Chapter Text
There is a kind of cruelty that comes with sleeping in the room next to someone who used to love you. Through the wall, he can hear Yue Qingyuan getting ready to sleep. The thunk of boots beside the bed. A muffled sigh. If Shen Jiu lets himself imagine it, that small tink is the Sect Leader taking the guan from his hair and resting on the inn’s bedside table. The man would run his fingertips against his scalp, massaging the tension away.
Qi-ge had done that. Qi-ge had hated having his hair up.
As scummy little street rats, sometimes one of the older jies would play with their hair, trying to make them look like sweet little boys instead of who they were. But, as Shen Jiu reminds himself with a bitter scowl, Yue Qingyuan was not the Qi-ge he remembered. Maybe he can't rely on the past to predict him anymore.
The Qing Jing peak lord himself is already done with his nightly ablutions, tucked neatly between the rented room’s somewhat scratchy blankets. Routine makes him feel mostly human, even on field missions such as this. His face and body are washed, his skin lotioned, his teeth cleaned with a willow twig, and dots of perfume added to his wrists.
Every act is a luxury.
He has creams for his hands and the soft skin of his face. Balms for his lips so they never crack and bleed. Hair oil, brushed through black strands twice a week, fragrant with camellias. He takes his routines in careful, reliable steps, in ways that will assure him comfort. In some ways, each act is a guard against the thorny presence of things he will never speak aloud.
The other Peak Lords scoff at his frivolities, as if they have not been bathed in love and silks their whole lives. Shen Jiu does not need love or silks, but he will take perfume on his wrists, to inhale deeply when the memory of street-smells becomes too vivid in the shapeless dark.
He rolls over on the mattress, one that is much less comfortable than the one in his luxury house, and punches a pillow into shape.
His hands are no longer bleeding.
And yet, a phantom pain still tears through him, a sense-memory of what it was like to be sliced open. He had already healed himself by the time the beast’s claws had dragged free of Yue Qingyuan's body, and in the carnage he couldn't tell what splashes of blood belonged to either of them. Equally anonymous in the sanguine.
Shen Qingqiu hadn’t meant to cross paths with Yue Qingyuan at all. His own mission completed, he had been on the way to flying back to Cang Qiong when a brilliant red alert talisman showered into sparks at the edge of his vision. It was the type disciples had to carry on field missions. Something had gone horribly wrong.
He'd arrived into chaos.
Two disciples, clothed in Qiong Ding monochrome, lay crumpled against the thick roots of a cypress tree. A cluster of Qian Cao disciples were nearby, eyes wide and glassy with fear behind a talismanic shield. Some were tending to the wounded. Others had their swords out in front of them, shaking, as if they realised for the first time that swordsmanship was meant to keep you alive.
An arc of flattened trees and underbrush stretched away from the disciples. Between splintered trunks and churned earth, dark muzzles twitched and growled, dripping a honey-thick ichor. The bodies moved fast, climbing over one another in a horrible tide of fur and clicking teeth, trying to get at a figure in the center.
Abyssal Wolfwasps, Shen Qingqiu thought, quickly categorizing the roving mesh of eyes, the venomous drool, and needle-thin rows of stinger-teeth jutting out from open jaws.
There was no more time to think.
Abyssal Wolfwasps were, despite their name, not actually creatures from the Abyssal Rifts. Neither were they wolves for that matter. Or wasps. What they were was a beastmaster's curiosity, an evolutionary misstep further exacerbated by the qi of the demonic heartlands. A single drone stood nearly twice a man's height, with six wiry speed-built legs, wisps of thoracic fur in spots of yellow and black, and hyperextended jaws. In short, they were big, they were fast, and they always traveled in hives of thirty or more.
And they were always, always hungry.
A sidestep, and Shen Qingqiu dodged a howling snarl, cutting it off at the base with a flick of Xiu Ya. A pair of two, attempting to flank him, met the same fate.
The other cultivator here was still standing, he could hear the pained snarl of wolfwasps as they fought the figure, but he couldn't make out who it was past the hive drones launching themselves in his direction.
With this many, it seemed they had not just angered an errant pack; they had disturbed the whole nest.
He leapt onto Xiu Ya, narrowly avoiding another clicking snap of teeth, and flew to join his fellow cultivator. And hold them accountable for this mess, he privately seethed.
When he landed, it was Yue Qingyuan standing there, breaking a waspwolf’s jaws. Of course it was Yue Qingyuan. The bane of Shen Qingqiu’s existence.
