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“I really am sorry,” the man lying on the cot said with a weak smile; his robes were damp with sweat, and it beaded on his forehead. He was of a grey pallor, obviously ill with something or another. That something or another was some rather…poisonous herbs that grew in Shang Qinghua’s garden. Thief aside, sick aside, he was a handsome man with a strong jaw, smiling eyes, and a pair of lips that would look good with a pout. His hair was long, black, and threaded through with the white that some immortal cultivators thought was ‘fashionable’.
Shang Qinghua stirred the pot some more; he was currently working to save the thief’s life, making an antidote that he’d stupidly not stocked because he didn’t think anyone would come out this far. Let alone eat from his extremely poisonous garden. However, he wasn’t angry. When you were hungry, you were hungry. Shang Qinghua couldn’t get mad at someone who needed food.
“I hope you’ve learned not to eat strange plants,” Shang Qinghua told him. “Or from strangers' gardens without getting permission.”
“I will never again eat from gardens without permission,” the man promised. He held up three fingers, swearing the oath, before dropping it. He’d already been given tea that would help stop the poison from taking root in his body. “Ah, I should introduce myself—”
Shang Qinghua interrupted him, “ —After I’m finished making the antidote.”. He took a large leaf from the black bower tree he’d planted, what, two decades ago? It was pitch black and had white veins that looked strangely human. He tore it along the thicker veins carefully before dropping them inside. The liquid in the pot turned black the second the leaf hit it. Another stir or two and Shang Qinghua was reaching for a clay cup.
“It tastes like death,” Shang Qinghua warned. And he wasn’t being facetious. It literally tasted like rotted roadkill left in the Chongqing sun for a few days. He helped the stranger sit up, and the man took the cup with a thankful nod. He took a sip and immediately gagged, and Shang Qinghua tried not to laugh. “I told you,” he teased. “You ate zhu qing—you know, that one poison that is given to concubines to give them a swift, easy death? It’s not as strong when not concentrated but you’re lucky you’re alive right now. So drink.”
The man frowned at the cup, nodded, then took a deep breath. He nearly choked halfway through but Shang Qinghua was impressed by him going straight to chugging it. “You’ll start vomiting bad blood soon.” He pulled a pot from under the cot. “Here.”
“Thank you,” the man said. “My name is Yue Qingyuan.”
Shang Qinghua froze for a minute. Yue Qingyuan. He hadn’t heard that name, read that name, for at least a hundred years now. But then he quite happily waved the thought off. He wasn’t going to bother with all that, not right now. If the story had found him, the story had found him. It wasn’t up to him to decide. He’d patch up Yue Qingyuan, send him on his way, and the world would be set to rights again.
Even with the antidote, the poison took some time to exit the body; this led Shang Qinghua having to play nurse for a few days—not a bad thing, per se, but he was only passable as a cook. He stirred the congee carefully. He’d used chicken stock, as there was no good reason to waste chicken bones, shredded chicken meat, egg, and nettles.
“This looks incredible,” Yue Qingyuan said when Shang Qinghua came over to him with a bowl. His house really wasn’t big enough for this kind of care. He wished he had an extra bed at the very least. His own bed was large and could fit two people, but he didn’t want to sleep in bed with a stranger. Even a handsome one.
“It’s not great,” Shang Qinghua replied. “I only cook well enough to feed myself. Do you need me to feed you or…”
“I can feed myself,” Yue Qingyuan said quickly, his cheeks going red. Shang Qinghua put the tray on Yue Qingyuan’s lap. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome."
Yue Qingyuan cleared his throat. “I understand that I have set you against myself with my behavior.”
“You’re forgiven,” Shang Qinghua said. “I feel like being poisoned is enough punishment.” And he truly did. “What are you doing this far up north anyway? It’s too close to winter to have come all the way out there. After you get better, the snow will have fallen and it’ll be too deep to traverse. Even an immortal cultivator would find it hard to pass.”
Yue Qingyuan took a spoonful of congee and popped it in his mouth. His eyes widened. “You say this is just passable? This is fantastic. I’ve never tasted anything quite as good.”
Shang Qinghua was the one who colored now. “You’re very generous,” he said.
“No, no, I would marry you just to taste this again,” Yue Qingyuan said. He looked around. “As long as there’s no spouse around to test me. I imagine an immortal cultivator living in the mountains would have a frighteningly powerful spouse.”
“I’m single,” Shang Qinghua managed to mumble. “No spouse. You don’t exactly meet people living in the mountains.” He went and made himself his own bowl of congee, only to take a seat beside the bed.
“Why do you live in the mountains?” Yue Qingyuan asked.
