Archive of Our Own

Bi-Han had been on edge all week. Throughout the castle, everyone saw it and steered clear of it. Even Sektor, with all the years she had known and cared for him, didn’t go in his way.

The week-long phenomena was different from Bi-Han’s normally expected broodiness– somehow more intense. Frost followed where he walked, like a small trail of his manifested anger. Anyone unfortunate enough to see him could feel the cold, no matter the distance. His eyebrows were sewn together in frustration–as they usually were– and his frown reached deeper than it had before. His shoulders were tensed to a point something in his body was close to snapping.

Shang Tsung thought it was cute.

He dragged around his angst with him, almost wearing it like a cape or a badge of honor. The whole castle shook when he slammed the door to the armoury. It was something akin to what a teenager would do.

Who would’ve thought, Grandmaster of the Lin Quei acted like such a child. Immature, losing his words to his fists and frost, stomping as though he had been grounded. It was a show, one that Shang Tsung wanted to watch forever.

Shang Tsung lurked around the empty hallways, drawn to the place he felt the coldest. He’s always been drawn to what might burn him– in this case freeze.

He pauses, staring at the frozen door to his side. He leans in, listening to the sound of breathing and hissing. The door handle was cold when he grabbed it, and he struggled to open it with the rigid screws holding it to the frame.

Bi-Han faces the furthest wall, his chest and back heaving. Shang Tsung glances at the blood that drips from his knuckles, then at the man’s arms. Punching walls, really?

“What talent you hold, Grandmaster.”

Bi-Han turns to face him. His eyebrows are knitted together in frustration, but they always are. Shang Tsung can barely read his expression otherwise. Part of it had to be because of the mask, which Shang Tsung would hope to see him without.

Shang Tsung walks forward, admiring the room they stand in. It was an old thing, something that had once been an armoury but was used for training now. It lay bare besides a few remaining hooks in the walls. He finally lets his gaze focus on Bi-Han. A tight smile pulls at his lips. He lets himself scan the man’s body, only briefly. He tucks his hands behind his back.

“This proves to me that my choice was not misguided, yes?” Shang Tsung chuckles.

Bi-Han nods quickly, crossing his arms over his chest. His face stays the same as it was before– eyebrows furrowed, eyes dark and cold, the lower half covered. He pauses as though to speak, but doesn’t. Was he unsure? Was he scared to speak? Did Shang Tsung already have Bi-Han under his thumb completely? The thought excites him.

Shang Tsung leans down, over-exaggerating the motion, and stares at the man’s bloodied knuckles. They’re coated in frost, though the blood seeps through and stains it pink. He draws out the moment, reaching out and holding his palm and turning his hands over. He pretends that he was only now noticing them. His gaze flicks up to Bi-Han, who is staring down at him.

“Where are your gloves?”

Bi-Han pulls his arm back, with more force than needed, and furrows his eyebrows further. Shang Tsung takes note that his scowl could get worse, angrier.

“In the room you are lending me.”

Shang Tsung stands straight again, and laughs.

“I am not lending it, you are to stay for as long as we are here,” he leans in closer, nudging Bi-Han’s shoulder lightly, “But after our success, we will be staying somewhere much bigger, I assume.”

Satisfaction flickers in Bi-Han’s dark eyes.

Cautiously, Shang Tsung walks to Bi-Han’s side. The cyromancer doesn’t break his gaze, body turning with him. As slowly as he thinks possible, Shang Tsung reaches behind Bi-Han’s hands and unties his hair.

He hadn’t even thought he could make it this far. As expected, Bi-Han grabs Shang Tsung’s wrists and shoves them back, but the motion was too delayed. His raven hair fell down over his shoulders. The sight leaves him in awe.

His eyes flare in anger, stepping closer to Shang Tsung. He already looms over him, and his anger only serves to make him taller.

“You should leave it like this more often.” Shang Tsung wants to lean in, close the gap between them. He doesn’t.

He expects a punch. A sharp hit to his face or chest, sending him to the floor. That must’ve been enough to send him over the edge. It had to be.

Bi-Han only stares at him, almost shaking with rage. “I could kill you.” His voice is a low hiss.

Shang Tsung chuckles, sliding his hands back to Bi-Han’s chest. He didn’t know a living person could feel so cold.

“Mmmm…will you?” He flicks his eyes up to meet Bi-Han’s.

The man looks angrier than Shang Tsung had ever seen him. His arms grow cold just touching his chest. He feels his fingers go numb.

That’s when the hit lands– Shang Tsung feels himself stumble back, a sharp fire ignited in his cheek. It hurt a little less than he thought it would.

