaking, traitorous.

“San Lang—I—did I hurt you? I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t—” His voice broke. “I didn’t mean to—I didn’t even know I was dreaming—!”

“Gege” Hua Cheng said, sitting up slowly, his voice even but soft, “it’s alright.”

“It’s not alright!” Xie Lian gripped at his hair, knuckles white. “I was—I was trying to—”

“You didn’t.” Hua Cheng reached out carefully, taking one of his wrists, grounding him. “I’m not hurt. Look.”

And he wasn’t. His skin was unmarked. Not even a ghost of a bruise. Just a faint red flush that was already fading.

But that wasn’t the point.

Xie Lian felt cold. His whole body trembled, like the dream hadn’t truly ended, like some part of it was still clawing at the corners of his mind.

Back and forth.
Back and forth.
More.

Hua Cheng watched him closely, the tension in his brow deepening with each passing second. His grip on Xie Lian’s hand remained light, steady, but when Xie Lian still wouldn’t meet his eye, he let out a soft sigh and raised the other hand to cup his cheek.

“Gege” he said, quiet and firm. “You’ve been… off. Since yesterday. I didn’t want to press, but now—” his thumb brushed just below Xie Lian’s eye, as if to smooth away a shadow—“I need to know. You can tell me.”

“I…”

Xie Lian tried to look away, but Hua Cheng followed him, keeping the contact gentle but unwavering. His fingers were so warm. Too kind.

Xie Lian’s throat worked.

“I lied” he said finally, voice low and cracked. “I didn’t fall asleep. Or at least—I don’t remember falling asleep.”

Hua Cheng didn’t move, only listened.

“There’s a patch of memory missing” Xie Lian went on, each word falling heavier than the last. “I was with you—we were looking for scrap—and then I was waking up by the river, alone, like I’d… like I’d fallen. Maybe I hit my head. I don’t know. It’s gone. And since then—”

He broke off, pressing his lips together hard. Shame flooded his face, hot and red.

“Since then… every time I look at you… I see ways to hurt you.”

The silence that followed was too large to hold. Xie Lian stared at Hua Cheng, waiting for him to flinch, to draw back, to mask his expression with that careful wall of politeness he’d once used to survive the heavens.

But Hua Cheng didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just kept holding him.

Xie Lian laughed once, hollow. “Isn’t that awful? I keep thinking—what’s wrong with me? What happened in that missing time? What changed?”

Hua Cheng’s response was quiet—quiet like a promise whispered against skin. He drew back only far enough to tilt Xie Lian’s face upward and pressed a kiss to his lips, feather-light but unshakable in its certainty.

“We’ll figure it out” he said. “Whatever this is, I will find the source. You’re not alone in this.”

Xie Lian’s breath hitched. The kiss had left a soft ache behind, not from force but from gentleness.

He searched Hua Cheng’s face—his sincerity, his unwavering gaze—and felt something twist painfully behind his ribs.

“I want to believe that” he murmured.

“You don’t have to” Hua Cheng replied. “Just let me believe it enough for both of us.”

A beat passed. Then another.

Hua Cheng drew back slightly, brows furrowing. “It doesn’t feel like a curse” he said, mostly to himself now. “Or an enchantment. At least not a direct one. If it were, I’d notice. I’ve studied every kind. I’d know the trace.”

“Then what is it?” Xie Lian asked, almost desperate. “Am I—am I just losing it?”

“No.” Hua Cheng’s tone was sharp, immediate. He cupped Xie Lian’s cheek again, grounding him. “You’re not broken. If anything, someone’s trying to break you.”

Xie Lian’s eyes fluttered shut.

“It could be a trickster spirit” Hua Cheng went on. “Something that needed a moment of vulnerability to dig in. You hit your head. You blacked out. That’s all the opening it needed.”

“Then I let it in” Xie Lian whispered, stricken.

“You didn’t” Hua Cheng said. “You were hurt. That’s not the same.”

He watched him a moment longer, searching his expression, then added gently, “Tell me what you saw. Just now. When you woke up.”

Xie Lian trembled. “My hands around your throat. I thought I was dreaming. No—I was dreaming. There was… a voice. I couldn’t see it. Only hear it. There was this ticking, like a clock, like a pendulum. And it kept saying things. ‘Yes, like that.’ ‘More.’ It felt—good at the time. That’s the worst part. I didn’t feel anything wrong until I woke up.”

Hua Cheng’s expression had darkened. “And the voice… did it call you anything?”

Xie Lian nodded slowly. “Your Highness. Sometimes ‘Gege….but I also heard you faintly saying those…”

Hua Cheng exhaled through his nose, sharp. “That’s deliberate. Whatever this is, it’s not some random spiritual fluke. It’s targeted. And it knows how to sound familiar.”

He took a step back, pacing briefly, fingers tapping restlessly against his arm. “If it’s not a curse or an enchantment, it might be… spiritual suggestion. Or—no. Dreamwalking? But that doesn’t explain the violence.”

“San Lang” Xie Lian said softly, and when Hua Cheng turned to him, his voice was steadier. “I trust you. Whatever you find… I’ll listen. But promise me—if I get worse—”

“No.”

“—if I do, you have to stop me.”

“Gege, no.”

“Hua Cheng.”

His name, spoken like a plea.

Hua Cheng’s expression cracked. He stepped forward again and gathered Xie Lian into his arms, tighter this time, jaw pressed to his shoulder. “I’m not going to let you fall that far. You hear me? I’m not losing you. Not again. Not ever.”

Xie Lian closed his eyes.

Outside, Paradise Manor held still, as if the air itself was waiting.

And somewhere—far, or perhaps just beneath the skin—the ticking resumed.
Back and forth. Back and forth.

Hua Cheng didn’t let go for a long time. When he finally did, it was only to hold Xie Lian’s face in both hands again, thumbs stroking gently over the curve of his cheeks, grounding him, reminding him of now.

“I mean it” he said quietly. “If it happens again—anything. A sound, a thought, a feeling. Tell me. The moment it starts. Even if it’s small.”

Xie Lian nodded, reluctant but willing. “Alright.”

“I’m serious, gege.”

“I know” Xie Lian murmured, taking one of Hua Cheng’s hands and pressing it lightly to his lips. “I promise.”

Only then did Hua Cheng step back with a deep breath, some of the weight lifting from his shoulders but not vanishing. He turned toward the small alcove where the hearth sat built into the wall, sleeves swaying as he moved.

“Alright” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s get tea started.”

“Tea?” Xie Lian blinked, confused for a beat—then softened, a little embarrassed.

Hua Cheng grinned over his shoulder, teasing. “What, did you forget? Would gege like to nap some more then?”

“I might not say no to that” Xie Lian huffed, sitting down and curling his knees into his chest on one of the floor cushions. “But I am starving.”

“You didn’t eat much lunch” Hua Cheng reminded him, already setting out the chopping board and clay pots with a practiced hand. “So you’re getting double. Sit there and rest. You’ve had a rough day.”

“I don’t think I qualify for double after what I did.”

“You always qualify for double” Hua Cheng shot back without looking up. “Especially when you’re not doing well. And besides—” he turned, eyebrow raised in mock offence—“if you keep doubting my cooking, I will kiss you into silence again.”

Xie Lian snorted, covering his smile. “Threats now? I thought we were supposed to be recovering from an emotional breakdown.”

“Exactly” Hua Cheng said lightly. “What better cure than food and my undying affection?”

That won him a quiet laugh. Xie Lian leaned back against a cushion, watching the familiar, soothing pattern of Hua Cheng at work—how he moved without needing to think, muscle memory guiding him in the small acts of care he’d taken on so easily.

The scrape of metal on chopping board. The scent of spiced roots and simmering broth. The soft pat of dumpling dough being rolled thin.

It helped.

It grounded him.

But as he let himself rest, half-lulled by the rhythm of home and hands he trusted, somewhere in the back of his mind…

Tick.

He blinked, shoulders twitching.

“Gege?” Hua Cheng’s voice from the stove, mild. “You okay?”

“…Yeah.” Xie Lian blinked again. The sound was gone.

He smiled faintly. “Just thinking what a lucky man I am.”

Hua Cheng looked back and winked. “You’d better be.”

