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They all see it happen. Every single disciple Shen Qingqiu had taken down the mountain with him on this mission bears witness to it. Shen Qingqiu wouldn’t be able to deny it if he tried.
They all see the long stigma of a spotted scarlet flower catch his hand, prick his finger to draw the barest amount of blood, and then retract as quick as a whip, the dewy petals snapping shut around the stigma, and then, over the course of mere moments, just as Shen Qingqiu is about to lead his disciples away from this odd, unsettling plant, they all watch as it cracks back open. The dried outer petals crumble to dust, revealing a tiny little baby covered head-to-toe in weird red sap.
Shen Yuan is born on a bright autumn day in front of a majority of Qing Jing Peak’s active disciples, and Shen Jiu is, undeniably, his father.
There is a small, contained moment where Shen Qingqiu considers leaving the child in the forest. Surely, the flower must have some sort of way of keeping it’s…offspring alive and well until it matures, or else the species would have died out by now--
This thought is abruptly cut short by Ning Yingying bounding out from behind him, her face alight with a specific sort of excitement that Shen Qingqiu remembers distinctly from every round of new disciple recruitment they’d had since she’d been accepted as a disciple. He can hear her voice in his head even now, that soft pleading whisper of, “Shizun, please! This time, this time, can we have a new shidi?”
As Ning Yingying lifts the child from its sap-covered bed, he realizes exactly what this plant’s specific brand of ‘safe-keeping’ must be.
Still, when Ning Yingying looks up at him with those familiar big eyes, cradling the plant child like a precious treasure…he lets her bring it home with them.
Just this once, he tells himself, like this situation will ever come up again in his lifetime.
I’ll keep a close eye on it, he reassures himself, as he lets Ning Yingying and the small gaggle of disciples she’s recruited set up the spare room in his bamboo house with everything an infant would need. He will allow Ning Yingying to care for it as long as she wishes, out of his own fondness for her, but he will not be swayed by whatever tricks this thing may pull.
When it comes time for this demon to show its true nature, I will cut it down without hesitation, he tells himself, just a few weeks later, as he wipes a stray bead of soup from Shen Yuan’s chin. Ning Yingying has been sent down the mountain on an errand and thusly, he has been left to care for the thing that now resides in his home. The boy smiles when he settles him down in his bed for the afternoon, and Shen Qingqiu’s chest warms, unbidden, as his own pale green eyes stare back at him. He chooses not to dwell on it.
The boy grows like a well-fed weed, looking more and more like Shen Qingqiu with each passing month - the soft mop of black hair on his head falling in much the same way Shen Jiu’s had when he was that young. The only difference between them, Shen Qingqiu notes, is that Shen Yuan’s hair is brushed each morning with Shen Jiu’s careful hand and bound neatly so it will keep out of his face when he joins the older disciples for their lessons. To keep him out of trouble, Shen Qingqiu rationalizes, dressing Shen Yuan in clean, personally-tailored robes, an unkempt disciple running around Qing Jing Peak would serve no one.
Ingratiating myself to the child will only be to my benefit if it inevitably turns on me, Shen Qingqiu tells himself the first time Shen Yuan reaches for him and calls him “Baba.” He does not correct the child, and very pointedly thinks of nothing else all afternoon, while Ning Yingying and her small group of disciples try to get Shen Yuan to call them shijie and shixiong. (But, when they have long since returned to their disciple quarters, and Shen Qingqiu is left to the quiet solitude of the home he’s come to share with his so--with the child--he does allow himself a small, private smile as he gently strokes Shen Yuan's hair, marveling at how soft it is.)
Teaching the child useful skills will ensure it sees me as an authority figure. Someone to be feared and respected. Shen Yuan is a bit older, now. Enough that when Shen Qingqiu lifts him up, he’s able to stand on his own with a little support. He toddles closer, using Shen Qingqiu’s hands as a brace, and inevitably tumbles into his lap when he reaches him. A fit of giggles follows as he tries to right himself, and Shen Qingqiu allows him to struggle a bit, an odd sense of pride worming its way into his heart when Shen Yuan eventually sits himself properly in Shen Qingqiu’s lap.
The seasons change, and Shen Yuan grows. And Shen Qingqiu falls into a routine he would have scoffed derisively at, only a few years ago.
