Work Text:
The Qing Jing training field was far too quiet for such a bright morning. The disciples, usually scattered, stood in orderly lines as if watching a formal demonstration. And in a way, they were.
Shen Qingqiu spun his sword with renewed fluidity. His Qi was steady, though still cautious, like someone who knew his own limits and skirted them with wisdom and elegance. In front of him, Shang Qinghua tried to keep up. His movements were improvised but effective, the sheath serving as a shield and his steps quick, almost calculatedly clumsy.
Shang Qinghua was good at dodging and sidestepping, but he made many mistakes when he tried to spin the sword.
What irritated Liu Qingge the most, however, was the sound.
They were laughing.
Shen Qingqiu laughed quietly, discreet enough that the disciples would not notice, his eyes half-lidded with amusement.
Shang Qinghua let out little exaggerated exclamations whenever he almost missed the timing of a strike, like some ordinary novice and not a peak lord. The whole scene looked like an inside joke between two very close friends, too close.
They had grown close in the blink of an eye, and Liu Qingge was not so sure what to think about it.
From the shadow of a tree, Liu Qingge observed. His hand was clenched tightly around the sword’s hilt and his gaze was fixed on the field. Something was wrong there. Something that refused to fit into the logic of the world.
Ever since the Qi deviation, Shen Qingqiu had been more receptive, even vulnerable. Liu Qingge understood that. He himself had nearly died of Qi deviation not long ago, and it had brought him new perspectives. He also understood the noble gesture of accepting light sparring with fellow peers, both to safely strengthen internal flow and for mutual benefit.
He himself had offered more than once.
But Shen Qingqiu had refused with his usual cutting firmness.
“You’re brutal even when you’re holding back. I don’t want to shatter myself trying to prove something.” Much more polite than the pre-deviation Shen Qingqiu, but just as cruel.
And that was fine. Liu Qingge could accept it.
It was not as if he wanted to spend time with Shen Qingqiu. The man was attractive, yes, but never worth the effort, not with so much rot in his soul and secrets surrounding him.
What he could not accept, what burned inside him, was the fact that Shang Qinghua was there.
Training.
Fighting.
Laughing.
Shang Qinghua, who always refused to draw a sword outside of An Ding. Shang Qinghua, who ignored Liu Qingge’s challenges since they were young. Shang Qinghua, who claimed he only ran if it was to flee. Shang Qinghua, who once rejected a challenge with a look of disgust, as if invited to lick rust.
And now, there he was.
Fighting with Shen Qingqiu.
Smiling at Shen Qingqiu.
“Stupid,” Liu Qingge growled through his teeth.
A disciple to his left, carrying a basket of laundry, glanced at him, startled, but Liu Qingge did not care. His eyes were locked on that strange dance between the strategist and the logistician of Cang Qiong Mountain.
Shen Qingqiu moved more lightly, more fluidly, though he still seemed a little lost in how to wield the sword. Shang Qinghua was… fine. And Liu Qingge could not decide what irritated him more: the fact that Shang Qinghua was there, or the fact that he seemed genuinely comfortable.
Shen Qingqiu stopped, lowering his sword with an elegant motion. It was unusual to see him without a decorated fan in hand, but his indifferent expression was the same as ever.
“Out of breath?” Qingqiu asked softly. The students dispersed around them, following their instructor elsewhere after the demonstration.
Shang Qinghua dropped onto the grass with his arms spread wide and his eyes closed.
“I’m dead. Bury me in An Ding and put my tax records on the tombstone.”
Shen Qingqiu rolled his eyes. But he smiled.
Smiled.
Liu Qingge finally stepped forward, the weight of his presence making the few remaining disciples recoil on instinct.
“Shen Qingqiu,” he greeted, blunt and harsher than he intended.
Both of them turned at once, startled. Shen Qingqiu raised an eyebrow, a glint flickering in his eyes.
Shang Qinghua sat up too quickly, as if caught red-handed.
“Liu-shidi,” Shen Qingqiu replied. “Do you need something?”
Liu ignored the question. His gaze was fixed on Shang Qinghua.
“You said you didn’t train. That it wasn’t worth the risk,” he said sharply.
Shang Qinghua smiled, the same cowardly, slippery smile as always.
“And I don’t. I was just playing around with Shen Qingqiu, a little demonstration for the new disciples. Nobody cuts me in half in Qing Jing. Now in Bai Zhan…”
“Coward,” Liu Qingge snapped.
“Realist.”
“Liar.”
Shang Qinghua faltered for a moment, his smile fading slowly into confusion. Shen Qingqiu watched but did not interfere. He knew what this was. And he knew Liu Qingge needed to hear the answer.
Shang Qinghua rose slowly, brushing the dust from his sleeve.
“Liu Qingge,” he said at last. “You intimidate me. You challenge me. You push me. And I have no desire to prove anything to you, so don’t call me a liar. Shen Qingqiu… he called me. Not to test my limits. Just to have me close, to help.”
Liu Qingge took a step forward.
