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It's not the first time, of course, that Shen Qingqiu has wandered towards Bai Zhan Peak in the greyscale murmur of the night. The route is so familiar that he thinks he could walk it with his eyes closed, if he had to. Perhaps, one day, he might. A thousand flickering possibilities present themselves in Qingqiu's thoughts, weaving quietly below the thin veneer of lucidity that he's desperately clinging to.
As unfathomably hard as the task is, Qingqiu perseveres in it. He isn't sure, exactly, how much time has passed since he awoke in the midst of breathlessness and clenching pain, but it feels like hours. It feels like punishment, a searing hell that he might surely deserve – a simple but just retribution for the sins he's committed at the System's behest. How much worse, he wonders in jagged fragments, must the Eternal Abyss be than this?
Qingqiu isn't sure how far he makes it before a pair of arms close around him, but he can still see bamboo, pulsing strangely with swirling shadows and unnatural bursts of colour, so he must still be on Qing Jing. Pathetic, really, how close to home he still is for how much effort it took to get this far.
But the arms he staggers into are strong and gentle, so he doesn't fight when they sweep him off his feet and tuck him against a steady chest. He can hear a heartbeat behind its ribs, a regular sound that captures his attention the same way a spider delicately captures a fly. There's a whooshing sound layered onto the sound of the heart, breath that rushes in and out in even rhythm, something that Qingqiu can try to match. Flowing in time with it, like a stream of water filling a new path, soothing energy cascades under his skin.
For quite some time, there’s nothing except the comforting beat in his ears and the soothing chill of spiritual energy billowing into the network of his core. It doesn’t take away the pain, but every time Qingqiu spasms and chokes the heartbeat is there to reassure him, hands firm and calm at his back. It comes in waves, the agony, starting in pinpoints that swell into pressure so heavy that Qingqiu thinks he might burst. And then he does, and the pain crashes into everywhere and he feels himself shaking but the heartbeat remains, and even though it sounds like it gets faster when the pain becomes his voice, it gets slower again when it dissipates.
The energy catches, somewhere… deep, somewhere Qingqiu doesn’t have a name for, and it feels like the moment immediately prior to vomiting – the heartbeat jumps, a jackrabbit for just a few seconds, and then the spiritual energy washing into him pushes through the snag. Qingqiu hears his name, distantly, in a soft baritone far closer to his ear than he’s expecting.
He waits, focusing on the heartbeat, for the next bubble of pain, but it never comes. The ache settles in, a constant thrum in his bones, dragging at his conscious thoughts. Exhaustion hangs on every thread of him, a weight on every breath that makes him want to curl up and sleep. It's running away, he knows it is, but Qingqiu is too tired to care. He can worry about his pride later, when the task doesn't seem quite so daunting.
The ache doesn't fade, but nor does it bloom into more acute pain, and slowly – ever so slowly – Qingqiu slips into bleak unconsciousness.
…
Clarity finds him, finally, as he comes awake in the morning sunlight. It's watery in the autumn air, but it shines down across his chest and face with enough warmth that he feels it through the blanket wrapped around him. When he opens his eyes, trying not to feel the pressure in them, it's so blinding that he finches as his eyes scrunch closed again, a low whine escaping him.
"How are you feeling?" A voice so familiar that Qingqiu relaxes before he can consciously process it, a sense of safety that feels like petals on his skin.
With a soft grunt of effort, Qingqiu gets his arms free of the blanket and pushes himself into a sitting position, letting his head hang and his hair offer some protection from the light, leaning against the wall for support. "I'm sore everywhere," he responds, but he makes sure a smile can be heard in his voice. "But I'm alright. Thank you, Shidi."
Humming from where he sits by the table, Liu Qingge nods and sips his tea. He's not wearing his outer robe, folded neatly on the floor beside him, but his hair is still tied up and his boots are still worn. "This is the second time this month it's gotten so bad." Spoken evenly, but Qingge doesn't look up from where he intently studies the grain of the wood. "You should have sent for me sooner."
Qingqiu sighs. He can’t argue the point, because Qingge is right, of course. It doesn’t make the whole scenario any less mortifying, but it is at least a familiar shame. “You’re right. I didn’t expect it to happen tonight.”