Xie Lian settled deeper into the cushion, watching Hua Cheng move effortlessly around the small kitchen space, hands skilled and sure. The warm scent of simmering herbs and fresh dough wrapped around him like a familiar blanket.

His thoughts drifted in that lazy, comfortable way they did when he was with Hua Cheng—soft, unhurried, like the slow folding of a quiet afternoon.

He found himself imagining something silly, almost absurd: a life of gentle routines and whispered domesticity.

Folding laundry, tidying up scraps, warming each other’s hands on chilly nights. The kind of small, ordinary love that felt so precious precisely because it was simple.

“Tell me” Xie Lian said suddenly, a teasing note in his voice, “who’s the housewife here? Me or you?”

Hua Cheng glanced over his shoulder, one brow quirked. “Is that even a question? I run the place. I’m definitely the housewife.”

Xie Lian smirked, shaking his head. “Oh please. I’m the one who organizes the scraps, cleans up your messes, and makes sure you don’t eat too much.”

Hua Cheng laughed softly, stepping closer with a teasing gleam in his eye. “I cook and brew the tea. If that’s not the ultimate housewife power move, I don’t know what is.”

“Fine” Xie Lian surrendered with a grin. “You’re the chef housewife. I’m the organiser housewife…we can switch whenever I do the cooking.”

Hua Cheng’s eye sparkled. “Housewife power couple then.”

Xie Lian laughed—clear, warm, the kind of laugh that feels like sunlight spilling into a quiet room.

“Agreed” he said, feeling lighter than he had all day. “Definitely agreed.”

Chapter Text

Xie Lian rested his chin on his knees, arms wrapped loosely around his shins as he watched the steam rise from the hearth. Everything felt soft. Safe. He could smell the broth now—light, fragrant, tinged with sweet ginger and fried shallot.

In the gentle clatter of chopsticks and the faint sizzle of oil, there was a kind of hush. Hua Cheng moved with care, humming under his breath.

It was enough to make Xie Lian smile.

He really knows how to cheer me up, Xie Lian thought, folding more into himself. Even when I don’t deserve it.

The laughter from before still tingled faintly on his lips. But beneath it… something else had begun to bloom. Quiet and cold.

He hadn’t meant to hurt Hua Cheng. Of course not. He would rather tear out his own heart than lay a finger against him. But he had. In sleep.

Without even knowing. That moment—his hands around that throat, that dear, unbreakable throat—kept returning to him in flashes. Like the afterimage of lightning in a dark room.

What if it happened again?

What if he closed his eyes tonight, curled up with Hua Cheng as always, and woke with red on his palms?

His smile faded slowly. He pressed his forehead to his knees, breathing in deep.

I should be punished for it.

The thought came gently. Almost soothing. I’ve done worse to myself for far less.

His fingers curled into the fabric of his robes. I don’t want to sleep. I shouldn’t be allowed to sleep.

He was just beginning to spiral deeper into that thought when—

“Gege?”

Xie Lian startled slightly, blinking.

Hua Cheng leaned out from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a cloth. “Do you want the gold-rimmed plates or the red-glazed ones? The gold matches the dumplings but the red makes you look radiant, so I’m torn.”

Xie Lian blinked again, his mind not quite catching up. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then said, “Whichever you like. I trust your judgement.”

Hua Cheng tilted his head, smiling. “That’s a dangerous thing to say to someone who’s considered serving food on your stomach.”

“San Lan” Xie Lian said, a little helpless, a little laughing despite himself.

“There it is.” Hua Cheng ducked back behind the screen. “I heard that smile.”

Xie Lian’s arms loosened from around his knees.

The dark tide inside him didn’t vanish, not completely. But it receded, just a little, into the soft warmth of that teasing voice.

He leaned his cheek against his knee, eyes half-lidded.

Just a little longer, he thought. I can hold myself together a little longer, for him.

They ate on the floor beside the hearth, plates laid neatly on the low table between them. The flicker of firelight danced along porcelain rims—Hua Cheng had, of course, chosen the red-glazed plates in the end, and Xie Lian could almost pretend it was just another ordinary night.

Dumplings steamed gently beside soft greens and golden-fried tofu. Hua Cheng offered seconds without asking. When Xie Lian was slow to reach for them, he nudged a bit onto his plate anyway.

Halfway through the meal, Hua Cheng spoke, tone casual. “I sent Yin Yu out earlier. Asked him to check for anything strange—incidents outside Ghost City, signs of curses, suggestions. Anything that might point to what’s going on with you.”

Xie Lian looked up, chopsticks stilling in his hand. “You… really?”

Hua Cheng gave him a look. “Of course. I know when something’s not right. And I know when someone’s messing with what’s mine.”

Xie Lian swallowed softly. He set his chopsticks down with care and murmured, “Thank you. Truly.”

Hua Cheng smiled. “You don’t need to thank me, gege. You just need to eat.”

So Xie Lian smiled back, obediently, and picked up his knife.

There was a soft root cake on the edge of his plate—crispy on the outside, warm and tender within—and the blade cut through the crust with a gentle pressure.

And then—

The world shifted.

He wasn’t sitting at a warm fire anymore. He wasn’t slicing anything gentle or edible or soft.

He was straddling Hua Cheng’s waist.

He could feel it—his weight, his legs braced on either side, Hua Cheng pinned beneath him with red eyes wide, startled—not afraid, but surprised.

And Xie Lian’s hands were moving—over and over and over again—driving a blade into Hua Cheng’s chest.

His face was blank. Cold. Calm. He watched blood blossom with each strike, splattering across porcelain skin and dark silk.

He felt the resistance of ribs. The slick warmth. The dull thud of metal hitting spirit.

And worst of all—he felt nothing.

Just the slow rhythm, like a task.

Over. And over. And over.

Back and forth.

“Oh gods—”

He jerked backward with a cry, the knife clattering to the floor. His chair tipped and he caught himself before falling, one hand braced on the ground, the other over his mouth.

His chest heaved. The food in his stomach twisted.

He was going to be sick.

“Gege—!”

Hua Cheng was up in an instant, kneeling beside him, hands hovering, not quite touching yet. “What is it? What happened?”

Xie Lian shook his head, squeezed his eyes shut.

The vision lingered behind his lids like ink spilled across silk. He could still feel the knife handle in his palm. Still feel the ghost of that sickening impact.

He turned and retched, just barely managing to keep it off the floor.

Hua Cheng’s hands caught his shoulders, held him steady without pushing too close. He said nothing at first—only rubbed gentle circles into his back, slow and patient.

When Xie Lian finally caught his breath, hands trembling, he rasped out, “I—I was killing you—”

“…Gege”

Xie Lian flinched.

“You don’t have to explain” Hua Cheng murmured. “I could see it in your eyes. You weren’t here anymore.”

Xie Lian’s throat burned.

“I didn’t want to—”

“I know” Hua Cheng said, more firmly now, and when Xie Lian looked up at last, he saw that unwavering certainty again.

“I know, gege. Its okay”

Xie Lian wiped his mouth, the back of his hand trembling slightly as he pulled it away. His head was still spinning, skin clammy, heart hammering far too loud in his chest.

“I’m going to clean up” he said softly, avoiding Hua Cheng’s gaze. “Just the bathroom. I’ll be back in a moment.”

“I’ll come with you” Hua Cheng said, already half-rising.

“No—” Xie Lian cut in too quickly. He softened it at once. “No, I’m fine now. Truly. It’s faded.”

He offered a small smile. Convincing, he hoped.

It hadn’t faded. Not even close.

Hua Cheng paused, eye narrowed, clearly not believing him—but after a moment’s study, he nodded. “Alright. I’ll be just here.”

Xie Lian nodded and stood, walking as steadily as he could down the short corridor and pushing open the polished wooden door. It closed behind him with a gentle click.

The moment it shut, the calm shattered.

He stood at the basin, gripping the edge until his knuckles whitened. The mirror above it caught his reflection—pale, drawn, a sheen of sweat across his brow.

But he didn’t look away. He stared into his own eyes, as if demanding something from himself. An answer. A reason. A punishment.

The knife had looked so pretty, he thought, sickly, embedded in San Lang’s chest like that.

The red spreading against black. The gleam of the blade slick with spirit blood. The way Hua Cheng had looked up at him with no fear. Like he expected it.

