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Chapter Text

The first thing Binghe feels is warmth.

Warmth that does not come from sunlight or the weight of blankets or even from a flare-up. Instead, it’s wet, sinful, mouth-wrapped-around-his-cock heat that sends a full-body shiver skittering through him before he’s even fully awake.

Binghe blinks up at the ceiling, groggy and confused for half a second, until Shen Jiu sucks down harder and drags the tip of his tongue along the underside of Binghe’s cock with the kind of precision that could make a man see god.

“Jiu-er—” Binghe gasps, hips jerking before he can stop them. His voice cracks embarrassingly. “What— mmngh— what are you doing?”

He pushes himself up on his elbows just as Shen Jiu pulls off with a pop , wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. His lips are already pink and swollen. “Waking you up. Clearly.”

Binghe groans, dropping his head back against the pillow. “You really have no respect for sacred mornings, do you?”

“I respect them very much,” Shen Jiu says, settling comfortably between his husband’s legs. “That’s why I’m starting mine the proper way.”

Then he’s swallowing him again, slow and deliberate, like he’s savouring something rare. There’s a maddening patience to his rhythm, and his mouth is molten heat, slick and smooth, working him over with devastating control. Every motion is measured, a steady cadence that makes Binghe’s breath catch in his throat, makes his fingers clench uselessly at the sheets.

Shen Jiu takes him in shallow at first, lips taut around the head, tongue tracing lazy circles with surgical precision. Each retreat is followed by a flick, a cruel little swirl that makes Binghe twitch, a tease that speaks of someone who knows exactly how to ruin him and fully intends to.

Then, he takes him in deeper. The suction tightens. Shen Jiu hums low in his throat, and the vibration shoots through Binghe’s spine, sharp and electric, tipping him further out of control.

Binghe groans, hand curling white-knuckled in the bedding. His hips jerk once, helplessly, and that’s when he reaches for Shen Jiu. His fingers find the back of his head, threading into his soft, silken hair and holding.

“Jiu-er,” he chokes out, undone and helpless.

Still, Shen Jiu doesn’t stop. He lets Binghe guide him, lets himself be used like this with his mouth full, lips stretched slick around the head of his cock, breath slow and measured. Binghe’s fingers stay tight in his hair, trembling slightly as he rocks forward with shallow, needy thrusts, his cock slipping in and out, wet and obscene.

Every movement makes him feel the drag of Shen Jiu’s tongue, the tight suction of his mouth, the way his throat flutters when Binghe pushes just a little deeper. He’s so fucking warm and wet and open and devastatingly still, like he’s not even working for it, like he wants Binghe to fall apart on his tongue.

Binghe’s hips jerk forward again, slightly faster this time. A soft, wet sound echoes between them, vulgar and sticky. Shen Jiu hums again, and the vibration punches a curse from Binghe’s mouth.

“Fuck— Jiu-er, don’t do that,” he rasps, already wrecked. “You’ll make me—”

But Shen Jiu just presses closer, takes him deeper again, lips wet and stretched, spit slick on his chin. Binghe feels it, the edge bearing down fast and brutal, pleasure tightening low in his gut.

It’s not fair, how fucking good Shen Jiu is at this. How smug he looks with Binghe’s cock stuffed in his mouth and tears clinging to his lashes like dew.

Binghe’s control frays. Every nerve in his body sings with it, desire curling tight and mean in his belly. Yet Shen Jiu stays composed, always in command, hands resting lightly on Binghe’s thighs like a man bracing a wild thing.

Binghe is going to break.

His breath stutters out of him in short, broken gasps, chest rising and falling like he’s run ten miles uphill. The heat coiling in his gut is unbearable, sharp and white-hot, his entire body taut with the tension of a climax just out of reach.

“Jiu-er,” he pants, voice wrecked, hand still braced on his head “, don’t stop—”

Shen Jiu doesn’t stop. Not exactly. He just slows, drawing back to mouth at the tip lazily, tongue flicking in soft, maddening passes that make Binghe buck helplessly beneath him.

“Darling,” Binghe rasps, barely managing the word, “you’re going to be late for the meeting with the other Peak Lords, so help me and finish me off quickly.”

Shen Jiu lifts his head at last, lips slick, a strand of saliva catching on his lower lip before he wipes it away with infuriating calm. His hand keeps stroking him, long and languid, like he’s petting a particularly spoiled animal.

“Let the other Peak Lords be mad,” he says, voice mild. “They’ll understand.”