Bi-Han grabs a fistful of Shang Tsung’s collar, punching him in the face again. Shang Tsung feels his nose crack under the pressure, blood already starting to spill. Excitement lights in his chest, setting his whole body alight.

Shang Tsung grabs at Bi-Han’s hair, pulling it as hard as he can to the side. He claws at the side of his face, leaving four gashes that already start to bleed.

He lets out a hiss of pain, but it doesn’t stop him as he lunges forward and tackles Shang Tsung to the ground. He hits his head with a sharp crack that echoes. He doesn’t know if it’s ice or stone that he hit.

Bi-Han’s hair falls over both of them, framing his face. Shang Tsung wants to stare at him, admire his eyes and hair and whatever the mask didn’t cover, but this isn’t the time.

He rolled his head to the side, nearly avoiding another hit that would’ve definitely broken his nose again. A jolt of energy surges through him from the movement.

This was perfect.

Shang Tsung digs his claw-like hand into Bi-Han’s side as deep as he can. The cyromancer's eyes go wide, and for a moment his fist wavers in the air. Shang quickly squirms his way out from under him.

Bi-Han could fight better than this. He was stronger than this, much more powerful. He could win this. But so could Shang Tsung.

They could both have finished this in a moment. The fight was being drawn out, and for what?

“You can do better,” He spits blood onto the floor beside him.

Bi-Han’s shoulders and chest heave with his ragged breaths. His eyes are bloodshot, staring down Shang Tsung. His fist is still raised in the air, still lingering before him. Blood slowly drips from his knuckles.

For a moment that feels like forever, Bi-Han keeps his fist raised. Shang Tsung waits for the hit, staring directly at him.

Slowly, he crawls back to his feet. Shang Tsung watches him, slowly mimicking his movements and standing with him.

Bi-Han stares at him wearily, holding a little less of that anger.

Shang hadn’t realized how loose he felt, how free. He can’t help the laugh that rises from his throat. For the first time, it isn’t mocking. It doesn’t stab–or he doesn’t mean it to.

Bi-Han stares at him, glaring daggers. “What?”

Shang Tsung wipes blood from his face, rubbing his nose lightly as though it would ease the pain.

“I enjoyed that.”

Bi-Han glances at the man with disgust in his eyes. His chest is still heaving.

“Meet me outside next time.” Bi-Han’s words come with venom that didn’t seem directed in any specific way, or at him.

He turns, leaving Shang Tsung alone in the freezing room.

[— —]

Bi-Han’s whole body is shaking.

The temperature doesn’t help, no matter how cold he keeps making it. He lays on his dirty mattress, boxes only, trying to calm himself down. His thoughts race through his head faster than he can process them. If they could only slow down, he could think, and he could feel better. The cold air stabs at his skin like tiny needles.

Even then, the heat that he feels setting his chest alight doesn’t calm down.

The cold was helping to numb the pain, at the very least. He can barely see out of his left eye, vision going pink at the edges.

Gingerly, he reaches his hands to the gashes on his face. They only sting when he adds pressure, but are otherwise just sticky with blood. The feeling makes him sick.

The ache in his side starts to fade with the cold, but he can still feel the gaping holes he knows he needs to sew up eventually.

When he rolls over, he lets out a moan of pain. This fight wasn’t anything new, or anything actually challenging. That’s why he doesn’t know why it hurts so bad. Why the gashes felt so deep, or why he wasn’t quick enough to defend against them.

Faintly, in the back of his mind, he can hear his father’s voice saying something he can’t quite hear. It doesn’t matter. The ache feels familiar, the same as losing to Kiau Liang.

Why hadn’t he won?

Bi-Han stabs his fingers back into the holes in his side, right where Shang Tsung had been just hours before.

Immediately he yelps, and just as quickly he bites his other hand to silence. He closes his eyes and digs deeper.

He should’ve won. He had the power to.

He can’t help the cry that escapes his lips. He writhes against the mattress almost on instinct.

Next time he will do better. He has to.

Slowly, as though it’ll hurt less, Bi-Han pulls his fingers out. He holds them out and stares at the dripping blood. The cold air floods to fill where his fingers once were, and the pain intensifies when it does.

With blurry vision– from tears and the gashes and maybe even the pain– Bi-Han turns over and stares at the ceiling above him.

His room only grew colder, and by the time morning hit the mattress was frozen to the ground.

[— —]

“Here is where we’ll attack from,” Shang Tsung points at the map, at the small dot he had drawn there.

Sektor, Quan Chi, and Bi-Han sit around him, peering at the maps wordlessly. They only nod their heads and listen to the finalized version of the plan.