Stop.

He closed his eyes hard, shaking his head. No. No no no—stop it—

His breath hitched. He reached for the drawer under the basin, hands moving with cold purpose.

He opened it. Felt around. Found something sharp—a slender pin-knife he used sometimes for trimming loose threads or cutting stray knots in ribbon.

He rolled up his sleeve slowly. The skin of his forearm looked too clean.

One breath.

He pressed the edge of the blade gently to his skin.

Just enough.

Maybe a little pain, he thought, will bring me back. Just enough to remind me this isn’t real. I would never—

The blade trembled in his grip.

One breath.

He whispered it aloud: “Just enough.”

The edge kissed his skin in a single smooth draw.

A thin, clean line bloomed down the inside of his forearm—
pretty.

No—no, stop it—

But the thought flickered and passed like a candle flame. The blood welled up slowly, beading along the cut like red glass, glossy and bright.

One drop slipped free and trailed downward, catching the lamplight as it went.

Xie Lian stared at it.

And somewhere in the corners of his mind, a part of him whispered, pleased and hollow:
There. Now I’m pretty too.

He laughed—once. A breathless little sound that sounded far too much like a sob.

Then he swayed.

Everything felt off. His body too far away. Like his head had turned to mist and his limbs were dipped in syrup. Not from blood loss—not from this, certainly not—but from something deeper.

The buzzing under his skin had gone quiet, but only because it had dropped into a different register. Lower. Hungrier.

“Ugh…”

Xie Lian caught himself against the basin just in time. The cool porcelain steadied him. He dragged in a ragged breath, blinked fast to clear the haze.

A flick of his fingers summoned a burst of spiritual energy—cool, white-gold light sparking briefly through his palm. It flowed over the cut, knitting the skin closed as if nothing had ever happened.

Then again, he was good at that. Making things look like nothing ever happened.

He rinsed his arm in the basin and wiped away the blood with a cloth, slow and methodical. Careful not to leave a trace.

His face in the mirror hadn’t changed, but his eyes looked strange.
Too bright. Too wide.

He forced his breath to slow.

You can’t afford to fall apart now. He’s still outside. He’s trusting you.

And yet, the ghost of the voice still stirred in his mind.

There you go.
Good boy.
Now do it again.

Xie Lian turned off the tap, the water whispering to silence.

Then he left the bathroom, smiling faintly.
As if nothing had happened.

Xie Lian stepped back into the parlour with the same ease he always carried, graceful as ever, robes settled neatly, sleeves just a touch too long around the fingers.

The soft lamplight brushed over his features, casting gentle shadows, lending him that faint, ethereal air he’d always had. To a stranger, he might’ve looked serene. Composed.

But inside, he still felt... soft. Slippery.

Like his thoughts were a little misaligned from his body, and his smile didn’t quite reach all the places it used to. He felt light. Untethered. Floating just outside of himself.

And warm.

There was warmth everywhere in this room. Hua Cheng was the centre of it, sitting at the low table where their dinner had long since gone cold. He looked up the moment Xie Lian returned, and though he smiled—relief plain across his face—there was a faint crease between his brows.

“Gege” he said, standing. “You were gone half a sichen. I was just about to come check on you.”

“Half a…” Xie Lian blinked. “Really?”

It didn’t feel that long. It had been a blink. A breath. A lifetime. He wasn’t sure anymore.

Hua Cheng was already stepping closer. “Did something happen in there?”

“No” Xie Lian said too quickly. Then softer: “No, I just… needed a moment. Sorry, San Lang.”

Hua Cheng reached for his hand, looking down at it—no blood, no sign, just the cool press of his palm. “You sure?”

“Mhm.” Xie Lian smiled, lacing their fingers together. “Don’t worry so much.”

He squeezed Hua Cheng’s hand. The weight of his palm felt real, at least. Grounding. He wanted more of that.

He stepped closer, until they were chest to chest.

“Husband” Xie Lian murmured.

Hua Cheng’s eye twitched slightly. “Yes, gege?”

“You’re very pretty when you’re worried” Xie Lian said, voice soft and dreamy. “But it’s not good for you. You’ll wrinkle.”

Hua Cheng let out a quiet snort. “Then stop making me worry.”

Xie Lian leaned in and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Mmm… no. I like you like this.”

Then another kiss, on the edge of his jaw.

And another, just below his ear, where Hua Cheng always twitched a little, sensitive to touch.

“Gege…” Hua Cheng’s hands settled instinctively on Xie Lian’s waist. “What are you—?”

“Relaxing you” Xie Lian said, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “You work too hard.”

“I don’t think seducing me counts as proper stress relief” Hua Cheng said dryly, though his voice had gone warm, quiet.

“I think it does” Xie Lian murmured, nuzzling into his neck. “Who would know better than me?”

Hua Cheng tilted his head back slightly, letting out a helpless chuckle. “Okay. Stop. Just for a second.”

Xie Lian paused. His eyes blinked slowly, his smile still in place but thinner now.

“Gege” Hua Cheng said, pulling back enough to look at him properly. “Are you….”

There.
Just like that. He’s relaxing.
Get closer. Soften your voice. Kiss him again. Let him forget.

Xie Lian’s hands curled gently into Hua Cheng’s robes, fingers light against the crimson silk. He could feel his pulse in his mouth.

The echo of that soft voice, not Hua Cheng’s, never Hua Cheng’s, purring in the back of his mind like a hand stroking down his spine.

Look at him. He’s already halfway there. All that trust—such a waste. Use it. Sink into it.

He smiled faintly—just a touch too slow, a little too smooth. His gaze flicked down to Hua Cheng’s lips.

Then back up.

“You worry too much” Xie Lian murmured, voice light, almost teasing. “I’m just trying to enjoy the evening with my husband. Is that so strange?”

“Not strange” Hua Cheng said carefully, eye narrowing. “Just… different.”

Xie Lian leaned in and shut him up with another kiss—deeper this time, warmer. His hands slid up to cradle Hua Cheng’s face as he leaned forward, pressing their mouths together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Yes. That’s it. Let him melt. Let him want it. You’re so good at this.
He loves you. He won’t see it coming.

And then—fluid, seamless—Xie Lian shifted.

He rose to straddle Hua Cheng’s lap, robes folding around them like water, hands still on his cheeks as he kissed him again, slower now, lingering.

The weight of his body settled, and he could feel the faint hitch in Hua Cheng’s breath. The steady, subtle way he always hesitated when Xie Lian took the lead.

Hua Cheng pulled back slightly, breathless, red eye searching his face.

“Gege…” he said again. Not teasing this time. Not flustered.

Just worried. Steady.

“Are you okay?”

Xie Lian tilted his head again, that too-quiet smile lingering at the edges of his mouth.

“Aren’t I always?” he replied.

But it didn’t land the way it should have.

Hua Cheng’s hands had moved to his waist, not possessive now but careful. Bracing.

“No” Hua Cheng said. “Not like this.”

And Xie Lian stilled.

He stared down at him, unblinking. The lamplight caught the edge of his jaw, the line of his cheekbone, and there was something too pale in his face. Something hollow.

Too sharp to be soft.
Too soft to be sharp.

Inside his head, the voice purred again:
He’s suspicious. That’s no good.
So hush him. Smile. Keep him close.
Then sink the knife in.

And Xie Lian’s mouth twitched.

He leaned down once more, brushing his lips against Hua Cheng’s temple.

“Hush” he whispered. “It’s nothing. Just a long day.”

But the hands on his waist didn’t budge.

And the silence between them changed.

The voice coiled deeper into his head like warm silk wrapping around bone.

You’re doing so well.
He trusts you completely. Look at how close he’s let you come.
He’s soft. Loose. Just one little break in that pretty face and he’ll never expect it.
You’ll be safe again.

Xie Lian felt drowsy in a way that wasn’t tiredness—just muffled. Disconnected. It was easy, so easy, to let his fingers trace the back of Hua Cheng’s hand where it rested on his waist.

He drew lazy circles into the skin with his thumb. He leaned in again, nuzzling his nose against Hua Cheng’s cheek, then kissed the corner of his mouth, soft and warm and good.

It felt good to kiss him. Familiar. Safe.