“And that’s enough?”
“It’s enough for me.” Shang’s voice was calm now, steady in a way it rarely was. “Because I know he doesn’t want to break me. Just company. And that, Liu-shixiong, you never offered me.”
Shen Qingqiu cleared his throat, the sound of someone trying to end the spectacle before it turned into a tragedy.
“If we’re done for today,” he said, “I’ll offer tea in my courtyard, Shang Qinghua.”
Shang nodded, still avoiding Liu Qingge’s gaze. He walked beside Shen Qingqiu with quick steps, his body slightly hunched, as if trying to leave the stage and the tension behind as fast as possible. He didn’t apologize. He didn’t take it back.
Liu Qingge stood there, motionless, his sword tight in his grip and his throat clenched with words he had never learned to say. And for the first time in a long while, he felt he was not the strongest man on the field.
“Actually,” Shang Qinghua said a few steps later, standing closer to Liu Qingge than before. “I’ll head back to my peak. I need to review some delivery lists. The disciples of An Ding are good, but… well, let’s just say managing inventory with them requires my direct supervision.”
Shen Qingqiu glanced sideways, half surprised, but a single look at Qingge was enough for him to understand. He opened his fan, covering his face as he asked quietly,
“Are you sure? You could rest here for a while.”
“Better not. If I stay too long, An Ding will collapse,” Shang Qinghua said with a crooked smile.
A low voice, annoyingly close, replied,
“I’ll take you.”
Shang Qinghua spun on his heel with a strange expression. Liu Qingge was there, having stepped closer. Far too close.
“You—?!” Shang Qinghua cut himself off with a sigh. “That’s not necessary.”
“I know. But I’ll take you.”
Shen Qingqiu laughed nervously and fiddled with a loose strand of hair.
“I appreciate it, but no. You’d carry me like a sack of rice.”
Liu Qingge did not answer.
He only looked at the ground. Then, with a sharp movement, he threw his spiritual sword onto the hard-packed earth and stepped onto it, balancing with the arrogant confidence of someone who knew no one would stop him.
Before Shang Qinghua could even take a step back, Liu Qingge had already grabbed his wrist.
“Liu-shidi—NO, HEY! I—!!!”
The tug was strong enough to make Shang Qinghua nearly stumble. He yelped, and on pure reflex clung to Liu’s arm as if his life depended on it when the other’s hand gripped his waist tightly.
“Shidi!”
Liu Qingge remained impassive, already leaning forward to take flight.
“Let go! I can fly on my own, I’ll walk if I have to—”
“Shut up, Shang Qinghua.”
“SHUT—?! YOU’RE SO DISRESPECTFUL, I’M YOUR SUPERIOR! YOU—”
The sword rose from the ground in a surge of Qi. In seconds, the two of them were in the air.
Shouts echoed across the skies of Cang Qiong as disciples from every peak looked up, wide-eyed.
From below, Shen Qingqiu only sighed, a faint smile curving his lips.
“Idiots,” he murmured, and turned back home, alone.
Shang Qinghua continued holding onto Liu Qingge’s arm with such force that his fingers tingled. His hair whipped in the wind, and his cloak rode up his back in disarray.
“You… muscular idiot! I nearly died of a heart attack!”
“You didn’t die.”
“And just for that you think it’s all fine?!”
“You train with Shen Qingqiu. You can fly with me.”
Shang Qinghua fell silent for a moment, panting. Then he murmured,
“That’s not the same thing.”
Liu Qingge said nothing. But the grip of his arm, firm, almost protective, said otherwise. And Shang Qinghua, too irritated to admit it, did not let go.
Not even when the rooftops of An Ding came into view.
Not even when the silence between them began to feel… comfortable.
Shang Qinghua was still in Liu Qingge’s arms when they landed. He tried to free himself, huffing, but Liu Qingge waited half a second longer before letting go.
Half a second. Enough.
Liu Qingge's hand stayed firm there, resting on the curve of his shixiong’s waist, even after Shang Qinghua's feet touched the ground. It was as if he hadn’t even noticed, or as if he were uncertain. His palm was warm, heavy, but not squeezing. Just… staying.
“Let go,” Shang Qinghua said softly, without conviction.
Liu Qingge did not answer. But he also did not release the other’s wrist.
Shang Qinghua turned his face to mutter another complaint, but froze mid-gesture.
Liu Qingge was looking at him.
Not at his eyes. Not at his messy hair.
But… at his mouth.
Shang Qinghua blinked. His throat went dry, his stomach gave a little flip. It was a different look. Nothing strategic, nothing disciplined. It was a fissure.
He saw it.
And Liu Qingge seemed to realize he had been caught.
His gaze rose quickly, awkwardly, like someone surprised committing a sin.
Shang Qinghua swallowed hard. His heart pounded as if he had been running uphill. The tension thickened, heavier than the stagnant summer air.
It was Liu Qingge who spoke first, voice firm but low:
“I want to train with you.”
Shang Qinghua blinked. Once. Twice.
“…What?”