Shang Qinghua wondered if it was a good story to tell. “You’ve probably gathered that I’m from a sect that deals with poison,” he said. Yue Qingyuan nodded. “Around…oh, I don’t know anymore, I think around a hundred years ago, an emperor and the crown prince were assassinated.”
“They were,” Yue Qingyuan agreed.
Shang Qinghua set his congee aside and rolled up his multi-layered, blood-red sleeves to reveal a tattoo around his upper bicep. Yue Qingyuan startled at the sight of it and almost knocked the tray off his lap. “My sect made the poison,” Shang Qinghua said. “Or so they say. A lot of us heard the whispers that the sect would be blamed for it and left. Everyone else, to my knowledge, were slaughtered, imprisoned, or sold into slavery.”
“It’s been over a hundred years,” Yue Qingyuan said. “And you do not have to wear short sleeves by any measure. You could safely live anywhere you wished. Certainly, there are no soldiers looking for you now.” He paused. “Did…did your sect provide the poison?”
Shang Qinghua shrugged. “Lord if I know. I was an inner disciple but not nearly as dedicated to my craft as some of my peers. I admit, I could probably live somewhere safer or closer to society if I were careful. As it stands, people know a man with practice in poison lives here.”
“I am…seeking assistance,” Yue Qingyuan suddenly said. “Someone I hold dear has been poisoned. I am unfortunately one of the men who are seeking you out.”
“That doesn’t offend me,” Shang Qinghua replied, wondering why Yue Qingyuan looked like a kicked dog. “What poison is it? Do you know?”
“It is said to be zhugan.”
Shang Qinghua looked at him, eyes wide. “Zhugan? There is no antidote for that poison,” he said. Yue Qingyuan closed his eyes, obviously pained by the answer. Shang Qinghua ran through the list of poisons he knew in his head. “I mean, there’s something that can be done, but it has a low success rate.”
Yue Qingyuan’s eyes shot open. “There’s something that can be done?” he asked, demanded really.
“Zhugan can sometimes be combated by a stronger poison,” Shang Qinghua said. “I…have it. If you really want to try to save her, there’s no harm. But know that it might have no effect.”
“I will try anything,” Yue Qingyuan replied. “Perhaps you should come with me—it would only be a short trip for you, ah, once the snow clears. She’s being treated at the moment, and they’ve been able to stave off the more serious symptoms; they told me she should last until spring. Summer even.”
Shang Qinghua wondered who, exactly, this lucky woman was. Was it a lover? Was Yue Qingyuan just a filial son? “Would they accept the help of a man they don’t know?” he asked. “I’m not exactly the picture of an esteemed immortal. And I do not want to be blamed if she dies all the same. Most people would accuse me for not being able to heal her.”
“I will protect you from them,” Yue Qingyuan said. “There is weight behind my words. I assure you, no blame will fall on you.”
It took two weeks for Yue Qingyuan to get better. That was fast, in Shang Qinghua’s opinion. Not many people would be up and moving around that quickly after being poisoned as he was. Shang Qinghua didn’t mind, of course, because he was able to put him to work.
“This cloak is so warm,” Yue Qingyuan commented as they stepped outside the house; he was bundled up in a cloak that Shang Qinghua had sewn for him and lined with rabbit fur. It had been snowing for days, and he’d had little more to do. Yue Qingyuan had been amazed at the work that had been done for him and promised to pay Shang Qinghua back tenfold when he was able.
“It has to be,” Shang Qinghua replied. “The weather on the mountain would freeze you to death if you spent more than ten minutes out here without it.” He moved through the snow toward his raised garden beds. “Do you have your gloves?”
Yue Qingyuan’s hands popped out of his cloak, properly covered in the thick leather gloves. Shang Qinghua chuckled at the delighted expression on Yue Qingyuan’s face, his cheeks red and his smile wide. He was so irresistibly cute. So what if he was dumb enough to eat plants he didn’t recognize? His slightly airheaded, slightly clumsy personality would ensnare anyone. Probably. “I am ready to be put to work,” he said, wiggling his fingers. “Whatever Physician Shang needs done, I am willing to do.”
“I am no physician,” Shang Qinghua told him. He scooped a snowball into his hands and rolled it smooth. “I don’t quite know what the name for someone who deals with poison is, actually. Is there a name for it now?”
“I think you’d be an apothecary at the very least,” Yue Qingyuan said. “If not a physician.” They came upon the raised bed and Shang Qinghua began to dust off the snow from the plants; they were sturdy and did well in winter—any plants that needed somewhere warm stayed inside Shang Qinghua’s greenhouse.
“Are you trying to think of how to introduce me to this lady friend of yours so she’s not suspicious?” Shang Qinghua asked.
“I have to introduce you as something,” Yue Qingyuan replied.