The silence, if Shang Tsung had to guess, was partially because everyone knew what had happened. Even if nobody asks about the gashes or the broken nose or bloodstained clothes, they definitely see them. What was worse was that Bi-Han had gotten more insufferable. More stomping, colder rooms, colder everything, angrier.

It’s impossible that nobody knows. They have to. Nonetheless, he appreciates the lack of questions his way. Mostly because he has no idea how he would explain it. Not the injury, but why he didn’t just hide it. Or why he didn’t shift to look normal.

How can he explain that his loss is something he's wearing with pride? That the shattered bone in his nose stands to remind Bi-Han what they had done together. That it had happened. That if Bi-Han wants to ignore him, he could, but that mark will stay.

He risks glancing Bi-Han’s way. He’s leaning against the back wall, already sneering back at him. One of his eyes looks irritated and pink where the gash almost hits it.

Shang Tsung smiles at him with all his teeth.

[— —]

The snow is piling high, as it always does this time of year. Even with the thickness of it, Shang Tsung trudges through it ankle deep. His feet and nose have both gone numb, and he hasn’t been out long. The cold wind stabs at the skin that he can still feel.

Despite this, he realizes it’s much prettier at nighttime. A shame he didn’t come out here more often. He lets himself stand there, staring up at the stars. They scattered across the sky, infinite. It almost amazes him.

The crunching of snow drew him from his thoughts. He turns, staring at Bi-Han.

“You showed up.” Shang huffs. Bi-Han is wearing the same bloodstained clothes from before. And that mask.

Bi-Han steps closer, walking easily through the snow. It probably came with the powers or something. He doesn’t speak.

He swings for Shang Tsung immediately, landing a punch on his jaw. The pain feels like fire, setting his body alight.

“You missed me,” Shang Tsung laughs. He grabs at Bi-Han’s collar, pulling him down and kicking him back.

Bi-Han stumbles back in the snow, but easily catches himself. He had a way with weather like this, it was his talent. He takes Shang Tsung by the shoulders and shoves him into the snow.

His whole body stings. The cold snow freezes his nerves, and he can feel his head pounding already. Bi-Han is already kneeling over him, grabbing his hair.

For a moment, he feels his hands warming up with sorcery. He wants to embrace it, pull it out from his skin and send all that power spiraling at Bi-Han.

But he doesn't. He doesn’t know why.

He tries to shove him back, grabbing at his shoulders, clawing at his arms, but Bi-Han’s grasp is already stable. It all blurs into wriggling, grabbing, biting, punching, gasping, yelling.

Shang Tsung can feel himself slipping. When Bi-Han’s fist meets his face, he swears his skin is pulled back with it. He feels his body melting. He feels every movement made by either of them. It all turns into a dull ache.

He only feels himself, all of his pain, when he opens his eyes.

Bi-Han stands over him, chest heaving and knuckles bloodied. Strands of his hair fall out from where they were tied. Shang Tsung only sees him from blurred vision. The snow around him starts to sting on his skin. His face starts to sting. Only now does all of his hurt start to settle into his body

He digs his metal claw into Bi-Han’s leg, tearing as deep as he can. He sees the metal claws poking out from the other side of his leg.

The cyromancer screams, his legs buckling from the gash. He lands on Shang Tsung, his weight knocking Shang’s breath out of him.

They both lay there, and all that’s left between them is heavy breathing.

“Did–” Shang coughs, hacking up blood onto the snow and his face, “Did that help you?”

Bi-Han sneers at him. It’s weaker than it normally is, though. His expression is softer. He rolls to the side, sinking down into the blood stained snow.

“What do you want?” Bi-Han’s voice is raspy. Maybe Shang Tsung is only hearing things.

He grins widely.

“I thought you liked this.”

Bi-Han’s scowl deepens.

“Tell me what game you’re playing.”

Shang feels his sight growing blurrier by the second. He sits up, the motion wobbly. His arms barely hold him up. He tries to crawl to his knees.

“I assure you, this is no game.”

“Then what is it? What are we doing?”

He pauses, now sitting on his knees. A cold wind runs its way through the trees around them. He stares down at Bi-han.

“You wanted… release. I gave that to you.” Slowly, Shang stands on trembling legs. “The Lin Quei didn’t want you to act out, hm?” He laughs.

Bi-Han stares up at him from the snow, eyes wide. His chest heaves with every breath. He pushes himself up, slowly finding a w ayto get up. Shang stands beside him, holding his shoulder.

“Get off of me.” Bi-Han glares at him.