“You heard me.”
“Oh, I heard you. I just don’t understand where this sudden desire to see me lying on the ground with broken ribs came from.”
“I won’t hurt you.”
Shang Qinghua crossed his arms, staring at him.
“No. I don’t want to,” Qinghua complained.
“Why?”
Shang Qinghua looked away. The sun touched the rooftops of An Ding lazily, as if time moved slower there.
Liu Qingge waited.
But instead of answering, Shang Qinghua countered with another question:
“For what?”
Liu Qingge did not reply, clenching his fists.
Shang Qinghua studied him for another moment, like someone examining the exact spot where a wall begins to crack.
“If you just want… to spend time with me,” he said, voice softer now, with a small pause between the words, unsure if his mind had arrived at the right place or if he was imagining things, “it doesn’t have to be training.”
The suggestion hovered between them. It was obvious. Delicate. Too direct, yet still leaving space for an honorable retreat.
Liu Qingge said nothing.
And that, coming from him, was the same as saying everything.
Shang Qinghua exhaled and added, eyes half-closed with a slight smile:
“We could… have tea, for example. Sit down. No effort required.”
Liu Qingge looked away, as if the dust on the ground had suddenly and urgently become interesting.
“All right,” he murmured.
Shang Qinghua raised an eyebrow, somewhat surprised, his eyes blinking like a deer caught in a headlight.
“Really?”
Liu Qingge nodded, not looking directly. His face slightly flushed. Or maybe it was the sun.
“All right,” he repeated.
And the following silence was no longer tense. It was… something else. Something between acceptance and awkwardness, as if they had stepped into a new, uncertain, yet absurdly real territory. Liu Qingge stood there, as always, arms crossed, expression closed, but he did not move.
He did not turn his back. And Shang Qinghua, no matter how much he tried to pretend it was just another awkward moment among many, felt that something had shifted, something small, subtle, but definitive.
Liu Qingge opened his mouth. He was about to say something, maybe a curt comment, maybe an apology hidden inside a complaint. Maybe it was just an attempt to escape that sudden vulnerability.
But Shang Qinghua was faster.
Perhaps on impulse. Perhaps because he was tired of waiting when he saw the other desperate but trapped behind his own walls.
He lifted his hand and held the edge of Liu Qingge’s cloak between two fingers. A light gesture, almost not touching. Just enough to interrupt the moment if Liu Qingge did not want it.
But Liu Qingge froze.
His eyes fixed on that tiny touch, as if Shang Qinghua had just drawn the blade of his own sword.
And then, without overthinking, Shang Qinghua rose onto his tiptoes.
Their lips met with the same lightness as an almost involuntary gesture. A brief, simple contact, not long enough to be called a kiss, but intense enough to silence the entire world for a few seconds. There was no calculated charm, no malicious intent. Just the timid, unexpected warmth of two fools who had wasted too much time pretending there was nothing between them.
Shang Qinghua pulled back quickly, as if only realizing what he had done after there was no turning back.
“If you want to leave…” he began, voice low, but Liu Qingge did not let him finish. He leaned forward suddenly, firm, and claimed his lips again.
This time, with Liu Qingge responding, the kiss carried a different weight.
It was still awkward. Qingge did not quite know what to do; his inexperience showed in the stiffness of his lips, in the hesitation of his touch. But Shang Qinghua did not mind. He simply brought his hand to the back of his neck, tangling his fingers in his hair and pulling him closer, guiding him patiently, shaping the kiss until it felt natural.
Time dissolved there, between short breaths and racing hearts.
When Shang Qinghua finally pulled away, panting, he realized his face was burning. His heart raced in his chest as if he had run a marathon. He looked away and cleared his throat, trying to appear composed.
“…You’re going to help me choose the teacups.” The words came out fast, almost tripping over themselves. “The fine porcelain ones are cracked, and I don’t trust the disciple who serves the tea when I use the glass ones.”
Liu Qingge said nothing, even redder than Qinghua.
His gaze wandered again to Shang Qinghua’s mouth, then to the ground, then anywhere but admitting what had just happened. His heart beat too fast for him to make any gesture naturally.
But his hand, previously firm and distant, moved. It lightly touched the other’s sleeve, as if wanting to pull, but afraid of breaking something. Then, almost in a whisper, he replied:
“Alright.”
Shang Qinghua spun around quickly, walking ahead in a hurry with slightly uneven steps. But inside, he smiled. Because the Liu Qingge who had yanked him so brutally to fly was not as hard to read as he had seemed.
And the Liu Qingge who agreed to have tea, without fighting, without complaining, ears flushed and a silent complicity on his lips.
But Liu Qingge knew that, no matter how much he pretended, that kiss had not been casual.
And the taste still lingering on his lips… was not just from the kiss.
It was also the quiet victory over the ghost of Shen Qingqiu.
Did they kiss again? Neither Shang Qinghua nor Liu Qingge would comment, but a sneaky disciple could swear he had heard strange noises coming from his master’s room and had not seen Master Liu leave until morning.