The other man’s eyes widened briefly, before they moved into step with each other. The Sect Leader didn’t even act like he was breaking a sweat, like the bites on his arms didn’t matter. He hadn’t even bothered pulling out his sword, using his bare hands to take the beasts apart, throwing talismans and not shuddering at the spray of gore that followed. Shen Qingqiu had scoffed and beheaded another mindless drone. There had been less and less of the creatures left, maybe fifteen by then. Together, they made short work of them.
And then there they were, standing among a field of bodies both fleshy and insectile, with nothing to say to each other. Shen Qingqiu turned with a flick of his robes and headed back to the terrified disciples.
The injured Qiong Ding disciples, somehow, weren’t dead. Concussed with bones broken, for sure, but the group had escaped with no deaths. The story of what they were doing here came spilling out of the Qian Cao disciple Shen Qingqiu gestured to: an herb-gathering trip gone awry.
The local town had a wealth of herbs that only grew on that mountainside, and they were loath to give up any of their locations. But Mu Qingfang was incredibly invested, convinced he could develop a way of cultivating them in Qian Cao’s greenhouses. Most of the outing was political, and Yue Qingyuan had overseen the politicking that would enable the Qian Cao disciples to find and carefully pick the herbs, roots and all. Apparently the disciples were almost done, when newly plucked roots opened up into the tunnels of a wolfwasp nest.
What a waste of everyone’s time, the man had thought, and the disciple shivered under his gaze like she had heard it.
The rest of the clean-up wouldn’t even be worth telling if not for the last bit of it, when Shen Qingqiu was supervising the disciples packing up the wagon they had come in with. The horses were dead, there was nothing to be done about that, but the message they’d sent to the town meant horses would be brought soon. At his feet, a gnarled bit of roots and dirt rested in a slump, unbagged. It was probably one of the last dug up before the chaos had set in. Shen Qingqiu knelt and picked it up, turning the plant over in his hands. The root system was strangely flat and hard, like a long knife, and unlike the other sets of herbs he had seen today, this one was not in bloom.
“So much death for such a little thing.” he mutters, and stiffens when Yue Qingyuan huffs a laugh near him.
“I’m not sure this was what Mu-shidi was expecting when he asked me for a favor.” Yue Qingyuan had said lightly, as if he hoped that the blood they’ve spilled in the vicinity is enough to make up for anything, was enough to make Shen Qingqiu tolerate small talk from him. That sentence alone made Shen Qingqiu’s stomach tighten and curl, feeling sour. Cruel words spun from his tongue, cutting him on the way out.
“I was not aware that Sect Leader's time was so free as to be Mu Qingfang’s errand boy.” He had hissed, feeling both sadistic glee and horrid, scraping regret at the way the hopeful light dimmed in Yue Qingyuan's eyes. He didn't deserve any of Shen Qingqiu’s kindness. The possessive part of the man that was once Xiao-Jiu wished he still was, but swallowing knives was more useful than wishing. With a throat full of shards, at least you die afterwards.
“Of course not, Shen-shidi.” The man had nodded stiffly, after a little while. A fake smile stretched out like worn taxidermy on the Sect Leader’s face, and Shen Qingqiu hated it, hated it, hated it. Wanted to peel it off and shake the man until he was something real again.
He never got to finish their argument.
The worst part of a battle is the speed, sometimes too quick for memory. What happened next he can only see in flashes, a drop in his stomach that makes him unable to fall asleep in this inn bed, sharing a wall with a man he doesn’t know anymore.
Yue Qingyuan’s eyes, widening. A splinter of bedrock, a horrible crack of flesh bursting from earth. It doesn’t make sense. Arms, throwing him out of the way, but not soon enough for claws not to slice against his forearm, his hands.
The wolfwasp queen had taken her time, only breaking free of the earth after the slaughter of the drones. Shen Qingqiu barely remembers the fight at all, and instead of a final bloody execution, all he can see is brown eyes, sun-warm skin splashed in red. It doesn’t make sense.
Yue Qingyuan had thrown him out of the way, had taken the hit for him. The man’s arm was broken, his lung barely avoiding puncture and collapse. Then after, a sharp flash of steel as Shen Qingqiu severed the queen’s head.
Coughing horribly, Yue Qingyuan had then picked up the dropped plant and offered it to him with his one working hand.
It doesn’t make sense.
One thought keeps circling like a bee in a jar, like the lap of waves against a lakeshore…why would he have done that? To have protected him, to have been injured in the process. He knows Shen Qingqiu can take a beating. But here was Yue Qingyuan, using his own flesh as a shield, as if he had neither swords nor talismans. It is not what Yue Qingyuan, lord of Qiong Ding, would have done. It is what Qi-ge…what grimy, scrappy, kind Qi-ge would have done.
The boy that had loved him is long gone. In his place is a man, a beloved face, turned alien by the progression of time.