But the voice whispered gently, That’s right. Comfort him. Make him drop his guard. Let him feel loved. Let him think it’s all alright. Then break him open.

He kissed again—longer this time, slower. Letting their lips brush, linger, meld like dusk melting into the first hush of night.

Hua Cheng's breath hitched faintly against his mouth, and that pleased something warm and wicked in Xie Lian's chest. The voice cooed its approval, brushing against the back of his mind like silk gloved fingers.

That’s it, petal. He trusts you. He always did. Always would. Such a fool.
You only need to lean in. Whisper something sweet. Then break him.
It would be so easy.

Xie Lian pulled back with a little pout, lashes lowering like he'd just woken from a dream. His arms slipped around Hua Cheng’s neck, loose and affectionate, fingers tracing the base of his hairline.

His expression was soft, childlike. Almost drowsy with sweetness.

“Why don’t you let me go?” he asked, voice honeyed, light as a drifting petal. “San Lang…”

There was no venom in the words. But underneath, there was something twisted and trembling. Something sickly sweet. Something not quite his.

Hua Cheng didn’t answer right away.

He stared.

Unmoving. Unwavering.

That single, blood-bright eye—unblinking—pierced into Xie Lian like the first light of truth after a long dark dream. It didn’t accuse. Didn’t flinch. It just held him there, silent and steady.

The same way it had looked at him on the palace steps, when the sky was falling.
The same way it had looked when Xie Lian threw everything away and turned back anyway.
The same way it had always looked at him: as if he were the most beloved thing in all of existence.

“I will” Hua Cheng said softly. “Once you’re back.”

The words dropped into the silence like a stone into still water.

And then—

He thinks you’re not yourself! How quaint!

The voice inside him howled, delighted, cruel.

How slow. He really is a fool, isn’t he?
He’ll never see it coming—

STAB NOW—

Xie Lian’s breath hitched.

But there was no weapon. No ceremonial knife tucked into his sleeve. No shard of silver hidden in his belt. He had nothing but his hands.

And before he even realised—before he could think—his fist curled.

And drove forward, hard, into Hua Cheng’s chest.

Right where a heart should have been.

The impact shuddered through the bones of his wrist—a dull thud against something that didn’t yield. Not flesh. Not spirit. Something in-between. But it wasn’t pain that met him. Not Hua Cheng's. Not even surprise.

There was no flinch. No recoil. No sound of hurt.

Hua Cheng didn’t even blink.

That steady, eternal gaze stayed locked on his face.

Not accusing. Not angry.

Just there.

Xie Lian blinked. His arm fell slack between them. His breath caught, and he pulled back slightly.

His head tilted, ever so slightly. His brows pinched, faint and confused.

Why…?

Why hadn’t it worked?

Why hadn’t Hua Cheng cried out, crumpled, bled, disappeared?

The voice reeled.

What—?
Why didn’t he—?
He should’ve—

And then it froze.

A beat.

Wait.
Wait, wait—he’s not—

Its a ghost!

Where are his ashes?

WHERE ARE HIS ASHES—

The scream in his mind was sharp, sudden, wrong. Like metal grinding against metal, like a song played backwards.

Xie Lian reeled, blinking fast, the voice shivering into static.

His heart began to thud wildly. His breath was sharp in his throat. His hands had started shaking again.

He looked up—and Hua Cheng had not moved. Still steady beneath him. Still holding his waist. Still his.

Gently—so gently—Hua Cheng reached up and placed a hand over Xie Lian’s trembling fist. His palm was warm. Real.

“Gege” he said, calm, low, solid. “You’re not the only one being lied to.”

And Xie Lian…

Xie Lian began to shake.

It hurt.

The voice wasn't speaking anymore—it was screaming. A raw, frenzied, unrelenting noise in his skull that scraped behind his eyes and carved into the softest parts of his mind.

It hurts it hurts it hurts—stop stop—

Xie Lian whimpered, a real sound breaking from his throat. He doubled over slightly, hands trembling, fingers twitching against Hua Cheng’s shoulders like they didn’t know where they were anymore. Like he didn’t know.

His body was moving again.

Not his choice. Not really. His muscles dragged along by some quiet order that wasn’t his own. Fingers crawling up. Up. Seeking.

Reaching—

—for the delicate silver chain around his neck.

The one that bore the ring.

The one Hua Cheng had given him.

The one he never took off.

Xie Lian’s gaze locked on it, wide-eyed and wet, his face gone grey with horror. His fingers were almost there. Almost curling around the tiny band where it nestled against the hollow of his throat.

The voice shrieked CRUSH IT.
CRUSH IT. CRUSH HIS HEART. DESTROY HIM.
YOU CAN END THIS. DO IT. DO IT—

“No” Xie Lian rasped. His voice was barely more than a croak. “No—no no no—please, stop—”

Tears slipped down his cheeks.

He looked so afraid.

And that—that—was what finally made Hua Cheng move.

In one swift motion, he caught Xie Lian’s wrists before his hands could close on the ring. Held them firmly. Not harsh. Not punishing. Just sure.

Then, without a word, he closed his eye.

And poured every ounce of his spiritual energy into Xie Lian.

Not a stream. Not a trickle.

Waves.

Massive, crashing waves of red-gold light, flooding through their palms, through their skin, their bones, their cores. Energy that trembled with devotion and fury and unwavering, endless love.

It poured into Xie Lian’s veins like fire.

It lit up every nerve in his body with a fierce warmth—scouring, purifying, burning away the rot that had been clawing up his spine. The voice thrashed in his skull—screaming, now panicked, now dying—

And then—
Silence.

Not emptiness. Not numbness. But quiet. Real, blessed quiet.

Xie Lian collapsed forward with a gasp, knees giving out, only kept upright by Hua Cheng’s arms wrapped tight around him.

He was crying openly now—wet and broken sobs that soaked into the collar of Hua Cheng’s robes as he clung to him like a man who had only just remembered what it meant to breathe.

“I’m sorry” he whispered, over and over again. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry—San Lang—I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—”

Hua Cheng held him tighter. One hand tangled into Xie Lian’s hair, the other wrapped firm around his waist, anchoring him.

“You’re alright” he murmured against Xie Lian’s temple. “I’ve got you. You’re here. I’ve got you.”

“I almost—” Xie Lian choked, his body wracked with hiccups. “I was going to—”

“You didn’t.” Hua Cheng’s voice was a low rumble. Absolute. “You didn’t. You fought it. You’re stronger than it. You’re stronger than anything.”

“But—”

“No.”

Hua Cheng leaned back just enough to look at him—cupping Xie Lian’s face in both hands. His thumb wiped gently at the tears streaking down his cheeks.

“I know you, gege” he said. “I know you. And I would burn through every heaven and hell a thousand times before I ever let something take you from me.”

Xie Lian’s lip trembled. He tried to speak, failed, and instead collapsed forward again, burying himself in Hua Cheng’s shoulder.

All he could do was hold on.

Hua Cheng rocked him gently, slow and steady, his arms a cradle of warmth and strength. Each movement matched the rhythm of a breath, in and out, like waves against a shore.

Xie Lian shook in his hold—thin, trembling tremors that hadn’t quite left even though the screaming had quietened, even though the voice had been driven back.

Chapter Text

The silence in Xie Lian’s head wasn’t full silence, either. Not really.

It had recoiled. That shrieking thing, whatever it was—it hadn’t been destroyed, just drowned beneath the sheer weight of Hua Cheng’s spiritual energy. Drowned, but not dead. Not yet.

It coiled now in some crevice of him, quiet and bitter, whispering, festering. Waiting.

Hua Cheng could feel it.

His eye narrowed faintly as he held Xie Lian tighter, pressing his mouth briefly to his crown. The tenderness of the gesture didn’t soften the storm brewing behind his calm expression.

So. A flood of spiritual energy had shut the damned thing up—for now.
But it hadn’t gone.
It was just waiting for an opening.

Yin Yu had better hurry the hell up.

He exhaled quietly, stroking a soothing hand down Xie Lian’s back. The crown prince had tucked his face into Hua Cheng’s shoulder like he was trying to disappear into him entirely, like if he just curled close enough, none of it could find him again.

“Gege…” Hua Cheng whispered, voice low. “What happened? Hm? Did you fall asleep in the bathroom, and that thing took over again?”

