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Shang Qinqhua is upset.
Mobei-jun doesn’t exactly know why. Shang Qinghua gets like this sometimes, says it’s a seasonal thing, my king, nothing serious, it’s better to forget about it. But that was before—before Mobei-jun fell off Mai Gu Ridge, before Shang Qinghua defended him during his ascension, and before Shang Qinghua left his side and was found again.
It’s different now. Shang Qinghua has come back for good and he makes it known when he finds anything displeasing.
But despite Mobei-jun’s hopes that Shang Qinghua would also be rid of this ‘seasonal’ sadness amidst the changes, it persists; Shang Qinghua also continues to insist that this is a seasonal thing, my king, I promise it will be over soon, it’s just a human thing.
But there’s a niggle in Mobei-jun’s mind.
Just mere days ago, Luo Binghe arrived in the Demon Realm for treaty and trade discussions with his husband in tow, and Shen Qingqiu seemed fine. If it is a human thing, should it not affect all humans? So, Mobei-jun would like to know the truth behind it: is it really a human ‘seasonal thing’ that Shang Qinghua is just particularly susceptible to, or is it belying something else? Perhaps a more general unhappiness with his place in life? Perhaps a general unhappiness with… Mobei-jun himself?
If it really is a ‘seasonal thing,’ then Mobei-jun must make plans. He cannot have Shang Qinghua so run-down or so quiet or so lethargic that he entirely bypasses Mobei-jun when he comes to bed in the late hours of the night—it is so unlike him that it sets Mobei-jun on edge, lighting a cold fire in his belly that has him grinding his teeth in discomfort. If it really is a ‘seasonal thing,’ then Mobei-jun must do his best to help Shang Qinghua avoid the seasons that cause it.
But therein lies the issue. Shang Qinghua gets his ‘seasonal thing’ when he is in the Northern Desert—an eternal winter—and when he is in the ever-changing climate of the human realm. There is no season that is exempt from his ‘seasonal thing.’
So it cannot be actual seasons that are the cause. It is not genuinely a ‘seasonal thing.’
Then it must be a general unhappiness, for Shang Qinghua is vibrant and chaotic except for when he gets these ‘seasonal things.’ But what can he be unhappy with? He was the personal servant of Mobei-jun, and he is now the consort to the Mobei Clan, which is among the highest positions anyone could possibly strive for. What more could Shang Qinghua want?
But even so, Shang Qinghua, for all that he desires to live, has never really strived to rise the ranks the way other people live and breathe to. Shang Qinghua is the type of person where a bone could be tossed at him, and whether he likes it or not, he’ll learn to be content with it. So, it certainly cannot be his position that he is unhappy with.
The problem cannot be with Mobei-jun either, for as much as Mobei-jun has threatened otherwise, Shang Qinghua had been given many opportunities to leave before their marriage ceremony, and he didn’t take any single one of them. If he really did find Mobei-jun so displeasing, then he would have left once again, and he certainly wouldn’t have even agreed to marriage, let alone as enthusiastically as he did.
But Shang Qinghua chose to stay and chose to complete the marriage rites.
Mobei-jun scratches his head.
Shang Qinghua often does things that stump him, so Mobei-jun wonders if perhaps this is even something that he should get worked up over. After all, it’s a recurring ailment and Shang Qinghua tells him not to worry about it. Perhaps there really is nothing Mobei-jun can do.
But it takes the light out of Shang Qinghua’s vibrant eyes, takes his energy and wrings it out, and makes him terribly lethargic despite getting more sleep than usual.
It makes him apathetic to the details he usually fusses so much about, makes him brusque and even downright mean at times, and makes him uncaring of his own hygiene.
It makes Shang Qinghua so unlike himself that he doesn’t seem like Shang Qinghua at all.
Mobei-jun doesn’t like it.
So, for all that Mobei-jun cannot do, he decides to do the one thing that should bring Shang Qinghua the most happiness in this moment: he’ll make sweets for Shang Qinghua.
He heads to the kitchens, shoos the staff out, and begins cracking eggs while the caramel is being made and the milk is being boiled. It’s a simple recipe, and after Mobei-jun gets one of the cooks to put the final mixture in the hearth, he does his own paperwork as he waits. When it finishes baking, Mobei-jun uses his abilities to speed up the cooling process; instead of leaving it to cool and harden for hours, he cools and hardens it immediately.
Then, he puts it on a plate and cuts it nicely, grabs utensils, and promptly takes it to Shang Qinghua after he tells the staff waiting outside the kitchens to follow with tea and other pre-prepared sweets he saw on some of the countertops.
Of course, Mobei-jun doesn’t wait for them, so he arrives at Shang Qinghua’s office alone and finds him with his head buried in scrolls and his fingers smudged in ink. Shang Qinghua doesn’t seem to notice Mobei-jun’s arrival, even as he pauses his reading and takes a long moment to yawn.
Mobei-jun walks forward and puts the dish on top of his work, uncaring of the wet ink even as Shang Qinghua groans about it—on a normal day, Shang Qinghua would squawk and bemoan about it incessantly.
When Shang Qinghua notices the pudding, he stops and looks at it for two seconds before he stutters and looks up at Mobei-jun.
“My—My king,” he says. “Surely you didn’t make this for me yourself?” His eyes are wide where yesterday they were downcast, though his cheeks are still pale where they’d usually be flushed.
Mobei-jun frowns. Shang Qinghua looks terrible, but his shoulders seem broad today, carrying a confidence that he didn’t yesterday. Then, Mobei-jun registers the question and nods.
“Ah, you shouldn’t have,” he says quietly. Then, louder, he says, “You really shouldn’t have!”
Mobei-jun nudges the pudding forward and hands him the utensils.
Shang Qinghua digs into it right away. The more he eats, the more his shoulders slump—in comfort, very relievingly not in lethargy or an unnameable sorrow—and that spot between his eyebrows relax in a way they haven’t recently.
It’s good to see.
Mobei-jun curls his hand into a fist and rests his face on it, content to watch. After eating about a quarter of the dessert, Shang Qinghua pauses and goes wide-eyed again, then swallows his mouthful and looks up at Mobei-jun.
“My king, would you like some?”
Mobei-jun shakes his head.
Shang Qinghua hums and digs in again, though now he talks between mouthfuls about how tasty the pudding is and how Mobei-jun did a wonderful job making it.
Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door, and then the staff carrying tea and other sweets enter, placing the trays on top of the scroll just as Mobei-jun did, except this time Shang Qinghua doesn’t groan about it at all—he frowns heavily instead. With the dessert tray already on it, there would be no point in getting upset over additional trays being placed on it; it’s already ruined.
Instead, Mobei-jun waits for Shang Qinghua to go on about how he shouldn’t have placed his tray on the missive in the first place so that the staff wouldn’t have his example to follow, but it doesn’t come. Shang Qinghua just pours some tea for them both.
It must not be a terribly important missive then, Mobei-jun concludes. Or maybe, because of his ‘seasonal thing,’ Shang Qinghua just doesn’t care for it right now.
The staff exit and Shang Qinghua takes a sip of the tea, but he flinches and sticks his tongue out cutely. Mobei-jun tucks this image away, saving it.
And as he watches, he notices that Shang Qinghua doesn’t pay much attention to the sweets except for the one that he made.
Mobei-jun doesn’t mind at all, content to see his consort eat happily.