Binghe cracks one eye open, eyes glassy and dark. 

“Understand what, exactly?” he breathes.

“That I have a very attractive husband,” Shen Jiu replies smoothly, utterly unfazed, “and he requires attention.”

Binghe laughs, flushed and helpless, the sound rough and catching. It breaks off into a moan as Shen Jiu mouths at the tip again. “Gods, Jiu-er—”

But just as the pressure mounts, just as he feels himself go light-headed with it, Shen Jiu’s mouth leaves him entirely.

The cool air is a shock. Binghe whines— actually whines — and jerks his hips up as if he can chase the heat back.

“No,” he gasps, eyes flying open. “Jiu-er.”

Shen Jiu only smirks, entirely unrepentant. 

“Hm. That seemed like a lot of buildup,” he says, flicking his thumb across the head in a slow, teasing pass. “Should I really have hurried?”

Binghe looks at him, betrayed beyond words.

“Cruel,” he mumbles hoarsely. “You’re cruel.”

“And yet you love me,” Shen Jiu replies, with the serene detachment of someone who knows he is absolutely right.

Binghe huffs in frustration, but he is still deeply turned on.

Shen Jiu, perhaps taking pity on him, shifts up onto his knees, straddling Binghe’s thighs as he wipes his mouth again with the back of his hand, still infuriatingly composed. He’s wearing only a delicate robe that slips from one shoulder, baring the elegant curve of his neck and the scattered constellation of bite marks from the night before. His cock is already hard, flushed and leaking, pressed against the pale plane of his stomach.

Binghe reaches out, fingers trailing along the inside of Shen Jiu’s thigh. 

“I hope you’re planning to sit on it now,” he murmurs, voice still rough around the edges. “After all that, it’s only fair.”

“Demanding,” Shen Jiu deadpans, but his breath hitches when Binghe brushes his knuckles a little higher, a little closer. He narrows his eyes. “You’re lucky I’m indulgent.”

He shifts forward in one smooth motion, reaching back between them to line Binghe up. The head of Binghe’s cock nudges against him slick, hot, and throbbing with need. Shen Jiu exhales slowly, hips tilting as he rolls them back once, letting the pressure tease at his entrance. He’s still tender from the night before, already stretched just enough that the ache is more memory than pain. There’s only heat now, only hunger. Binghe groans, head dropping back against the pillow, hands tightening on Shen Jiu’s thighs like he’s holding himself together by force.

“Jiu-er,” he rasps, voice cracked and pleading.

Shen Jiu hums, low and unhurried, and then sinks down with a long, fluid motion, taking Binghe inch by inch, every slow slide a deliberate torment. He doesn’t stop until he’s seated fully on Binghe’s cock, his thighs trembling faintly around his hips, fingers curling against Binghe’s chest to brace himself.

Binghe chokes on a sound that’s something between a moan and a profanity.

“You’re going to kill me,” he breathes, hands sliding up to grasp Shen Jiu’s hips, fingers gripping the soft flesh of his buttocks.

Shen Jiu leans in, his hair falling around them like a curtain, and his hand still braced on Binghe’s chest as he begins to move, slow and deliberate. 

“Is that right?” he murmurs, lips ghosting over Binghe’s jaw. “Might as well make it worthwhile, then.”

Shen Jiu lifts his head, lips red, eyes half-lidded, and lashes clumped together with sleep. His hair’s a mess with long strands tumbling over his shoulders and sticking slightly where sweat has begun to pearl at his temples. And yet, somehow, it only makes him look more composed. Regal, even. Like a painting come undone just enough to be real.

Binghe’s breath stutters in his throat.

The sunlight cuts through the window, spilling gold across the bed, catching in Shen Jiu’s hair like silver thread woven through black silk. His skin glows in it, flushed pink across the cheekbones, pale everywhere else, marred only by the darkening marks Binghe put there last night with single-minded devotion.

The robe has slipped almost entirely from his shoulders now, held together only by a single silk ribbon at his waist. It’s sky blue, embroidered with little cranes mid-flight, loose and barely a knot, as if taunting Binghe.

Binghe has a sudden, blasphemous urge to lean up and pull it free with his teeth. 

Shen Jiu keeps rocking down on his cock, pretty as ever, smirking at the face Binghe makes even as he himself unravels bit by bit.

Beautiful. He is beautiful.