He felt Xie Lian tense. His breath hitched. But he didn’t speak.

He just… shook his head, once. Then buried it deeper into Hua Cheng’s neck.

“Okay” Hua Cheng murmured. He kissed his temple. “Okay. I won’t push”

He drew back just enough to look him over.

Xie Lian was pale. His lashes were damp. His robes slightly askew from their struggle, his hair tangled where Hua Cheng’s fingers had carded through it. He looked exhausted. Frayed at every edge.

A sigh.

“Alright” Hua Cheng said, trying to inject a hint of lightness into his voice. “I think a bath is in order, don’t you? Something warm. Soothing.”

Xie Lian didn’t respond, but didn’t protest either.

Hua Cheng took that as permission.

He rose with ease, scooping Xie Lian up into his arms without any effort at all. Xie Lian didn’t even flinch. He just curled against Hua Cheng’s chest, limp, compliant, silent.

Hua Cheng carried him down the hallway, past the lanterns glowing low against the walls, back into the bath chamber.

The room was dark, save for a soft flickering glow from a floating candle in a glass orb by the ceiling. The bath—a wide square basin sunk into the tiled floor—waited cool and still.

Hua Cheng laid Xie Lian down gently on the warm floor tiles beside it, propped against a cushion.

Then he turned to the knobs to start filling the bath, adjusting the temperature with deft movements, steam already beginning to rise into the quiet air.

Then he turned toward the basin to collect a towel—

And stopped.

Still on the lip of the basin, where the water had been running earlier. Something slim and metal.

A small pin-knife.

Its edge faintly stained.

Red. Dried. Rusted in places, but unmistakably blood.

Hua Cheng froze.

For a moment, everything was still. The rising water. The flickering light. The hush of steam curling into the air.

Then his hand clenched around the basin’s edge.

“Oh…” he murmured. Voice too soft. Too even.

His chest twisted painfully.

“Oh, gege.”

He turned, slowly, and looked back at the figure slumped quietly beside the bath.

Xie Lian sat where he’d been left, knees drawn up, eyes distant, gazing somewhere unfocused across the room. Small and quiet and cold-looking despite all of Hua Cheng’s efforts.

You hurt yourself, Hua Cheng thought. You were so scared of hurting me that you hurt yourself instead.

He looked down at the little knife again. The dried line of blood. The neatness of it. Not frantic. Not desperate. A controlled act. Measured.

And that made it so much worse.

“Fuck” Hua Cheng whispered, almost to himself.

He knelt beside Xie Lian again, gentle but firm, pressing his forehead briefly to his. His hands trembled now—not with fear, but with fury. Quiet fury. Not at Xie Lian. Never at him.

At whatever had done this. At whatever was inside him. At whoever had planted this thing in his mind.

It would pay.

Hua Cheng stayed kneeling beside him for a long moment, just watching his beloved breathe.

Xie Lian’s chest rose and fell so slowly it could almost be missed, his eyes low-lidded and unfocused, lips slightly parted like a doll left sitting too long in the sun.

There was no tension in his limbs, no resistance—but that worried Hua Cheng more than a fight would have. This wasn’t peace. This was… exhaustion. Detachment. Like someone drifting just beneath the surface of themselves.

“Okay” Hua Cheng whispered. His voice cracked around the edges, soft with the ache of too much love. “Okay, gege.”

He leaned forward and kissed his brow. Cool. Too cool.

Then, with quiet efficiency, he began to undress them both.

Xie Lian didn’t protest as Hua Cheng guided his arms from his robes, didn’t stir as he worked the knots loose, only blinked once or twice in hazy confusion.

Hua Cheng whispered reassurances the whole time—“Just a bath” and “You’ll feel better” and “Let me take care of you”—words meant to soothe, even if they barely seemed to reach him.

When the steam was thick enough to warm the tiled air and the water lapped gently at the basin’s edge, Hua Cheng stepped into the bath first, settling with a low exhale, then reached back and drew Xie Lian into his arms.

There was no resistance. Only a soft, unsteady sound as Xie Lian folded against him like cloth.

“There we go” Hua Cheng murmured, wrapping his arms around his waist and guiding him down until they were both sunk to the collarbones, knees brushing beneath the surface. “Much better, right? This is your favourite.”

He reached for the little dish of peach blossom, pouring a few drops into his palm. The soft floral scent curled through the air—familiar, comforting.

The same one Xie Lian always chose when he was in a good mood. When he was humming and dancing and piling bubbles on Hua Cheng’s head with a triumphant little laugh.

Now he sat still.

Hua Cheng didn’t let it show how much that broke his heart.

He began washing Xie Lian gently—shoulders first, then arms, fingers through soaked black hair. He massaged the shampoo in carefully, listening to the soft clicks of water against tile, talking as if nothing were wrong.

“You always say the peach one makes your hair softer, but I think it’s just because you like how it smells. Not that I blame you. You could probably get away with mud and I’d still think you smelled divine.”

A pause.

“You’d say ‘That’s not very princely, San Lang’ but then you’d smile because you’d secretly find it sweet. Don’t deny it, gege. I know you.”

He smiled faintly. Reached for the pitcher. Rinsed the soap from Xie Lian’s hair.

The conversation went on, one-sided but familiar, soft and natural like they were back in a gentler time. Hua Cheng never once let his voice betray the tight coil of rage still pulsing in his chest—the quiet scream of someone hurt him, someone made him do this, the memory of that knife, that blood, that look on Xie Lian’s face when his hand hovered over the ring.

Not yet.

He’d bring it up when Xie Lian was stronger. Not now. Not while he still looked like a shadow of himself, barely clinging to the warmth of the water.

After they soaked for a while longer, Hua Cheng coaxed him out, wrapped him in the softest towel, dried him gently. Like a child. Like a beloved thing.

He dressed Xie Lian in fresh robes, carried him back to their bed, and laid him down with a kiss to the crown of his head.

“I’ll be here when you wake” he whispered.

And he was.

But—

------

In the dark—

Xie Lian was drowning.

There was no water, but it felt like suffocating. Thick, velvet blackness dragged at the edges of his mind, stretching out like ink in milk.

No sound. No light. Just pressure. The weight of emotion that didn’t have names, couldn’t be sorted. Guilt. Terror. Emptiness. Something unclean inside him, slithering through the cracks of his soul.

He tried to move. Tried to breathe.

But he couldn’t find his body.

Couldn’t find himself.

Somewhere in that endless dark, something stirred. A blurry shape, formless, cloaked in whispers and silk.

A voice that slipped through the gloom like a caress:

Sweet one… there you are. You always come back to me, don’t you? So obedient. So loyal.

Xie Lian didn’t answer.

You’re tired. I know. You’ve done so well. But don’t you see how easy it could be, if you’d just let go? If you let me carry the rest of the burden? You wouldn’t have to feel like this. You wouldn’t have to keep punishing yourself.

Still, silence.

The shape pulsed, flickered with displeasure.

Ignoring me again?
How ungrateful.
After everything I’ve done for you.
Do you really think he can keep you safe? He’s only delaying the inevitable.

Xie Lian’s breathing—wherever it was—shuddered. Not in agreement. Not in fear.

But something else.

And for the first time, he spoke.

“Leave me alone.”

The darkness rippled with surprise.

Xie Lian couldn’t open his eyes. But somewhere, something solid began to form beneath his feet. A weight. A warmth. A tether.

And though the dark still pressed close, it no longer felt endless.

Because something was still there.

Something waiting for him.

Something that had said, I’ll be here when you wake.

Xie Lian drifted.

Weightless in the dark, untethered from his limbs, from sound, from breath. Just a thought inside a body he couldn’t reach. The stillness should’ve been peace, but it wasn’t. It was drenched in shame.

He had tried to kill Hua Cheng.

Even if it hadn’t worked—even if it couldn’t—he had tried.

He had wanted to. Even if just for a second. That second lived inside him now like a worm.

A bitter disappointment unfurled in his chest. Deep, clawing, heavier than all the crowns he’d ever worn.

What was wrong with him?

How could he—

“Poor little thing” came the voice, smooth and coiling, draped in the false silk of sympathy. “Still crying? Still aching for that ghost? You really are pathetic. I’ve been trying so hard to help.”