The buzzing in his brain continues, and sleep does not find him easily.
The herbs are collected, the bodies burned, and disciples ferried back to the sect. With the changing of his own robes, there is never any sign that the Qing Jing peak lord had bled for anybody.
He tries to breathe. Perhaps he’s a little short with the hallmasters, curter with his own disciples than usual. He could lock himself into his own rooms and it wouldn’t be enough to drive away the oceans of his own thoughts, surging like a tide again and again.
At the end of the following restless week, Mu Qingfang requests his presence at Qian Cao Peak, with a mention of concerns regarding the wolfwasp swarm. When he arrives, he nearly turns on his heel to leave at the sight of Yue Qingyuan’s strong back, sitting at a low table with Mu Qingfang. The man's shoulder is still bound beneath his robes, from the look of white gauze peeking out from the neckline of his robes. His arm, too, rests in a sling.
Mu Qingfang doesn’t let him escape. The man perks up at the sight of him, and gestures to another seat nearby.
“This one apologizes for pulling you both from your busy schedules, but my discovery meant this meeting could not wait. Do either of you know what this is?” he says, gesturing to the potted plant on the table.
Shen Qingqiu does. It’s the same flowering herbs from the mission that had gone so poorly, only with blue blooms instead of white. He thinks of the herb in Yue Qingyuan’s outstretched hand.
“What of it?” he asks, at the same moment Yue Qingyuan nods yes.
“It is white bai zhi, is it not?” Yue Qingyuan says.
Mu Qingfang’s lips thin. “I'm afraid not. My disciples made an easy mistake, but a mistake nonetheless.”
“Say what you mean, Mu Qingfang.” Shen Qingqiu snaps, his skin beginning to itch from being this close to Yue Qingyuan.
“This is the Few Drops Treasure Flower. It has begun to bloom.”
No, Shen Qingqiu thinks.
Treasure Flowers are rare, but not rare enough not to be an inconvenience to the cultivation world. Plants that steal qi, or blood, or semen, bloom into human children.
“It is very similar to white bai zhi in appearance, but the roots are much wider and flatter. Unlike predatory treasure flowers, the Few Drops Treasure Flower does not siphon qi, but instead relies on human blood to propagate.”
Yue Qingyuan is very still.
“The disciples were safe behind the barrier, & those that were injured suffered internal injuries. If either one of you bled onto the plant during the battle, well…”
“I picked it up.” Yue Qingyuan says, his face a pale moon, almost featureless. “After the queen. I picked it up and handed it to Shen-shidi.”
Mu Qingfang's calculating eyes sweep over to Shen Qingqiu.
“Don't look at me.” He snaps, unfolding his fan. “I wasn't stupid enough to get injured.”
He clenches his hand, feels the memory of split skin. He doesn't remember if he touched the flower while he was bleeding. He can't have. But if not him…
“Very well.” Mu Qingfang nods. “Then, Zhangmen-shixiong, it seems some decisions are in order. Shen-shixiong, if you would…” The Qian Cao peak lord begins a gesture towards the door, motioning for the Sect Leader’s privacy.
“I'm keeping it.” Yue Qingyuan says, quickly, as Shen Qingqiu rises smoothly to his feet. His heart thumps, hard. He would give anything to be anywhere but here. He would have taken on the queen by himself barehanded if it meant not having to hear this.
A child would say it's not fair. A child would stomp his feet and yell and cry. Shen Qingqiu does none of those things. He remains a cold statue of himself, a hardened shell that conceals the raw mass within. A wretched thing, unloved, a thing that tore itself apart to survive.
His heart is a wet clump of meat.
It should be dead by now, but it persists, gurgling out something lonesome at the sight of Yue Qingyuan, happy. The man is open-mouthed, like this joy is a sweet to be placed on his waiting tongue. Joy, hand-served. Everything they once were, everything they did, has slid off his back like oil.
Shen Qingqiu stands, flipping a fan in front of his face. “It seems I am no longer needed here.” He says curtly, and marches out of the building before anyone can tell his heart is racing.
The walls of the bamboo house are too sterile. Normally it is a comfort for him to choose the shape of his environs, but now he wants tapestries to rend, vases to throw. An endless supply of beautiful things to be ruined by his awful hands. He wants to make things shatter. He wants to find a soft place to rest.
In a small drawer, under many scrolls and neat tidbits, are some ugly trinkets Yue Qingyuan had foisted on him. Teapets, tassels for his fans, and the like. He has always thrown them back in the man's face, and then later, after the Sect Leader was gone, picked them up and shoved them somewhere he didn't have to think about it.
He is ripping open the drawer before a second thought.