Binghe could write hymns about this man. He could write actual scriptures filled with divine verses about the way Shen Jiu’s body moves as he grinds down slow and deep, the subtle flex of muscle in his thighs, the way he rolls his hips like he knows Binghe’s seconds from breaking.

And he’s not even trying. Shen Jiu looks vaguely distracted, as if his mind is somewhere else entirely. Like riding Binghe into ruin is just part of the morning routine. A chore he doesn’t mind doing before tea.

Binghe can’t stand it.

“You’re unreal,” he breathes, voice roughened by sleep and want. His fingers slide along Shen Jiu’s waist, caressing the soft skin there. “How do you exist like this? At this hour? Don’t you have shame?”

Shen Jiu tilts his head, unimpressed. “You’re the one who gets hard from just looking at me.”

Binghe groans dramatically. “Can you blame me? Look at you. You can bring men to ruin with a single glance.”

Shen Jiu huffs, rolling his hips, eliciting an obscene sound from Binghe.

Binghe pants, eyes blown wide and fingers still gripping Shen Jiu tightly. “My husband is unfairly beautiful.”

A slow arch of one brow. “You say that like you didn’t fuck me silly last night.”

“You were very pliant,” Binghe says fondly, hand sliding down to cradle the underside of Shen Jiu’s thigh, thumbing the sensitive skin there. “My favourite version of you, really.”

“Pervert,” Shen Jiu mutters, but he lifts and sinks a little harder this time, just to hear Binghe gasp.

“Yet, you married me,” Binghe says through gritted teeth.

“Clearly, I have poor judgment.”

“Tragic,” Binghe pants, biting back another moan as Shen Jiu clenches around him. “We’ll just have to make the most of your bad decision.”

“Hmm.” Shen Jiu leans forward slightly, bracing both hands on Binghe’s chest. “And here I thought you’d want to conserve energy for taking lessons in my place today.”

Binghe whines.

“That’s low,” he says. “Bringing up work when you’re this deep on my cock.”

Shen Jiu smiles, sharp and knowing. “I can go lower.”

And just like that, Binghe’s restraint snaps like a bowstring under strain.

Enough.

His hands slide down, gripping Shen Jiu’s thighs with sudden force, fingers digging in like anchors. His body coils, tight with urgency, as something sharper overtakes the daze in his gaze.

“Come here,” he rasps, and then he moves.

In one fluid motion, he sits up and drags Shen Jiu flush against him, locking his arms around him like iron. Shen Jiu gasps, startled, his eyes going wide just a second before Binghe crushes their mouths together, all hunger and heat and intention.

It’s hot and open-mouthed, clumsy with urgency. Their teeth knock, their lips bruise. Binghe licks deep, drinking him down like he’ll never get another taste. Shen Jiu moans into it, legs tightening around Binghe’s hips instinctively, grounding himself on the one place he’s been stretched open. Still full and filled.

Now straddling Binghe’s lap, Shen Jiu begins to move again, but this time it’s not with the deliberate, teasing rhythm from before, but with a new, more desperate kind of surrender. He rides him deeper, faster, the stretch inside him hitting angles that make his breath catch, his thighs tremble.

Binghe groans into his mouth, hips rolling up to meet him with each grind. He’s flushed to the ears, and sweat clings to his temples. His eyes burn, heavy-lidded, fevered. All he can feel is Shen Jiu. His heat, the tight clench around him, and the way his skin shivers when Binghe’s hands drag up his back.

Binghe pulls his mouth away only to press open-mouthed kisses along Shen Jiu’s jaw, then down the column of his throat, warm and adoring. He licks along the edge of his collarbone, teeth catching gently, then not so gently. He sucks marks into skin he’s kissed a thousand times before, and would gladly do so a thousand times again.

Each bruise blooms under his tongue like a promise.

Shen Jiu doesn’t protest, doesn’t push him away. He simply arches into his touch, offering more to work with. The way his body folds into Binghe’s grip is devastating.

“You’ll leave bruises,” he pants, fingers digging into Binghe’s shoulders for balance, voice slipping into something hoarse and frayed, still tilting his neck back to let his husband bite and kiss.

“I’ll kiss them better later,” Binghe breathes against his throat, voice reverent. He mouths a fresh mark into the soft skin beneath his ear. “You look best like this anyway. Ruined. Messy. Mine .”

Shen Jiu makes a frustrated noise in his throat, half a curse, half a moan, and drops his head against Binghe’s shoulder. “Shameless.”

Binghe laughs, kissing his neck, the sound buzzing against his skin.