Xie Lian flinched inside himself. That voice again. That thing again.

He hadn’t forgotten.

He didn’t speak. Not right away. He let the thing talk. Let it brag.

“You wouldn’t believe what I’ve kept you from doing. All those tiny thoughts you never knew you had, all those impulses—so much cleaner to let me guide you, don’t you think?”

The darkness pulsed like it was smiling.

You’re filth, he thought. You don’t know him. You don’t know me.

But when he finally spoke, his voice was low. Careful. Curious.

“What are you?”

A pause.

Then a delighted little laugh. “What am I? Oh, darling. You know. You knew from the moment you let me in.”

Xie Lian’s pulse stuttered. “Why are you here?”

Another beat. A drag of breath from something that didn’t need to breathe.

“You called me here.”

“No, I didn’t” he said, sharper now. “I never would’ve—why would I—”

“You wanted me” it purred. But there was something new in its tone. Not triumph. Not gloating. A flicker of… confusion.

“You wanted help. Protection. Power. You let me in.”

Xie Lian felt something shift.

No—no, that couldn’t be true. He’d never made a pact. He would never—

Would he?

The blackness shimmered around the edges. His stomach turned.

The missing time.

The blank space after the riverbank.

He had woken up with no memory of what had happened. Just that sudden emptiness. That yawning gap like something had been ripped out of place and stitched over.

“...What are you?” he asked again. But this time his voice was quieter. Sharper. Steadier.

The thing didn’t answer immediately.

Then, slowly, almost uncertainly, it said:
“...I don’t remember.”

That chilled him more than any threat.

“I—I just know I’m here because of you.”
“You opened the door.”
“You wanted me.”

“Why would I want a parasite?” Xie Lian whispered.

The word came to him like a hot iron pressed to flesh.

Parasite.

That’s what this was. Not a curse. Not a voice. Not a god.

An infection.

Something feeding on his spirit. Something infesting him.

He staggered inside himself, mind reeling. He saw it now—how the voice twisted him, how it dripped into his every doubt. A deal. Some deal must have been made in that missing stretch of time. In his weakest moment.

When had he agreed?
Why would he have—?

He grit his teeth.

It didn’t matter. He was infested. And a parasite only lived if its host allowed it to.

Somewhere in the dark, the voice clicked its tongue.

“You’re being ungrateful, i need you, you need me” it said, but now it sounded—tense. Slippery.

Xie Lian straightened, or thought he did.

For the first time, the weight pressing on him didn’t feel like water. It felt like resistance. Something he could push against.

His chest was burning with spiritual energy again—distant but rising. The warmth of a red thread pulsing, stretching, calling him home.

And the voice—
The voice flinched.

Chapter Text

The warmth receded.

Just a little.

Xie Lian floated there in the dark again—tethered by nothing, weightless and still, as if his soul had curled in on itself like a dying star.

The voice had quietened.

But not gone.

Its vague, slippery shape drifted nearby like a half-forgotten shadow. No eyes. No face. Just a smear of suggestion—almost physical, almost real, like smoke given hunger. It didn’t speak, but he could feel it sulking.

Xie Lian sighed.

The shame came back in slow, dragging waves.

He remembered Hua Cheng’s eye, wide with worry. His voice, low and gentle. You’re not the only one being lied to.
His warmth. His unwavering patience.
The way he rocked him, held him through it. Bathed him. Kissed his hair.
The way he never let go, even when—

“I must have worried him out of his mind” Xie Lian murmured.

He curled tighter in the dark, wrapping phantom arms around phantom knees.

It was all so ugly.

How many times had he hurt him now? Not even with swords or fists—but with fear? With the silence? With not saying the truth fast enough? With that look in his eyes when he moved to hurt him?

Hua Cheng had held his hands and still kissed his face.

“I’m a horrible—” he started, then cut himself off.

What was the point?

The words were flat. Everything felt flat. Distant. His emotions wobbled like they were seen through a wall of water, dull and heavy.

He sighed again, deeper this time, and dropped his head back into the weightless dark.

The voice stirred.

A vague hum of interest.
“Done feeling brave, little prince?”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t even blink. If he had a body here, it didn’t feel like his anymore.

“Good” the thing drawled. “Now you can stop pretending and let me do what you wanted in the first place.”

That snagged at something inside him. A flicker of irritation. Not rage—not like before. Just the galling fact of its existence. It hovered too close, oily and smug.

And before he could stop himself, he kicked it.

It was barely more than a flick of his soul, a motion of frustration—like swatting away a mosquito.

His foot passed through it, sort of. Met resistance and no resistance at once, like trying to kick mist with bones inside.

And immediately—

THROB.

“Ah—!”

Pain spiked through his temple like a spike of ice, sudden and bright and nauseating. A deep pressure behind the eyes, a ringing in his ears. He recoiled, clutched at his head—not that there was much to grab onto here.

The voice cackled.

“Aha—ow—! Fuck. Don’t do that again unless you’re prepared to bleed out of your nose.”

“Noted” Xie Lian muttered through clenched teeth, grimacing.

His head pounded.

The thing drifted a little further off, smug again.

“I’m bonded to you, sweetie. Hurt me, hurt yourself. That’s how it works. You made the rules.”

“I didn’t make anything” Xie Lian hissed.

But it had him thinking again—if it was reacting like that, then there was a link. And maybe…

Maybe there was a way to undo it.

Even if it cost him.
Even if he had to bleed for it.

If he could just remember what happened in that missing time—what he had done.

He blinked into the dark.

Waiting for a thread to follow.

Xie Lian sighed quietly into the dark.

He couldn’t feel his lungs here, or the weight of his body, or the pull of gravity. But the sigh left him all the same—a weariness pressed too deep into his bones, even in a place without bones.

He was tired.

Too tired to cry again. Too tired to argue.
And definitely too tired to keep floating around in this purgatory with that thing slinking nearby like an uninvited cat scratching at the door of his soul.

So he decided to sleep. Or… whatever passed for sleep here.

Maybe that would be enough to wake him up.
To bring him back to San Lang.
To realness.

He curled inward, closed his eyes—not that there was any light—and willed himself into stillness.

Of course, that’s when the thing started talking again.

“Wait—wait, wait, wait, wait, don’t go” it said in a rush, like it suddenly cared very much. “I can show you something. Something you want.”

Xie Lian didn’t respond. Just breathed.

The thing edged closer. He could feel its awareness sliding against him like slime against glass.

“A memory. The missing one” it coaxed. “The gap you keep worrying about. I can open it for you. You’ll see it. You’ll understand everything.”

Xie Lian cracked one eye open. Or at least, the sense of it.

“…You can do that?” he asked warily.

“Of course I can.” It sounded smug again. Eager. “I was there, remember? You let me in. I know what happened.”

He hesitated. He wanted that. Gods, he wanted it. The gap in his memory was like a wound that wouldn’t close—he needed to know what had happened, how this had started, what he’d done or agreed to.

But something in the thing’s tone was off.

“...What’s the catch?” he asked flatly.

“Oh, nothing.”
A beat. Then:
“Well. One thing.”

Of course.

Xie Lian waited.

The voice clicked its invisible tongue.

“You show me you’re serious. Just a little thing. Take care of the ghost for me. That’s all.”

There it was.

There it always was.

Xie Lian didn’t even flinch. He was too exhausted for it. He just turned—spiritually, mentally, somehow—and rolled further into the darkness, away from the voice’s presence.

“Nope” he muttered.

“Wait! Wait! Don’t you want to know? Don’t you want the truth?!”

“No thanks” he said breezily. “You ruined the mood. Goodnight.”

The voice howled—wordless, furious—and reached for him again with something cold and clawed—

But he slipped past it, down, deeper, folding inward.

Into silence.

Into rest.

Into waking.

------

Xie Lian woke gently, as if surfacing through soft water.

The world was warm, quiet, slow. His breath stirred against fabric—someone’s shirt. A hand rested low on his waist, fingers curled against the curve of his side, and another arm draped over his chest like a sash. A heartbeat hummed behind him, steady and reassuring.

San Lang.

Relief flooded through him before his mind had even finished forming the thought. He turned slightly, just enough to press his cheek against Hua Cheng’s collarbone.