“You can’t stand on your leg,” Shang glances down at the gaping wound. A small tinge of pride swells in his chest. “You can’t deny my help, Grandmaster.”

Bi-Han leans on Shang Tsung’s side.

[— —]

At the furthest end of the orchard was an old, dying tree. It stuck out from the rest of the trees, it’s wood chipping and already falling in on itself. It never bore leaves or fruit. It was planted away from the rest of the trees, and had been due to be taken down for years, but it still stood.

The lines in the wood look like a painting. It’s as though someone had taken a paintbrush, made the tree up from thin air. Bi-Han stares at the lines, and that’s all she can think.

She feels the gentle kiss of the wind, one that reaches even into the hollow tree. She shutters and her teeth clatter together. Was it that cold? She pulls her legs tighter to her chest. She feels her tears freeze on her cheeks. She feels more come out.

She allows herself a quick glance out into the orchard. She can’t see anything in the dark– that scares her more.

She can’t stop crying. Her chest and shoulders heave with each choked sob. Her whole body is drowning with fear. She can feel a faint sting in his cheek.

She can only see the tree around her and no further. She can see the smokey breaths she lets out into the night air. She hadn’t felt so cold when running there.

“Bi-Han!”

The voice comes from all around her. From the trees and dirt and the fallen leaves. It echos in the hollow tree, and it stops him mid-sob. She holds her breath.

Kuai Liang’s face pops out in front of her. His pale face and bright clothes serve similar to a beacon in the darkness he finds himself in. As quickly as she can, she wipes the tears from her face. What kind of an older sister cries in front of her younger brother? What lead did that set?

Kuai crawled into the tree, shrinking the space. It was much tighter, but the cold didn’t leak in. It feels just a little warmer. Bi-Han feels okay with it.

The two sit in silence. Bi-Han counts her breaths, measures each amount in and out. She tries to make them sound normal, to cover the hiccups that her sobs bring. It’s no use. A heavy shame sits over her shoulders, so heavy and so large she swears it’s what brings the snow and rain down. The shame that she is sure will one day pull her into her grave. Bi-han feels the urge to cover herself, pull herself inwards to become something less woman. She ignores it.

The silence between them is almost heavier than any of the shame. Kuai Liang opens his mouth to speak. He closes it. Slowly, he raises his arms. They shake with hesitation, but he still puts them firmly around Bi-Han.

Bi-Han feels the ache in her chest grow, infecting every heartbeat and muscle and movement. A fresh wave of tears sits in her eyes, ready to spill.

Kuai Liang’s voice is soft, barely a whisper, when he speaks:

“He didn’t mean it. He loves you, you know.”

She closes her eyes. She tries to shrink herself into the wood around her. She tries to disappear.

When Bi-Han opens his eyes, everything looks gray. The warm oranges and browns leave his mind, and in their place he sees cracked stone and long faded engravings that can no longer be made out. He immediately reaches for his chest, where he feels the familiar flat muscles. His heart doesn’t beat as fast.

The room around him is hot, and he feels as though he’ll melt soon. When he sits up, the world rushes back to him. The stabbing pain in his leg infects every thought, erasing whatever dream he had been lost in. He immediately falls back onto the pillow. It’s stiff, but offers more comfort than anything else. At least for now.

“You’re awake.”

His hand instinctively flies to his cheeks, which are wet. He wipes them as best he can, glancing around the room.

Shang Tsung stands in the doorframe, leaning against the side. He’s stripped of his normal clothes, instead he wears what Bi-Han can only assume is some sort of loose gown. His right eye is swollen and purple, and dried blood coats his upper lip and cheek. A small twinge of pride swirls in Bi-Han’s chest

He props himself up on his elbows. His head still hurts and his thoughts still swarm around in his head.

“What did you do?” He can feel the sheets already start to frost over.

Shang Tsung laughs. He already starts to walk closer to the bed, arms planted behind his back.

Bi-Han’s palms itch, and he can feel the familiar ice start to sprout out.

“You’re mostly fine. It’s just your leg, really.” Shang stands by his side now, looking down at him. “I thought you’d need help with it.”

“I’m fine.”

Shang Tsung raises an accusatory eyebrow, and along with that comes the tug of his lip. Irritation rises, itching at Bi-Han’s throat and injured leg.

“Don’t be so sure, Grandmaster,” he chuckles, “But if you so desire, test it.” He makes a wide gesture at the room before them.

Bi-Han sits up, even through the pain that fogs his mind and vision. The pain stabs up at his thigh and hip, but he ignores it. He swings his legs over the side of the bed. Only now does he realize he’s wearing the same thing from the fight. It must’ve only been hours before.