“Darling,” Binghe murmurs, his voice sticky with affection and lust, “if there ever comes a day when I don’t want to fuck you just chop my dick off. It’d have clearly stopped working.”

Shen Jiu lets out a laugh. A sharp, breathless thing that hitches at the edges. 

“Noted,” he says. “I’ll keep Xiu Ya on hand.”

Binghe bites his shoulder, not hard but possessive. 

“I’m serious,” he says, kissing the mark after. “You’ve ruined me.”

Shen Jiu lifts his head, green eyes burning. “You were already ruined.”

“Then I guess you just made it permanent.”

And with that, Binghe shifts and grips Shen Jiu’s hips and thrusts up hard. Shen Jiu chokes on a moan, eyes fluttering shut, his spine arching as Binghe fucks into him, deep and sure.

The rhythm turns relentless.

Their bodies meet again and again, the sound of skin against skin echoing soft and low beneath the murmur of breathless gasps. Binghe moves with intent now. Every thrust is deep and deliberate, flooding Shen Jiu’s body with sensation that coils tight behind his ribs and blooms across his skin.

Shen Jiu clings to him, fingers tangled in Binghe’s hair, lips parted in something between a curse and a moan. Each movement knocks the breath from his lungs, and each shift stokes the heat, curling low in his belly.

The bedsheets twist around them. Binghe presses kisses wherever he can reach— along Shen Jiu’s jaw, his throat, the hollow of his collarbone— his voice a wreck of sweetness and filth. Praise and longing spill into Shen Jiu’s ear like secrets too heavy to hold.

And through it all, he doesn’t stop touching him like he’s sacred. Doesn’t stop kissing him like he’s something rare.

Shen Jiu tips his head back, flushed and panting, undone in a way he’d only ever allow with Binghe. His legs tighten around Binghe’s waist, as if trying to keep him there. As if that is all that has ever mattered.

“Binghe,” he breathes, “don’t you dare stop.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

He pulls back just enough to look into Shen Jiu’s face, flushed and half-undone, lips parted around soft, trembling breaths. For a second, he just drinks it in. Then he moves.

With a low groan, he shifts forward and tips Shen Jiu back onto the bed, slow but unrelenting. Shen Jiu lets himself be lowered, hair fanning out beneath him like ink spilt across the pillow. His robes fall open fully now, baring the pale line of his chest, the flushed column of his throat, the bruises Binghe has already left like a signature across his skin.

Before Shen Jiu can reach for him, Binghe grabs both his wrists in one hand and presses them down into the mattress, pinning them above his head.

“Binghe—” Shen Jiu starts, but the name comes out on a breathless moan when Binghe sinks into him again, hard and deep.

His free hand braces on Shen Jiu’s hip, fingers digging in. He sets a pace that’s nothing like before. It’s less teasing, more claiming. The bed rocks beneath them with every thrust. Shen Jiu’s back arches, his fingers twitching where Binghe holds them, unable to do anything but feel.

“Stay there,” Binghe rasps, voice thick, mouth brushing Shen Jiu’s cheek. “I want to see you like this.”

Shen Jiu opens his mouth, possibly to bite out some retort, but he only manages a loud moan. His thighs tighten around Binghe’s waist, the flush climbing higher on his neck. His voice cracks around a groan as Binghe thrusts harder, deeper, hips rolling fast and precise.

The sounds are obscene now, slick, wet and gasping. The bed creaks beneath them. The headboard thumps lightly in rhythm. Shen Jiu’s moans are muffled only when Binghe leans down to kiss him again, hungry and messy and open-mouthed, teeth grazing, tongues clashing.

Binghe doesn’t stop or ease up once. He keeps him there, pinned, splayed and taken. Hair fanned out like a halo. Eyes wet, half-lidded. Lips red, kiss-bruised.

“You should see yourself,” Binghe whispers, breaking their kiss only to pant against his skin. “Spread out like this. You’re…” His voice falters, then breaks into a groan. “Fuck, Jiu-er. You’re perfect.”

And Shen Jiu, ruined and breathless beneath him, doesn’t argue.

His breaths come in sharp, broken gasps now, thighs trembling around Binghe’s waist. Every time Binghe thrusts in, deep and angled just right, Shen Jiu chokes on a moan and clenches down tight around him. His eyes have fallen shut, and his hands tremble where they’ve been pinned.