He could feel the rise and fall of the other’s breathing though fake—peaceful, calm. It wrapped around him like a net of safety.

He didn’t realise he’d been holding his breath until Hua Cheng stirred behind him.

“Gege…” came the low, sleepy murmur. Then, faster, more awake, “Gege?”

Xie Lian turned further into him. “Mm. I’m here.”

Hua Cheng was up in an instant, pulling back just enough to see his face.

“You're awake” he whispered, like he didn’t dare believe it. And then, almost immediately, he surged forward to kiss him—forehead, cheek, nose, mouth. “Your highness—Dianxia, Beloved—”

Xie Lian laughed a little, tired and hoarse, and kissed him back. “San Lang…”

“You scared me” Hua Cheng breathed. “You scared me half to death, gege. I thought—” He couldn’t finish. His arms wrapped around Xie Lian tighter, fiercely protective.

“I’m sorry” Xie Lian murmured. He closed his eyes. “I didn’t mean to… I just…”

He trailed off, unsure how to say it. But Hua Cheng didn’t push—he waited, patient and warm, as always.

Xie Lian swallowed. “I think I know why it took over again. Last night.”

Hua Cheng’s brow furrowed but he didn’t speak.

Xie Lian turned in his arms until they were face to face. “When I came out of the bathroom yesterday… when I was being, ah, bold. Teasing.” He flushed faintly.

“It wasn’t really me. Not completely.”

Hua Cheng gave him a soft look, brushing his fingers through Xie Lian’s hair. “I know, I figured it out pretty quickly...”

“I was feeling down before that” Xie Lian admitted. “Not for any specific reason. It was just… a heavy feeling. But I… I  used a blade.”

He felt Hua Cheng flinch. Not obviously, but he was holding Xie Lian too closely not to feel it.

“I didn’t go deep” he added quickly. “Just my forearm. I just… needed to feel something that wasn’t that.”

He lifted his arm slightly, showing the faint wrapping Hua Cheng must have done while he was unconscious, though it was already healed... The bandage was light but careful.

“When the blood came” he continued, more slowly, “that’s when I started feeling… strange. Softer. Floaty. Not me.”

Hua Cheng was quiet, but his hand tightened slightly on Xie Lian’s hip.

Xie Lian looked down, ashamed. “I think… it might've been triggered by blood. Or maybe pain. Or maybe both.”

“I’ll kill it” Hua Cheng whispered, eyes dark and furious. “I swear I’ll destroy it. Nothing that hurts you gets to live.”

Xie Lian placed a hand gently over his. “It didn’t know you were a ghost” he said. “At first. I think that’s why it didn’t try anything serious right away. But just before I fell asleep… it realised. And it tried to use me to grab your ring.”

Hua Cheng froze.

Xie Lian sat up slightly and reached for the silver ring at his neck. He took it carefully—hands trembling just a little—and cradled the ring in both palms.

He looked at it, then at Hua Cheng. “I… I think I should give this back to you.”

“What?” Hua Cheng said, voice suddenly sharp.

“I don’t want to risk hurting you. If it ever takes control again—”

“No” Hua Cheng said firmly. “No. Absolutely not.” He cupped Xie Lian’s hands and closed them around the ring. “That’s yours, gege. It always has been. If you’re not wearing it, it might think it’s already won. I don’t want that.”

Xie Lian’s eyes welled up. “But what if I—”

“You won’t.”

The finality in Hua Cheng’s voice was absolute.

Xie Lian nodded slowly and retied the ring around his wrist with careful fingers. Hua Cheng helped him, thumbs brushing gently over his knuckles.

Then, softly, Hua Cheng said, “Gege… why did you feel like you had to hurt yourself?”

Xie Lian looked down. The question wasn’t harsh. It wasn’t demanding. It was kind. But it still hurt to answer.

“I don’t know” he said truthfully. “I think… I felt like I was failing you.”

Hua Cheng’s expression shattered in an instant. “What—”

“You’re always looking after me” Xie Lian continued, voice small. “Always taking care of everything. You know when to help, when to hold me, when to fix things. And I—”

He shook his head. “Sometimes I just feel like I can’t do anything back. Like I’m only ever… a burden.”

“You’re not” Hua Cheng said instantly, voice shaking. “You’re not. You are everything. I’d give up everything else for you.”

“I know you would” Xie Lian whispered. “That’s what scares me.”

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Hua Cheng’s chest. “I’m trying. I just… sometimes it’s too loud in my head.”

Hua Cheng wrapped him up again, no more words, only warmth.

Neither of them moved for a long, long time.

Xie Lian wanted to end it there. Leave it tucked into the silence like a letter you never send. But the pressure in his chest hadn’t lessened, and Hua Cheng was still holding him like he might disappear if he didn’t.

So, he tried to shift the air.

“A-ah, it’s silly, isn’t it?” Xie Lian said with a faint, lopsided smile, trying to lighten the mood, even if just a little. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now. I’m alright. You’re alright. Let’s—let’s not dwell…”

But Hua Cheng didn’t answer. He only buried his face against Xie Lian’s shoulder, pulling him in tighter still, like Xie Lian’s words were smoke that would blow away with the next breath.

“I mean it” Xie Lian added, patting his husband’s back, trying to reassure both of them. “It’s alright now.”

That was when it hit him.

“Oh—!” Xie Lian suddenly pulled back with wide eyes. “That dream. I nearly forgot—!”

Hua Cheng blinked, startled. “What?”

“The voice” Xie Lian said quickly. “The thing that took over me. It was talking to me. Pestering me. While I was unconscious—it didn’t want me to leave. It wanted me to stay, it kept saying things like it could show me memories, like it wanted to keep me there.”

Hua Cheng's expression tightened. “That sounds like manipulation.”

“Exactly” Xie Lian said. “But that’s not all. It didn’t want me to sleep. That’s how I woke up, actually. It was trying to distract me so I wouldn’t leave. It said—‘don’t go, I’ll show you something, anything.’”

He paused, breath catching. “It said… ‘I need you.’”

The words still rang in his head, eerie in their mimicry of desperation. But there had been nothing behind them. No soul. Just hunger.

Hua Cheng's voice dropped low. “And?”

Xie Lian frowned thoughtfully. “And I asked it what the catch was. And it started to say—‘kill,’ I think. But I didn’t let it finish. I shut it out and left.”

His gaze met Hua Cheng’s. “But doesn’t that narrow things down? Something that can enter a body, but doesn’t fully understand it. That feeds on… blood, or pain - something related to that at least. That doesn’t even recognise ghosts. That talks like that. I think…”

He trailed off, then said, slowly, “I think it’s a parasite.”

Hua Cheng stared at him.

Xie Lian nodded, more sure now. “Not just any possession. Something invasive. Something that lives inside. Like a fungus in the mind. Like a worm.” He shivered faintly.

Hua Cheng sat up, deadly serious now, crimson eye glinting like a blade catching the light. “That helps. That really helps. We can track that.”

Xie Lian gave a shaky smile. “See? Not a total loss, right?”

But Hua Cheng didn’t answer. Instead, he moved close again, sliding his hand behind Xie Lian’s nape and bringing their foreheads together.

“You scared me,” Hua Cheng whispered again. “You scared me half to death, gege. I thought—”

His voice broke. Just for a moment.

“I’m sorry” Xie Lian murmured, shutting his eyes. “I didn’t mean to…”

“You don’t have to apologise” Hua Cheng said fiercely. “Not for being hurt. Not for needing help. Never.”

Xie Lian’s throat tightened.

He remembered the dark. The numbness. The way it had tried to coax him with empty sweetness. If Hua Cheng hadn’t been there—if he hadn’t heard his voice—

He shuddered, just once, and let it pass.

Then, very softly, he said, “I’m glad I woke up. I’m glad it was you.”

Hua Cheng’s hand slid down his back, settling over his heart. “It will always be me.”

Xie Lian let his weight rest entirely against him, eyes fluttering shut.

“…Just a little longer like this.”

“Forever, if you want.”

"En i'd like that…but then my mind might turn to soup" Xie lian whispered.

"Gege.." Hua Cheng whined, burrowing into the others hair.