It is best to keep threats close, he tells himself, while in the very same breath he chides Shen Yuan to be more careful with his budding forays into swordplay, lest he hurt himself. He doctors Shen Yuan’s minor wounds with a careful hand and accompanies him to Qian Cao Peak for regular inquiries into his health. If Shen Qingqiu is privately relieved when Mu Qingfang pronounces Shen Yuan in good health, he hardly shows it, opting instead to lecture the boy about diligence and restraint in his practice. His words are stern, but the gentle way he tousles Shen Yuan's hair betrays…nothing, really. Absolutely nothing.
Keeping something well-fed ensures it will not turn its teeth on you, he thinks, as he prepares carefully balanced meals for Shen Yuan, placing just a few extra pieces of those candied peaches he knows Shen Yuan likes in his bowl.
A well-educated child will listen to reason, should they be presented with…dubious evidence of their father mentor’s past. As such, it is only logical that when Shen Yuan learns to read and begins to devour any literature within his reach, Shen Qingqiu makes sure he always has the best educational materials at hand. Not that it would matter to him, of course, if Shen Yuan didn’t… It would simply be best to have as many allies on his side as he could, should certain things ever come to light.
Shen Yuan’s twelfth year comes and goes in what seems like the blink of an eye, and Shen Qingqiu finds himself wondering when, exactly, the lines between occasional guardian and parent blurred. His disciples have always spoken of Shen Yuan as his son, of course, but sometime in the past few years, this had caught on to other peaks as well.
Mu Qingfang sends him reports on his son’s health, Yue Qingyuan asks after his son whenever they cross paths - even down the mountain, the merchants he favors for procuring rare texts had, at some point that had seemingly skipped his notice, begun asking after his son’s well-being and studies. It stirs something complex within Shen Qingqiu, something both unsettling and warming - a contradiction that Shen Qingqiu has apparently grown accustomed to in these startlingly short years of caring for Shen Yuan.
Shen Yuan, of course, has called him father since the day he could speak, and Shen Qingqiu has never quite found the time, nor the patience, to correct him on it. Perhaps, he thinks now, that he simply hadn’t wanted to correct him in the first place. He settles into this thought on one late autumn evening, as he watches Shen Yuan practicing sword forms in the fading light of the bamboo house’s back garden.
Shen Yuan's sword moves with a precision and grace beyond his years, each stroke carefully executed as if it were part of an elegant dance. Shen Qingqiu watches, not for the first time, with a keen sense of unwarranted pride swelling in his chest.
A light breeze rustles through the bamboo leaves, a gentle whisper that seems to break Shen Yuan’s concentration momentarily. His foot slips slightly on the dew-slicked grass, and at this same moment, he seems to register that Shen Qingqiu has been behind him, watching him for some time. While he recovers his footing quickly, a warm flush of embarrassment colors his cheeks as he sheathes his sword.
With an awkward bow, Shen Yuan mutters, "Father, I did not see you there."
Shen Yuan says it so easily. Father, this. Baba, that. As though he has never once questioned Shen Qingqiu’s role in his life. As though he has never once doubted that that is how Shen Qingqiu sees himself in Shen Yuan’s life, as well, though Shen Qingqiu has never once called him his son aloud.
Perhaps it is time to change that, he thinks, as he watches as Shen Yuan fidgets subtly in place, very pointedly waiting to be dismissed. In any other instance, with any other disciple, Shen Qingqiu would have assigned a punishment for this display of restlessness - in his son, however, Shen Qingqiu only finds himself quietly fond.
Shen Qingqiu steps forward, the corners of his mouth twitching almost imperceptibly upwards in a rare semblance of a smile. "Your form has improved," he offers. And then, after a notable pause, he gently pats Shen Yuan’s shoulder and says, “Son.”
The word hangs between them, almost tangible in the quiet air. Shen Yuan's eyes widen slightly, and for a moment he is silent, as if processing the weight of the acknowledgement. Shen Qingqiu wonders what he could be thinking - if he’s confused, surprised, or perhaps disappointed? He watches Shen Yuan closely, a careful nervousness worming its way into his own chest. But then, Shen Yuan's face breaks into a small, genuine smile, and before Shen Qingqiu can react, Shen Yuan has his arms around him, his face buried indecorously in Shen Qingqiu’s chest.
"Thank you, Baba," Shen Yuan whispers, his voice muffled but filled with a warmth and reverence that seep straight into Shen Qingqiu's heart. It strikes him then, how rarely they embrace like this—how rarely he allows closeness of any form. But here, in the shelter of his home - of their home, he lets himself sink into the comfort of it, his hand smoothing over the crown of his son’s head. And he thinks that perhaps this too will change, in time.