“Binghe—” he pants, his tears hanging on his lashes and wrists still trapped above his head. “I’m— fuck— I’m going to—”

“Let go,” Binghe whispers, voice wrecked. “Come for me, Jiu-er.”

Shen Jiu does. He shudders hard beneath him, back arching off the mattress as his release hits. His mouth drops open in a cry, pleasure rippling through him in waves. His cum spills across his stomach in long, hot pulses, streaking his skin with mess.

Binghe nearly loses it right then. He groans, low and guttural, fucking Shen Jiu through it, trying to draw it out, to memorise every twitch, every sound, every flicker of ecstasy that crosses his face.

Then Shen Jiu slurs, voice thick and ruined, “Come on me.”

Binghe’s vision whites out for a second.

“What—?”

“Come on me,” Shen Jiu says again, deliberately this time, words slow and slurred, still drunk on his orgasm. “I want you to make a mess.”

Binghe groans, loud and involuntary, like the sound is ripped from his chest. His hips stutter once, twice and then he’s pulling out, barely holding himself together. He pumps his cock a couple of times with his hand before he spills across Shen Jiu’s stomach and chest in thick, hot spurts.

His breath catches, vision swimming as he watches it land— white on pale skin, on the curve of Shen Jiu’s ribs, across the smear of his earlier release. Shen Jiu doesn’t flinch. He lies there with his wrists still pinned, flushed and utterly debauched, watching Binghe with that burning, heavy-lidded gaze.

“Fuck,” Binghe breathes, dizzy, finally letting go of Shen Jiu’s wrists. “You’re evil.”

“And you’re easy,” Shen Jiu mutters, but his voice is hoarse, satisfied. He wraps his arms around Binghe’s back, pulling him in.

Binghe leans down to kiss him again. It is slow this time and deeply reverent. His hands cup his face gently, thumb stroking over his cheekbones.

Shen Jiu exhales, sinking into the pillows, legs still spread open, flushed and boneless, skin slick and streaked with come. Binghe draws back from the kiss but stays above him, breathing hard, his eyes devouring every inch like he might never get to see this again, even though he knows he will. 

Again and again. For the rest of his life.

To the rest of the cultivation world, he’s Shen Qingqiu, the cold, elegant, untouchable and fearsome Peak Lord of Qing Jing who never smiles and never falters. To their friends, he’s Shen Jiu, who is sarcastic and snide, and always one remark away from rolling his eyes so hard that it might cause structural damage. They all probably think he’s immaculate, controlled, and composed.

But here in their bed, under Binghe’s hands and mouth, flushed and pliant and sighing like he was made for this, he’s none of those things.

He’s just Jiu-er.

His Jiu-er.

The man Binghe can ruin with his touch and worship with the same mouth that moaned filth into his skin. The one he can press open, fuck senseless, and then kiss tenderly until he’s trembling from pleasure or laughter or both.

Only Binghe gets to see him like this, undone and utterly adored.

He leans down and kisses Shen Jiu’s temple, reverent and unbearably soft, then traces his lips down to the curve of his ear. 

“I hope you know,” he murmurs, voice low and warm, “the rest of the world doesn’t deserve to see you like this.”

Shen Jiu hums faintly, too spent to quip back, but one eye cracks open. “They wouldn’t survive it.”

Binghe chuckles, his hand skimming along Shen Jiu’s thigh, pausing to squeeze the muscle like he can’t quite believe this is real. “ I barely survive it.”

Shen Jiu exhales again, less a laugh than an indulgent sigh, and lets Binghe hold him, lets himself be kissed and touched and praised even now.

Because in the hush after it all, beneath the heat and the high and the marks and the mess, he’s still just Jiu-er and Binghe, only Binghe , gets to know the difference.

“Come on,” Binghe murmurs, already gathering him close. “Let’s get you clean.”

Shen Jiu huffs, a little breathless still, too boneless to do more than blink up at him. “I can walk, you brute.”

“Sure you can, Jiu-er,” Binghe replies, arms curling beneath his back and knees as he lifts him effortlessly. “But I’m committed to the bit.”

“You always are,” Shen Jiu mutters, but his arms still loop around Binghe’s neck without protest.

He rests his head against Binghe’s shoulder, cheek brushing bare skin that’s still warm from sex. His legs dangle limply, and though he might grumble, his body leans into him without hesitation.

Binghe walks them toward the bathing room, unhurried. One hand supports Shen Jiu’s back, the other tight against the backs of his thighs. He doesn’t jostle or show off; he just carries him like something sacred, something earned.