It’s not a lie. The truth skirts close, but Qingqiu had thought that he’d have the night before it got so bad as to need Qingge’s intervention. He can usually feel Without a Cure episodes coming, and he felt this one too, but it’s rare for him to suffer ones this bad so close together. And perhaps there’s an element of misplaced pride in there, that he’d scolded Ming Fan out of his room despite the disciple’s concern. He must know the signs by now—
Well, of course he does. The thought is chastising, and Qingqiu sighs again, more to himself this time. It’s hardly the first time Ming Fan has gone to warn the Bai Zhan Peak Lord, despite being told not to worry. It’s been years since Qingqiu was poisoned – the signs are always the same.
Humming shortly, Qingge sips at his tea. “You’re lucky I was already on my way.” Stiffness in his voice, only barely there, but they’ve spent enough of these mornings together for Qingqiu to pick it up. “This was a particularly bad one.” And now it’s scowled, as Qingge finally looks up at him with disapproval in his gaze. “How many times have you been told not to brush these things off?”
And perhaps the anger is deserved, but Qingqiu straightens his back defensively anyway, turning his head slightly. His fingers twitch, and he wishes he had a fan on hand to hide the faint warmth he can feel in his cheeks. “You say that as if I can predict these things,” he replies, as if he wasn’t just thinking about the fact he can. They’ve spent enough time in one another’s company that even though Qingge is clearly annoyed – a sleepless night away from his own peak, watching over Qingqiu as one might a child, spending large swaths of his own spiritual energy – Qingqiu remains convinced that it comes from a place of friendship. It never ceases to amaze him, how doggedly loyal Qingge is, even after the vicious history between him and the original Shen Qingqiu.
It’s only one of many reasons why Qingqiu tries to return the sentiment, why he dislikes calling Qingge to Qing Jing unless it’s absolutely necessary.
His eyes are narrow, reflecting deep blue-black in the morning sun. “If your disciple can predict it, then you absolutely can.” It’s accusatory. The tea is set down on the table, none too gently, and Qingge points at him. “Explain to me why Ming Fan is always the one to tell me your condition is acting up.”
Lifting his hands, Qingqiu desperately wishes they didn’t shake so much while he tries to wave away the anger. “I do send him for you most times.”
“Sometimes,” Qingge corrects him venomously. “Do you even remember how bad you were last night?”
A moment of silence goes by while Qingqiu combs through his memories, and he looks away. Bites his lip. “... I remember…” Pain, vividly, but he decides not to say that aloud. He’s sure Qingge knows. “Your heartbeat.” Qingqiu doesn’t mean to admit that out loud, and he immediately tips his head forward as he does, letting his hair hide his face and break Qingge’s eye contact. “It’s not very clear. My apologies, Liu-shidi.”
Qingge huffs, and there’s a faint clink as he picks up his teacup again. “You went into full fucking deviation, Qingqiu.” Harsh and pointed, his voice icy as he says Qingqiu’s name. Respect has never been Liu Qingge’s first concern, but it’s rare that he’s so overt with Qingqiu anymore; for a moment, Qingqiu wonders how angry he truly is. The thought dissolves under further scrutiny, though, because Qingge has a short temper and has never been shy about showing it. He only goes cold when he’s hiding something, Qingqiu’s learned. So then, what could it be?
There’s a crack, and Qingqiu jolts out of his own head, blinking towards Qingge. He’s got his free hand raised; he snapped his fingers. “Stay focused.” It’s an order, this time, and never mind that Qingqiu is technically his senior. The emotion in Qingge’s face – never particularly easy to read at the best of times – is smoothed to nothing this time, while he studies Qingqiu. The man never even needs a fan or a mask to seem completely mysterious, he can simply wipe his expression clean, as if his skin were porcelain. How incredibly unfair the universe is.
“I’m alright, Liu-shidi. I can feel my spiritual energy flowing smoothly, now.” Thanks to Qingge’s timely intervention. It’s depressing, how certain Qingqiu is that he didn’t make it even close to the rainbow bridge despite how blurry his memory is. There was too much bamboo for that, and it feels like someone else’s thought but he clearly recalls thinking himself pathetic.
Well… at least it’s not entirely wrong.
Qingge hisses softly, sets his now-empty teacup down, and stands. He snatches up his outer robe, puts it on in sleek, practiced motions, and then busies his hands fixing his ponytail. “That’s for Mu Qingfang to decide, not you.” Dread sinks through Qingqiu’s chest as he speaks, and he’s already shaking his head to deny it but Qingge cuts clean through any attempt to voice a refusal. “Your opinion on the matter is hardly to be trusted.”