He pushes himself up, and immediately his leg buckles in on itself. A searing pain roars in his body, drowning out anything else that he might’ve felt. He collapses forward, hitting Shang Tsung in doing so.

The sorcerer lets out a grunt, and he quickly grabs Bi-Han’s arms to stop him from hitting the floor. He quickly pushes him back onto the bed.

Bi-Han feels himself grow light for a moment, feels all his blood rush down to his leg, before he lays back down.

Shang Tsung steps closer to the bedside and hums lightly. Bi-Han barely hears him over the pounding in his head. He closes his eyes and waits for the pain to subside back to the corners of his consciousness where he could forget it. Or turn it into some sort of motivation for later. Faintly, and only in his mind, Bi-Han can feel the wounds in his side.

When the pain starts to become more bearable, his mind floods with questions. Had he lost again? Could he fix this? Had Shang Tsung really brought him back to the castle?

The last question sends a small warmth through his chest and face. A feeling so foreign that he might as well be sick with it. It becomes more and more unidentifiable the longer it sits, thawing the ice he’s so used to harbouring. What comes with the warmth is an undeniable fear of it.

He swallows it down, at least for now.

Shang Tsung stands absent mindedly, eyes scanning the white bed.

“What do you want?”

“I haven’t done anything but help you, and yet–”

Bi-Han lunges. He grabs Shang Tsung’s collar and tries to pull him down. His thoughts race faster than he can understand them– he has no idea what he’s doing. His reflexes do the job, but only for two seconds.

Shang Tsung stumbles forward, almost collapsing over the bed. When he falls over Bi-Han’s leg, the pain shoots through his whole body. He gasps for air, eyes already wet with tears about to spill. His vision goes blurry.

Shang immediately turns over, clawing his way over Bi-Han. He pins the cyromancer’s wrists under his knees, and uses one hand to push him down by his shoulder.

He raises his fist, slamming it into Bi-Han’s face. Instead of hitting again, Shang Tsung only pins down his shoulders again.

“Are you fine now?” he hisses.

Bi-Han struggles beneath him, and no matter how hard he tries to find a way to win, he can’t. This doesn’t stop him from trying.

Shang Tsung punches him again, this one harder than the last. Bi-Han feels the sting in his cheek start to grow into an ache. Bi-han spits on Shang Tsung’s shirt. He slowly gives a disgusted glance down at his own clothes.

“I just washed these,” he hisses. He turns his glare back to Bi-Han. “Now are you done yet? Will you let me help you?”

“Help me? You’re trying to help me?” Bi-Han laughs. He tries to pull his wrists out from beneath Shang’s grip. He strains before giving in, letting himself rest against the bedding.

Shang Tsung glares down at him suspiciously. Bi-han counts his breaths. The air between them is thick enough that he can feel it. He can feel every movement of the man above him.

Slowly, Shang Tsung releases his grip. He gets off the bed, now standing at its side.

“Let me help you.”

Bi-Han wants anything but for Shang Tsung to help him. Every nerve in his body tries to crawl out and away from the man beside him.

Instead, he stays silent. He stares at him, glaring with all the hate he can muster. But his body weighs down his mind– he can’t stand the pain in his leg.

When he tries to speak, the words catch on his throat like a fishing hook. He tugs the line a few times, but it only bleeds more. Bi-Han nods at Shang Tsung, but does not meet his eye. It’s reminiscent of a child who knows they’ve done wrong. Or, even worse, a dog with its tail between its legs, bowing.

Shang Tsung already dips down, rummaging under the bed. Bi-Han can only hear objects being shifted and slid around beneath him.

“How do you think you’re gonna fix this?” He asks the question partially with venom, but some of it bleeds into genuine curiosity.

Shang Tsung hums, the sound somehow loud enough to reach him. The answer leaves Bi-Han more on edge than before.

He pops his head up from beneath the bed. He tosses an old sack onto Bi-Han’s lap, and brings two jars full of a purple substance he’s sure he’s never seen before. Shang Tsung opens his mouth to speak, but Bi-Han immediately starts:

“What is that?”

A strong fear blooms in his chest, spreading through his whole body. Had Shang Tsung done all this just to experiment on him? In his mind, he sees the piles of bodies and skin and bones that were so common in the man’s laboratory. He hadn’t expected to join them.

Shang Tsung pops off the cap and holds Bi-Han’s leg with one hand.

“It’s for your leg. To seal part of the…” his eyes flick up to meet Bi-Han’s. ” …wounds.”

It brought him more mental anguish than anything, the idea of four gaping holes in his leg. He opens his mouth to ask, but Shang Tsung goes on.