The bedroom door swings shut behind them with a soft click.

Left behind is the tangle of sheets, the lingering scent of incense and sweat and sex in the air, thick as smoke, stubborn in the summer heat. Sunlight pools across the mattress in long, lazy lines, catching on the faint bruises along their pillows, the smears of their come on the sheets.

The bamboo house holds its breath.

Outside, a bird calls once, then falls silent. Inside, there is only the echo of fading heat, the hush of devotion left unspoken, and the soft footfalls of a man carrying his husband to the bath like he might never put him down again.

Chapter Text

Before anything else, Liu Qingge learns to wield a sword.

It isn’t a choice so much as a birthright. He comes from a long, proud line of cultivators known for their discipline and brute-force combat. His childhood is measured in sparring drills and blade weights, in the sharp posture correction and the endless repetition of forms. The sword is the only language expected of him and the only one he learns to speak fluently.

He grows fast, grows strong, and wins early. He earns a place at Cang Qiong before his voice has fully settled, and by the time he settles at Bai Zhan Peak, he already carries himself like someone who has something to prove and every intention of doing so with force.

He doesn’t waste time. There’s never been enough of it to begin with.

Books bore him, and gossip irritates him. As for romance, he finds it confusing at best and idiotic at worst. He’s seen disciples loiter after training just to talk, watched them nudge each other in quiet corners, pass folded notes under the table. Strong, reliable cultivators become bafflingly fragile when a pretty Shimei so much as smiles their way. They whisper and laugh over things he doesn’t understand. He watches, faintly exasperated, and wonders what the point of it all is.

He doesn’t know how to join in, but he’s never needed to. He doesn’t want to.

So he trains, he spars, and he wins . Everything else is just noise.

It’s not that he doesn’t feel things. Of course he does. It’s just that emotions never arrive in ways that make sense. His mind works best when things fall into categories: injuries to treat, enemies to strike, objectives to complete. Feelings don’t slot into neat compartments. They sit too close beneath the skin, loud and ungovernable. So he avoids them and folds them away like knives too dangerous to carry unsheathed.

So, in the beginning, he doesn’t notice Yue Qingyuan.

They aren’t strangers, not quite. Yue Qingyuan is older and from Qiong Ding Peak. He is bookish, composed and endlessly polite. He speaks in an infuriatingly calm tone and always looks like he’s just stepped out of a painting. Liu Qingge finds the whole package stifling.

And yet, everyone listens when he talks.

His reputation is well-earned as one of the sect’s most promising disciples. He is talented with a sword, though understated about it. Always diligent. Always dependable.

Boring , Liu Qingge thinks.

That belief hardens after the one time they spar.

It’s a formal, inter-peak activity designed more to observe technique than test strength. Liu Qingge arrives fast and coiled tight, his strikes sharp and direct, efficient in a way that’s meant to overwhelm. But Yue Qingyuan matches him blow for blow, steady and unflinching. Their swords clash briefly, then disengage with a hiss of spiritual pressure that leaves the air buzzing.

“Your form is decent,” Yue Qingyuan says when he steps back, unruffled.

Liu Qingge blinks. “That’s not really a compliment.”

A faint smile. “It wasn’t meant as one.”

He bows shallowly and walks off before the dust has settled.

Liu Qingge watches him go, annoyed not by defeat (because he doesn’t think he lost), but by the lack of tension. It hadn’t felt like a fight. It had felt like a lesson.

There’s no violence in Yue Qingyuan’s movements, no bite. He’s graceful to a fault, like calligraphy on silk when Liu Qingge would rather see blood on steel.

They don’t speak. They have nothing to say.

Liu Qingge files him away as a type he doesn’t understand. The kind of man who folds his robes before sleeping, who thanks the kitchen staff, who offers quiet suggestions during training instead of barking orders.

Liu Qingge has no patience for quiet.

But things change, as they always do, with time.

When Liu Qingge is promoted to head disciple of Bai Zhan Peak, he begins attending sect-wide leadership meetings. Each peak sends a representative. Qiong Ding sends Yue Qingyuan.

And suddenly, Liu Qingge begins to notice him.

Not emotionally, not romantically, just curiously. The way a warrior notices a weapon in the room.

Yue Qingyuan never slouches. He never stumbles over his words. He speaks only when necessary and always with purpose. He enters each meeting prepared, speaks with clarity, and never once raises his voice. Yet, somehow, everyone listens. He commands the room with his mere presence.