It’s scornful, so much so that it’s almost sneered. Qingqiu knows, logically, that even this must come from a place of caring, and he understands the panic of witnessing a qi deviation – even with the ability to help ease it, such an event is never easy or simple – but it’s hard to remind his stinging pride of that. He manages, barely, considering how quickly Qingge had found him the night before, how easily he’d scooped Qingqiu up and brought his qi back into line. Even so, he can’t bring himself to look Qingge in the eye.
“... Very well. Have it your way.” As if Qingge ever settles for anything less. At least Qingqiu knows what Qingfang will say. The ebb and flow of his energy is slick once more, a rapid response to any call on it. He doesn’t manifest Xiu Ya – doesn’t dare ignite Qingge’s anger any hotter than it already is, quite aside from the sheer rudeness of it, to unveil his soulsword as if begging combat – but he can feel it warm in his core, at his fingertips as it should be.
Qingge pauses by the door, looking back over his shoulder. His eyes are piercing. “Remain here,” he commands Qingqiu. “If you’ve wandered before Mu Qingfang clears you, I will drag you to Bai Zhan and keep you there.”
He sweeps out of the room before Qingqiu can come up with a reply to that, but the threat does its job. No matter that he hadn’t intended on going anywhere, but Qingqiu lets himself lie back down and try to relax, resisting the urge to infuse energy into every ache in an attempt to ease them. It won’t work anyway, the persistent soreness plaguing him born of deviant qi tearing out of its proper pathways rather than physical injury.
Sometimes Qingqiu wonders why Qingge tolerates his role as Qingqiu’s keeper. Of course, it’s not quite so drastic as that – recent times notwithstanding, Qingqiu can go some weeks without his qi even sticking, let alone getting stuck badly enough to trigger a deviation. Most of the time, when it sticks, he simply loses the ability to control it, and no matter how uncomfortable or weak that feels, it only requires a simple transfusion to get it moving again. Generally, it can even wait until what time is convenient for Qingge to do so. How little he must do, to run his peak, that ‘convenient’ has never waited longer than an hour or so.
But the arrangement becomes much more troublesome when either of them must leave the mountains for one thing or another. Qingqiu rarely accepts missions for himself, on account of Qingyuan’s inability to let him go alone. Not that Qingqiu blames him, overmuch, because no matter how low the risk is, even a simple mission could prove lethal if his energy gets stuck at the wrong moment. It’s not such a hardship, if Qingqiu is honest – Qing Jing is beautiful, and Ming Fan is perfectly capable of handling lessons if he needs a day or two to himself. He doesn’t get stir crazy often, and on the occasions that he does, Qingge is always eager to drop whatever Peak Lord duties he theoretically has and spar.
It’s far harsher a thing, that Qingqiu is sent alongside Qingge whenever he leaves the peaks. Qingqiu isn’t sure whether it’s at Qingyuan’s behest or Qingge’s, anymore, but it hardly matters when the end result is the same. Perhaps it’s no less benign than Qingyuan knowing that Qingge is the most familiar with Qingqiu’s qi, or perhaps Qingge is unwilling to trust anyone else with the task.
Either way, the threat of incarceration on Bai Zhan feels far too real to risk. Qingqiu already takes up too much of Qingge’s time and space – he doesn’t need to become a permanent fixture of the man’s peak.
Sighing, Qingqiu scrubs his face with both hands. Maybe Qingge has a point. An episode like this is serious, and it’s more frightening than he cares to admit that it’s happened twice in one month. There’s a chance it’s nothing more than bad luck, and given how many years have passed since the initial poisoning Qingqiu is willing to place quite a substantial bet on that, but it doesn’t mean he should ignore the possibility that it’s a symptom of his condition worsening. As much as it pains him to admit, Qingge’s anger is warranted. No matter how much of an inconvenience it is, Qingqiu’s certain Qingge would rather attend his qi for one night than attend his funeral.
“Damn it, Qingqiu,” he mutters to himself. Fine. He’ll make an effort to apologise, when Qingge returns with Qingfang. If it will assuage Qingge’s irritation, he’ll even leave his duties to Ming Fan, for a few days.
Qingqiu lets out a soft noise, assured that he’s alone and cannot be overheard, and turns to hide his face in his pillow. Once more, for the millionth time, he curses the day he stepped in to protect Luo Binghe. He can’t say that he wouldn’t do it again, were the same situation to arise, but Binghe wouldn’t have even been harmed by the poison. His Heavenly Demon blood (not to mention his protagonist’s halo) would have protected him from it entirely.
And yet, Qingqiu would still repeat his mistake.
He’s not sure if that makes it better, the burden he’s become on Qingge’s time, or worse.