“I’ve used it before.”

Bi-Han glares at him, still taking ragged breaths.

“It works, this one.” Shang Tsung laughs.

This brings more ease to Bi-Han, who lets his muscles rest. He watches Shang Tsung pour a small part into his leg.

He gasps, a temporary heat filling him, before a coolness snubs it out. His chest tightens with the sudden swing of feeling.

“It’ll go away soon. The side effects usually only last, what, five minutes?" Shang Tsung shrugs. “The temperature swings I knew would be an issue for you.”

“What…?” Bi-Han mumbles, feeling a sweat break out all over his body.

“With your powers and all.” Shang Tsung lifts the small bottle over the next hole, pouring the potion over it.

Another wave of heat hitting him like a gutpunch, maybe worse. He claws at the sheets, his knuckles going white. Shang Tsung gives his knee a small squeeze. Bi-Han has no idea what it means.

When the small bottle is empty, Shang Tsung gently puts it on the floor. He examines Bi-Han’s leg momentarily before grinning at him

“I’ll sew them up once you feel normal.”

Bi-Han wants to respond, but his whole body is wracked with the switching temperatures. The uncomfortable warmth that grows in his chest every few seconds reminds him of Shang Tsung.

Everything blurs together in his vision and mind. He can’t tell the grays around him from the back of his eyelids. Maybe it’s the pain, or the temperature, or Shang Tsung really did poison him. But he had hurt worse than this before.

It isn’t the first time something like this has happened. Bi-Han had gotten stabbed many times before. This shouldn’t have been any different. His thoughts are cut off by another wave of heat.

With that, he breaks out into a cold sweat. Within seconds, the small beads freeze up on his skin. He can practically feel steam rolling off of him. He finally gasps for air– air that's cold on his lungs and doesn’t hurt to take in.

“You made it,” Shang Tsung chuckles.

Bi-Han, for a second, wants to laugh. He doesn’t.

“Yeah,” he mumbles.

Shang Tsung wordlessly reaches into the bag that sits beside Bi-Han. He threads a needle slowly, hands stable when he does it. He moves himself, settling his elbow on Bi-Han’s lower thigh.

“Don’t move your leg.”

Bi-Han scoffs.

Slowly, Shang Tsung starts to move. The needle hurts when it pieces his skin, but it’s only a dull ache. It almost immediately blends in with the rest of the pain. He expects his leg to kick at some point, or for his body to protest against the needle. Nothing like it happens. He finds himself mesmerized, watching his work over his shoulder.

Shang Tsung works gently, leaning in close to his leg to make sure he gets the stitches exactly right. So far they're all evenly spaced and sized, something that pleases Bi-Han. They sit like little drawn lines on his skin–or, more appropriately, in his skin.

His own stitches always came out crooked. He could never get his hands to stop shaking whenever he did it. His arms were scattered with uneven scars that had healed oddly due to his own lack of skill. It was the one thing he could never pick up, sewing wounds. But they got sewn up, so the looks didn’t matter. That’s what he always told himself.

But now, staring at the straight lines, he can’t really remember why he thought that.

Shang Tsung sews up the first wound. He glances up at Bi-Han, as though to gage for a reaction. When he gets none, he continues on with the second.

This one hurts more than the last one did, but Bi-Han easily pushes his pain to the side. The lines all remain the same, pulled into place at the same rhythm as Shang Tsung’s hands.

This might be the longest Shang Tsung has been silent, Bi-Han realizes. The unnatural silence makes itself thick in the air. Yet, just as soon as it makes itself known, it fizzles out.

Bi-Han savours the silence, and the soft rustling of Shang Tsung’s sleeves moving in the same circle, and the way his lips are slightly pursed when he’s focused on something, the way his hair looks when it’s all tied back.

The time passes quickly, much faster than Bi-Han thought it would. He almost wishes he has more things to keep Shang Tsung busy with.

Shang Tsung relieves his weight off of Bi-Han, standing up straight. He tosses the small sack of thread to the floor. He admires his work, eyes softly looking down. He brushes the tips of his fingers over the stitches. Bi-Han shivers.

Finally, he turns and looks at Bi-Han.

“By the morning, you’ll be mostly fine.” he stops his sentence short, something unsaid lingering in the silence after.

Bi-Han grabs for anything to say:

“You can’t heal it completely?”

Shang Tsung laughs. The sound isn’t mocking or any sort of taunt. It’s soft, a sound that Bi-Han tries to memorize.

“You didn’t even want me to heal it in the first place.”

There’s a moment where Shang Tsung only stares at him, face blank, before his lips break into a wide smile.