There’s a kind of control in him that Liu Qingge has never bothered to learn. A sense of order so complete that it almost feels unnatural.

He starts noticing things outside those meetings, too.

Like how Yue Qingyuan carries too many scrolls at once and refuses help. Or how he stays after group sessions to check on junior grades, long after the other disciples have left. Or how, during every monthly summit, he’s always the last to leave.

No one else comments. No one else seems to think it’s odd.

But it begins to irritate Liu Qingge.

He doesn’t know why, and it’s not his business, but when he catches Yue Qingyuan rubbing at his temple, just once, quick and subtle, like he’s holding in a headache, something twists low in his chest.

They don’t speak. Yue Qingyuan never looks at him longer than protocol demands.

Still, Liu Qingge watches quietly in passing and collects stray observations like loose threads.

And he starts seeing other things.

Despite his calm personality, Yue Qingyuan is distant from most. He is not cold, just reserved. He offers every person the same polite nod, the same soft-spoken greeting. He doesn’t linger, doesn’t gossip. His smile is pleasant, measured, and never quite reaches his eyes.

But Shen Qingqiu and Luo Binghe are different.

Liu Qingge often spots them together in the mess hall, outside the training grounds, tucked into quiet corners of the gardens. Yue Qingyuan falls into step with them easily. Shen Qingqiu snarls, always prickly, but Yue Qingyuan only ever sighs, patience laced into the curve of his hand as it lands on Shen Qingqiu’s shoulder. Luo Binghe grins too wide and talks too much, but Yue Qingyuan listens like it’s the only thing worth doing. He ruffles Binghe’s hair, shares food, and hooks an arm around Shen Qingqiu’s back.

Sometimes, he even laughs.

Not the faint, polite smile he gives in public, but something real, something unguarded. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and for a moment, he looks like someone else entirely.

Liu Qingge doesn’t understand it.

Yue Qingyuan isn’t like that with anyone else.

He isn’t jealous. He’s not bothered. It’s just… odd. An inconsistency. A break in pattern from someone who otherwise never lets the seams show.

Yue Qingyuan, who bows even when humiliated by a Shizun who seems to exist solely to scorn him, who works quietly, endlessly, without ever complaining, who never asks for help, never shows any real or tangible emotions except when he is with those two.

Except that’s not really the case. Liu Qingge realises that quickly.

More often now, he notices the stiffness in Yue Qingyuan’s shoulders, the way he hesitates a beat too long after others leave the room, the growing shadows beneath his eyes.

It doesn’t concern him.

But he keeps noticing.

Keeps watching.

And something begins.

—  ✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦  —

Yue Qingyuan rarely has time to feel tired because his days are always a blur.

There’s always something to work on. Too much, in fact. Always another schedule to adjust, another petition to read, another disciple to mediate, mentor, mollify. The sect runs smoothly because he is always moving, always calculating, always watching the gears and oiling them before they grind too loud. Qiong Ding Peak is calm only because he keeps it that way.

He knows the exact breaking point of silence in a room. He knows which elder needs to be deferred to and which simply needs to feel heard. He knows how to smile without revealing fatigue, how to speak without raising his voice, and how to lead without making others feel led.

He does not have time to be tired.

But he is, constantly.

Some days, he forgets to eat. Some nights, he falls asleep at his desk, brush still in hand, ink dried mid-stroke. Sometimes, he stares at the lantern flame for so long that he starts seeing outlines of people he has to meet the next day burned into his vision. When people ask— if they ask — he smiles and says, “I’m well. Thank you.”

Because he is Yue Qingyuan. And Yue Qingyuan is always fine.

He doesn’t remember when exactly he started counting how many days he’s gone without sleeping a full night. Three? Five? He’s gotten very good at functioning through exhaustion, at tucking it under his sleeves with the rest of his neatly folded self.

But even the best-tended thread frays at the edges.

Once, after a joint disciplinary review that drags long into the evening, Yue Qingyuan is the last to leave the room. He lingers, straightening scrolls, offering perfunctory farewells to elders as they shuffle out. His movements are careful and measured. Stillness holds him together more than anything else.

He steps into the corridor, adjusting the weight of the scrolls in his arms when his vision wobbles, just for a second. The floor twists. His knee gives slightly. The edge of the doorway catches him like a quiet reprimand.

He exhales through his nose, straightens and then keeps walking like he didn’t almost faint.