Xie Lian tried not to smile "Sorry…i'll be quiet now…"

And maybe later they’d talk more. Maybe they'd plan next steps, investigate the nature of the parasite, figure out who might’ve planted it. There were still questions—how it got in, how long it had been there, and how to safely remove it.

But for now, there was warmth.

For now, there was Hua Cheng.

—

Hua Cheng didn’t let go for a long time. He held Xie Lian like something precious and frayed, kissed his hair like it would bind the loose threads back into place. Xie Lian let himself be held. Let himself be still. It was quiet in his mind for once—like Hua Cheng’s arms built walls against the noise.

Eventually, Hua Cheng shifted a little and spoke, his voice a soft hum in Xie Lian’s ear.

“…What if you wore a blindfold, gege?”

Xie Lian blinked. “A… blindfold?”

“Mmm.” Hua Cheng drew slow circles against his back with his thumb. “If this parasite shows you things, maybe it needs your eyes. If you can’t see, maybe it can’t reach you the same way.”

Xie Lian went still, frowning faintly as he thought it through.

“That would mean… not being able to see you” he murmured. His voice was quiet, but the grief in it was clear.

Hua Cheng smiled and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. “You already know what I look like, don’t you?”

“That’s not the point” Xie Lian said, his mouth tugging upward slightly. “You’re very nice to look at. I’d miss that.”

“Oh?” Hua Cheng grinned, leaning in just a little. “Would you miss it more than your sanity, Your Highness?”

“…Possibly.”

“Would you miss it more than seeing me trying not to crawl in through a window because you tried to flirt me into a wall and then decked yourself in the chest?”

Xie Lian flushed scarlet and tried to sink into the blankets. “That wasn’t—! I didn’t—!”

Hua Cheng’s grin widened. “I had bruises, gege.”

“I said I was sorry!”

“You tried to seduce me and kill me in one night. Honestly, I’m a little impressed.”

Xie Lian groaned and hid his face. Hua Cheng laughed softly and kissed the top of his head.

“I’m teasing” he murmured. “But I am serious. It might help. And I’ll be here the whole time. I’ll talk to you, guide you. Touch you as much as you want.”

His hand slid down Xie Lian’s back to rest at his waist. His tone was gentle but suggestive—just enough to coax a splutter out of Xie Lian.

“That’s not—! I didn’t mean—!”

“I’ll hold your hand” Hua Cheng said with mock innocence. “Stroke your face. Maybe kiss you here—” He kissed the corner of Xie Lian’s mouth. “And here—” His lips brushed over his temple. “And, if you’re very good, maybe even—”

“Hua Cheng!”

The laughter bubbled between them, light and real. Xie Lian buried his face in Hua Cheng’s shoulder, mortified but smiling. It felt… normal. Even now. Even after everything. Hua Cheng always knew how to draw him back.

“…I’ll try it” Xie Lian said finally. “If it keeps you safe, and keeps me me. I’ll try it.”

Hua Cheng pulled back just enough to look at him, serious now. “Are you sure?”

“No” Xie Lian admitted. “But I trust you.”

That trust settled between them like something sacred. Hua Cheng nodded once, and the look he gave Xie Lian was almost reverent.

“I’ll find something soft” he said. “Nothing uncomfortable. And if you ever want it off, it’s off. You say the word and I’ll rip it in half.”

Xie Lian nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “All right.”

They stayed like that for a while longer, curled close, legs tangled under the blankets. The world outside felt distant. For now, there was only warmth, and breath, and the promise of touch even without sight.

Eventually, Xie Lian murmured, “You won’t… disappear while I can’t see you, will you?”

Hua Cheng’s answer was immediate, a whisper against his skin: “Never.”

Xie Lian believed him. Even in the dark, he would know Hua Cheng’s hands. His voice. His love. He would know.

They tried a few fabrics. Hua Cheng brought them with care—velvet, cotton, even a strip of gauze that still smelled faintly of incense from some temple long fallen into ruin.

But it was the silk that felt best against Xie Lian’s skin, smooth and light, like wind made tangible.

"Too pretty for a blindfold" Hua Cheng had said, running it between his fingers with a smile, "but then again, so is gege."

Xie Lian rolled his eyes—at least, before the blindfold was tied—and endured the teasing with pink cheeks. When Hua Cheng knotted the silk behind his head, Xie Lian stilled, heart a little faster than before.

The darkness was different this time. Not unconsciousness. Not sleep. Just… willingly stepping into the quiet.

He could still smell the room. Could hear Hua Cheng’s breathing. But the loss of sight made everything feel further. Untethered. A little too much like the void from before.

That was when something landed on his shoulder with a chirp. Then soft fabric nudged insistently against his cheek.

“Rouye?” he asked, reaching up blindly.

The silk slipped loose.

The band chirruped, then tugged the blindfold down completely and circled around it, flicking its ends with judgment.

“It's upset” Xie Lian said, half-laughing, half-apologetic.

Hua Cheng raised a brow. “Jealous?”

Another chirp. This time higher-pitched. Sharp. Rouye was not to be ignored.

“it wants to help” Xie Lian translated, gently patting the bundle of fur. “Or just doesn’t trust the silk.”

The next time, they didn’t use the fabric. Instead, Rouye curled up around Xie Lian’s eyes itself, flicking its end as if it were the one best suited to shield its master’s sight from the horrors of spiritual invasion.

Hua Cheng leaned in and chuckled. “So now you’re blindfolded by a spiritual weapon with attachment issues.”

“Rouye's just protective” Xie Lian murmured, smiling faintly. “Its always been good to me.”

“Well, they better share.”

And Hua Cheng took his hand.

Xie Lian’s breath hitched. He wasn’t sure if he expected the touch to startle him—or if the dark would make everything louder. But Hua Cheng’s palm was warm. Strong. And entirely, deeply familiar. No illusions. No static. Just him.

With nothing to see, he focused on the lines.

The shape of Hua Cheng’s fingers. The small roughness near the base of his thumb. The gentle curve of his nails, always clean, always neat. The pads of his fingertips, soft despite all the lives they had taken.

He mapped them slowly. Over and over. From wrist to knuckle to fingertip, then again, palm to heel. Sometimes he pressed their hands together and marvelled at the difference in size. Sometimes he turned Hua Cheng’s hand over and kissed the back of it.

It became meditation.

“I like this” he whispered once.

Hua Cheng smiled against his hair. “I like you like this.”

The blindfold hummed—Rouye’s purring vibrating faintly in the bones of Xie Lian’s face. He felt peaceful. Tethered. He could do this.

Then came the buzzing.

It started quiet. Low. Like a wasp trapped in the walls. A flicker just under his skin.

He twitched.

“Gege?” Hua Cheng asked.

But Xie Lian had already gone rigid. His hand still lay in Hua Cheng’s, but suddenly it felt wrong. Wrong, wrong, like something had split in half and rotted down the middle.

He could feel the hands now—other hands.

Twisted. Mangled. Half-gone, the skin melted, ligaments torn and rearranged like broken spider legs. Nails bent back, fingers that shouldn’t bend that way, grasping at his face, his chest—

He screamed.

Rouye shrieked.

The pressure around his eyes vanished. It twirled from his shoulders with a furious, scrabbling.

Xie Lian clutched at his head. He could see again, thank the heavens—blurry and wild, but Hua Cheng was there, holding his arms, calling his name—

“Gege! Gege, I’m here—it’s me—! You’re safe—!”

Xie Lian gasped in air like it was light.

The world swam.

“S-San lang—!” he choked out, shaking, “No—n-not blind—please—I c-can’t—!”

“Shh” Hua Cheng whispered, cupping his face. “It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you. No blindfold. Never again, if you don’t want it.”

He pulled Xie Lian to his chest, curling around him like he could shield him from the world itself. Xie Lian buried his face there and breathed him in—blood, sandalwood, home.

It took a long time to settle.

But eventually, with Rouye pacing protectively at the foot of the bed and Hua Cheng whispering soothing nonsense into his ear, the shadows fell back.

Xie Lian closed his eyes—not blind, just resting—and gripped Hua Cheng’s sleeve like a lifeline.

“…It’s worse” he whispered. “It’s worse when I can’t see you.”

“I know, gege” Hua Cheng said. “I know.”

And he didn’t suggest the blindfold again.