“You need rest.” he hums.

Bi-Han waits for Shang Tsung to leave. He stares at him, standing in the corner, staring back. His whole body is cold, every hair on end.

Back in the Lin Quei, Bi-Han had a hard time sleeping. He was constantly watching his back, laying in bed waiting for a knife to pierce his heart. Some nights, he would spend hours fantasizing about how it would happen. Most were stabbing. Sometimes it was poison.

Those nights, if he fell asleep, he dreamt about his father.

But he isn’t Lin Quei anymore, and he isn’t anybody important here. He isn’t worth being killed in his sleep.

The heaviness of his eyelids starts to weigh on him. Even with his leg stitched up, he feels like an open wound. He wearily glances at Shang Tsung in the corner of the room; he’s glancing into the hallway, scanning for something.

Bi-Han closes his eyes. When he falls asleep, he does not dream.

[— —]

Bi-Han doesn’t even limp. He walks through the halls as though nothing had happened. As long as the healing wounds were out of sight, he could pretend it had all gone back to normal. It was easy enough for everyone else to act like nothing had happened, why should it be any harder for him?

Everything had gone mostly back to normal. Shang Tsung only spoke to him in meetings, when everyone was circled around with them. He spared him no second glances. Not once had he seen him in the halls.

It’s better this way. Whatever had been plaguing Bi-Han before was gone. It was as though he had never been angry at all. The reason for it all escapes him now. This is what he wanted. Isolation and power. The alliances that stayed strong even with no effort put into it.

But without the anger in his chest– the anger that had been replaced by adrenaline and pain from the fights– he felt the gaping wound of it. The giant spiraling hole of something lacking.

The snow crunches under Bi-Han’s feet as he walks. The wind brushes through the trees and gently kisses his face. The nighttime sky is dark, but faint purples dance across it.

He’d always found solace in cold nights. It was enough to clear his mind and give him room from everything else around him. If he couldn’t find distance anywhere else, he could here. But now, when, for the first time distance was not what he needed, he didn’t know where to go. Every night he spent out in the cold came back to him through the breeze.

Bi-Han slowly kneels, the cloth around his knees growing damp in the wet snow. He doesn’t mind. He lays his body down, facing up at the stars.

Thousands of stars stare back at him. Small blinking lights, shining out against the dark sky around them.

Bi-Han’s breath comes as a fog before him, clouding his vision with every exhale. He closes his eyes, and everything around him melts away with it. All he can hear is the whistling wind and his own breaths.

—

After hours of walking, searching through the halls for Bi-Han, Shang Tsung finally goes out into the night cold. He ventures out, hands cradling his bare arms. And in only five minutes does he find him.

He sees the silhouette first, a blob of something laying on the snow. Of course he’s laying in the snow, what else had Shang expected. He’s sure he'll freeze to death if Bi-Han doesn’t go inside with him soon.

When walking closer, and standing over Bi-Han with flushed cheeks, the first thing he notices is that Bi-Han isn’t wearing his mask. His pale face, finally a whole, is visible in the moonlight. His lips are slightly parted, with the fog of breath coming out from between them. Shang Tsung only now realizes how much Bi-Han looks like he belongs there: dark raven hair standing out against the snow, yet still glistening in the small light allowed to him, his lightly flushed skin only a few shades separated from the snow around it. For the first time, his eyebrows aren’t taught with anger or stress.

Shang Tsung almost loses himself staring at him, before the ache of cold jerks him back into his body.

“Where have you been?” He sees his own breath when he speaks.

Bi-Han opens his eyes, and looks up at Shang Tsung. He wordlessly sits up, leaning back on his hands. There’s an indent where his back once lay against the snow. He slowly looks around, before his gaze focuses on Shang Tsung again.

“What?” His voice is soft– a husk of what it normally is.

Shang Tsung stares at him, sitting in the snow. He feels the stinging of his own skin, and the small heat in his face that does nothing for him. He isn’t even wearing anything with sleeves on it. His whole body trembles with the cold.

“Bi-Han.”

Finally, the cyromancer turns to him. He looks so much smaller than he did before. Than he ever had been.

Despite the cold, and his best judgement, Shang Tsung sits down in the snow. His legs sting immediately. He hisses through his teeth.

“Don’t,” Bi-Han gently holds Shang Tsung’s wrist.

He shakes his head. “I want to see what you see out here.”

Bi-Han hesitantly lays back down, his fingers still brushing against Shang Tsung’s wrist.

With all the willpower he has, Shang Tsung forces himself to lay down in the snow. He bites his lip trying not to cry out. The coldness was eating at him– gnawing at his muscles and mind.