Shang Qinghua supposed that was true. “Apothecary works, then,” he told Yue Qingyuan. “I’m not putting you with the poisons.”
“I won’t snack on them while gardening,” Yue Qingyuan protested like a child after being told no. “I can be trusted.”
“Actual food takes priority in winter.” And Shang Qinghua didn’t trust him. He might touch something poisonous and then touch his face, with his personality. Then Shang Qinghua would have to disinfect him. Yue Qingyuan followed behind him, though he didn’t seem offended.
“What are these?” Yue Qingyuan asked.
Shang Qinghua paused and turned to see Yue Qingyuan pointing at a small bunch of flowers that were growing just outside of Shang Qinghua’s property. The snow was shoveled partway. Shang Qinghua knelt down and gently touched the petals of one of the multiple flower heads.
“These,” Shang Qinghua explained, “are snow chrysanthemums.”
They were a brilliant orange that contrasted heavily against the white background that’d taken hold of the world around them. “I didn’t plant them. They’re not poisonous, so they’re edible and can be used for tea, but I wouldn’t recommend it.” The snow chrysanthemum, despite its appearance, was not a chrysanthemum at all. It was a fungi. All throughout the forest were clusters of the seemingly innocent plant—unbeknownst to most, the plants consumed the rotting bodies of forest animals; their color came from filtered blood, though he didn’t know how it filtered to be orange.
They found themselves in the garden furthest from the house, though still within a good walking distance. “What we’re going to do today is dig out the plants.” They were standing in front of plants that were neck deep in snow. It’d snowed all night, and he couldn’t leave the plants to fend for themselves. If the snow continued to come down tonight, they’d be buried completely, and it’d become compacted.
Shang Qinghua dug into his pack and offered a small shovel to Yue Qingyuan. “Be careful,” he warned. “We need to stay fed this winter, and if the plants get too damaged, I’ll resort to eating you instead.” He watched Yue Qingyuan’s cheeks color, but the view was brief, as Yue Qingyuan quickly turned his head away.
“I’ll start on that end,” he quickly said. Shang Qinghua wanted to tease him. He opened his mouth but then closed it; Yue Qingyuan’s shovel went into the dirt, but the man had overshot—lack of steady footing did him in—Shang Qinghua could only watch as Yue Qingyuan tripped backwards, his foot hitting an icy patch beneath the snow. Shang Qinghua didn’t know why he froze. He could have moved, should have moved, as Yue Qingyuan twisted his body around, trying to find equilibrium.
Shang Qinghua crashed down onto the ground as Yue Qingyuan slammed into him; snow shot up on either side of them as he sank down into it. When the snow settled, he was pinned to the ground by a body that weighed well over two hundred pounds. A body that was still on top of him, in fact, and was making no attempt to move. Shang Qinghua needed him to get off him. He’d spent far too long with this man over the last few weeks. What thoughts was he supposed to have when such a handsome man anyway?
“Yue Qingyuan?”
There was a second of hesitation before Yue Qingyuan answered. Shang Qinghua tried to see his face, but it was tucked against his shoulder. “Yes?”
“You’re heavy.”
Yue Qingyuan slowly lifted his head, his cheeks still red. “May I be bold?” he asked.
Shang Qinghua wanted to sigh. What on earth was Yue Qingyuan going to be ‘bold’ about? He asked his own question, “Is there something to be bold about?” There was no audible answer—in fact, Yue Qingyuan’s face was coming closer to his own, and Shang Qinghua’s eyes widened when he saw eyes flicker down to his mouth. No. That’s not what was happening, was it? There was no way that some hot, random trespasser was about to kiss him—
Yue Qingyuan was kissing him. It was sloppy. It was cold. But it was a kiss, and it was Shang Qinghua’s first kiss. Shang Qinghua cautiously lifted his arm and pressed his hand to Yue Qingyuan’s cheek, rubbing a gloved thumb over it. Yue Qingyuan pulled away with his eyes sparkling. Then, without a word, he kissed Shang Qinghua again. Shang Qinghua laughed against his mouth but didn’t push him away.
“I do not have anything ready for courtship,” Yue Qingyuan said, his tone serious. “But when we return to the city, I will address the matter promptly.”
“Shouldn’t you ask if I want to be courted first?” Shang Qinghua asked. He was flattered, more than flattered. He was interested. He didn’t know why an old man like him interested Yue Qingyuan, but he’d take what he could get.
Yue Qingyuan frowned, and the light in his eyes dimmed. “I will court you regardless.”
“That’s rather rude,” Shang Qinghua laughed. “Alright.” It wouldn’t hurt to let the young man do his best. He pinched Yue Qingyuan’s cheek lightly, and the bright smile he got was worth returning one of his own. “If you truly wish to court me, I’ll give you a chance. But don’t waste it.”