The first thing he touches is a fan. A landscape sprawls between its wooden ribs. It is cheaply made, the type that a young sect disciple with shallow pockets may have been able to afford. One of Yue Qingyuan's first pity gifts, one Shen Qingqiu had thrown so hard it had ripped the paper and broken two of the wooden ribs.
He should have thrown it away.
Instead, he takes all of his suffering and tosses it again and again all into this cramped drawer, full of things he should have lit on fire years ago. He's good at arson. Breathing in smoke is easier than thinking about how Yue Qingyuan never came back for him.
He grips the broken fan in one hand, and a short flight later, finds himself in the dim, amber glow of the Warm Red Pavilion. He has a favorite room here, further away from the rest of the busier chambers. He melts into the quiet light, a rumple of green silk instead of a man. He has a bed that puts his back to the wall, so he can always see those entering. A low table rests with a ceramic weiqi board on its surface, unplayed.
Ning Yilan brings tea, and offers to bring tangyuan as well. He wordlessly shakes his head no, thinking of the pale white outside and the sheen of black sesame within. Too similar to robes he doesn’t want to see.
Her soft hands cup his cheek just like they had on the streets, before she’d been sold to the brothel. She’d been named Yi by the slavers. One, the first of nine. His da-jie.
It had felt like a miracle to find her alive, when he was a disciple, alive and steps away from being the brothel madam in her own right. All these years later, and she is that brothel madam and he is a Peak Lord. Age touches the corners of her eyes, at the edge of her painted mouth, and yet he, an immortal cultivator, can’t escape what it felt like to be a child in a horrible place.
This feeling isn’t grief. It’s something uglier.
They play a game of weiqi at his request, then another. She does not ask what the problem is, and he could never bring himself to tell her. That their Qi-ge is up on the mountain, that he has been on that mountain for years. That he lifted himself out of the dirt and became untouchable to the likes of them.
Shen Qingqiu could have been satisfied with the man’s horrid, scraping guilt, because at least then he could throw the man’s empty apologies back at him.
What does he do now with the thought of Yue Qingyuan, happy? Yue Qingyuan, a father?
He finds his answer in the deadened tar of night, sneaking onto Qiong Ding. He’s known it for years, but it’s another thing entirely to feel the tingle of the wards around the Sect Leader’s residence let him in.
What a stupid thing Yue Qingyuan has done, trusting a man like Shen Qingqiu.
He is every horrible thing his sect-mates say about him, he is scum, something twisted that managed to form itself into a person.
The Sect Leader’s singular private home is larger than the Qiu estate could have dreamed of being, with multiple floors and imposing, black arches. It is large enough that it could house dozens of servants and the Sect Leader’s personal family, and still have room. The courtyards are silent, somewhat overgrown. It is unsettling. Like a tomb, instead of the private home of one of, if not the most powerful man of the cultivation world. Shen Qingqiu passes through room by empty room, a museum dedicated to dust, before he finds the one room showing signs of habitation.
Yue Qingyuan sleeps on his stomach, like how some slaves did at the Qiu estate when they’d been beaten so badly that they could only sleep with their face in the dirt. Some had been hurt so bad that even after they healed, they still slept like that. Shen Qingqiu has no idea why Yue Qingyuan would sleep like this.
Qi-ge had always insisted he sleep on his left side, had said he’d heard it was what cultivators did. Shen Qingqiu knows that that was a lie now, but back then sleeping on his left side had meant xiao-Jiu slept closer to the wall, away from the wind.
The memories are just another fucking thing to mourn.
The man doesn’t wake as Shen Qingqiu looms. His hair is unbound, falling over his sleeping face like a sheet of the night sky, those strange white strands comets.
Moonlight spills through the rounded window, highlighting the plant that rests in a large enameled pot. The flowers are still blue, and small. Shen Qingqiu’s hand touches the petals once, before fetching a thin knife from his sleeves. His hands block the light, casting a palm-shaped darkness across the treasure flower.
Yue Qingyuan doesn’t deserve joy.
The knife moves quick, cutting a path through soft skin. The drops fall, red sucking into the flesh of the flower, splattering on the leaves. He lets the knife stay in, doesn’t let the small cut heal over until he is sure that enough has soaked into the pot. Even now, the droplets get smaller, consumed by the flower.
He doesn’t know if he bled on the flower that first time, but now, there is no doubt.
Only the moon and roaring creatures of the night would see the dark shape leaving Qiong Ding, a quiet exit with one red hand. The wind whistles as the man cleaves through the air, his dark robes whipping at the speed. The air is dry, cold in his eyes, but he keeps them open, pressing himself further and further.
Yue Qingyuan doesn’t deserve joy.
But Shen Qingjiu hasn’t been able to kill the part of himself that wishes things could be different.