Bi-Han turns his head, now staring at Shang Tsung. The left half of his face is visible, set alight by the moon. Shang stares at him, at where his face dips and rises and makes shadows– the curve of his lips, the sharp angle of his nose. And, when meeting Shang Tung’s gaze, the shadows cast by the visible dimple in his cheek.

The eye contact brings heat to his face, one he thought impossible in this weather. He looks back up at the sky, and as soon as he does, he feels his breath lost in his throat.

“It’s beautiful,”

Bi-Han lets out what might be a laugh– it’s a breathy sound, like an exhale with more force.

Shang Tsung forces himself to turn to his head, and stares back at Bi-Han. He’s still staring at him.

“I see why you spend so long out here.” Shang Tsung smiles.

Bi-Han grins wider. Shang Tsung thinks he sees a small glint of teeth.

With a trembling hand, Shang Tsung reaches out. He slowly puts his fingers in Bi-Han’s hair. He glances back at his face, checking for any sign of conflict or disagreement.

“You’re so gorgeous,”

The words barely come out from his throat, only a soft vibration. Bi-Han scoffs.

He stares at Bi-Han, again. He tries to memorize him. A bruise rests on his neck, peeking from behind his collar. His cheeks are flushed pink with what Shang Tsung thinks is embarrassment, but was probably the cold temperature. Then again, Bi-Han should’ve been used to the cold. It shouldn’t make him blush.

“You think I'm lying?” Shang Tsung props himself up on one elbow. His whole body aches with the movement, but he ignores it. He leans over Bi-Han, staring down at him.

He waits for a response, and when Bi-Han remains silent, he leans in further. He ignores his thoughts, everything telling him to pull back and leave. He continues to lean in, eyes planted on his lips, until he feels two hands holding his shoulders back.

Bi-han stares up at him, eyes wide. His lips are parted, more than before, and Shang Tsung can feel his chest restrict.

“Is this what you wanted from me?” his voice sounds genuine, more than anything else he’d ever said or asked.

Bi-Han’s grip on Shang’s shoulders tightens.

Shang Tsung hums, still smiling down at him. It’s almost impossible now to drag his eyes away from the cyromancer’s lips. “If that’s true, Grandmaster, do you mind?”

Bi-Han lets out a deep breath, the sound trembling.

He couldn’t be nervous, Shang Tsung was sure. No other explanation makes sense, though. He pushes the idea to the back of his mind, now much more concerned about the distance between their mouths.

Shang Tsung smiles, one hand brushing the side of Bi-Han’s face. His skin, for what he thought might be the first time, held warmth. Where his cheeks flush, Shang Tsung feels a small heat under. He rubs his thumb on the warm spot.

He thinks it’s a trick of the light when he sees Bi-Han’s lower lip tremble. Maybe the frost made him see wrong, made him imagine it.

“Not at all,” Bi-Han’s voice is soft, more so than it’s ever been.

Before Shang can process anything, he feels his face go cold. Bi-Han’s hands are cupping his cheeks, pressing their lips together.

Despite the cold, despite the ache sitting in all of his muscles, Shang Tsung feels his whole body set on fire. He presses into the kiss, wrapping his hands behind Bi-Han’s head. Without breaking contact, Shang Tsung unties Bi-Han’s hair.

Bi-Han smiles against Shang Tsung’s lips, before pulling back. “It’s too cold for you.” He speaks through shallow breaths.

Shang Tsung wants to stay, to drink up the night with Bi-Han by his side. But he’s already losing feeling in his arms, which have gone pink. His fingers stopped stinging, and he’s barely aware he has them now.

He leans in, planting one final kiss on Bi-Han’s lips, before climbing off of him. It’s much harder than he thought it’d be. Bi-Han slips his arm over Shang Tsung’s shoulders, and lifts him up.

He stares at Bi-Han’s long raven hair in awe. It tumbles over his shoulders and brushes against his collarbone. It was a shame Bi-Han always kept it tied up.

Shang Tsung trudges through the snow, doing his best to get one foot over the other.

“You really came out here wearing that?” Bi-Han says, amused.

Shang Tsung lets out a shallow laugh. “I thought I’d be inside again much sooner.”

Bi-Han wordlessly nods, and carries Shang Tsung through the sparkling snow. The two make their way inside, the warmth flooding them both. Shang Tsung lets Bi-Han guide him, leaning back on the arm that supports him.

He lets the warmth sink into his skin, even if it was only somewhat warmer than outside. As the two walk, making their way out of the cold and deeper into the castle, Shang Tsung can only stare at the man beside him.