He doesn’t realise Liu Qingge is still in the corridor until he sees him at the far end, already half-turned toward the stairwell. Their eyes don’t meet. Yue Qingyuan doesn’t even think Liu Qingge noticed.

But then Liu Qingge pauses.

He doesn’t turn back, doesn’t speak.

He only stands still a moment too long, with his back rigid and his shoulders unusually still, before continuing down the steps.

The next day, Yue Qingyuan arrives late to the sect summit.

Only by a few minutes, but enough to draw raised eyebrows. His hair isn’t pinned quite perfectly. His sleeves are wrinkled. There’s ink on his fingertips that he hadn’t noticed.

He smooths down his robe as he takes his seat and offers a soft, “Apologies. There was a delay finalising the Qiong Ding peak records—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence before something lands on the table in front of him with a thud.

It’s the record ledger he was supposed to submit.

Filled and complete.

He blinks.

Across the table, Liu Qingge is staring stonily ahead, his jaw tight and his brow already furrowed in its usual scowl.

“It might be wrong,” he mutters before Yue Qingyuan can speak. “You’ll fix it anyway.”

There’s a moment of silence.

Yue Qingyuan looks down at the ledger. Then up at him.

Something small and odd uncurls in his chest.

He smiles. Not the polite, polished smile he wears all day, but the genuine one that rarely sees the light of the sun.

“Thank you.”

Liu Qingge grunts. “Don’t make a habit of it.”

And that’s the end of that.

But when Yue Qingyuan opens the ledger later in his office, he sees that it’s not just filled. It’s filled in his style. Written in his hand, nearly indistinguishable. The margins are annotated with placeholders and reminders. The weight of the work is lifted so perfectly from his shoulders that he doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

He lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

And for the first time in a very long while, he leaves the library early that night.

Just once.

Just to sit beneath the trees.

And breathe.

—  ✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦  —

By the time Yue Qingyuan arrives at Qian Cao Peak, the hall stinks of blood and despair.

He doesn’t stop to ask questions, doesn’t even bother to take off his boots. The floor is streaked red in places, and something in his chest goes cold.

“Where is he?” he asks the first person he sees. “Where’s Binghe?”

No one gives a full, direct answer. They just part, too busy, too grim.

He pushes through his way until he nearly crashes straight into Liu Qingge.

Liu Qingge is standing outside the infirmary doors like a sentry. Blood, not his own, has dried down on his one arm. A faint bruise on his jaw is turning purple rapidly, and his eyes are sunken with exhaustion. He’s clenching one wrist as if he lets go, something will snap.

Yue Qingyuan doesn’t care about any of that.

“Where is he?” he demands, breathless.

Liu Qingge jerks his chin toward the room. “Inside. Not awake.”

“Will he— will he survive?”

There’s a long pause.

“I don’t know.”

It feels like being kicked in the chest, like his head has been dragged underwater and his lungs have been filled with water, burning.

He exhales sharply and doesn’t breathe back in. “What— what happened? What did he— why would he—”

Liu Qingge says nothing.

“Did he do this to himself?” Yue Qingyuan whispers. “Was it on purpose?”

Liu Qingge doesn’t answer before he finally nods, curt and quick.

That’s when Yue Qingyuan starts to break.

“I knew something was wrong,” he says, voice thin and cracking at the edges. “They weren’t speaking. I kept asking and I kept asking, but neither of them would tell me. Xiao Jiu said they just fought, but I knew— I knew it wasn’t just that—”

His breath hitches. His hands shake.

“I tried. I gave them space. I waited. I thought they’d talk it out. I thought— I thought—”

He presses his palm to his mouth, chokes on a sound. His eyes are wet, and his breathing is erratic.

“This is my fault,” he says, shaking. “I should’ve pushed harder. I should’ve made them explain, made them sit down— gods, Binghe, why would he— he’s just a boy— he doesn’t— he—”

His voice breaks entirely. He leans back against the wall and covers his face.

“He’s my brother,” he whispers again. “And I didn’t protect him. I failed.”

“ What the fuck is wrong with you? ”

Liu Qingge’s voice snaps across the air like a whip.

Yue Qingyuan flinches, like he’s been struck.

Liu Qingge is suddenly in front of him, jaw clenched, eyes bright with something close to fury. He is too tired and exhausted to show even a modicum of respect or courtesy to his Shixiong.

“That idiot got himself nearly killed, and your first instinct is to blame yourself? Are you hearing yourself?”

Yue Qingyuan stares at him, stunned and pale.

“You didn’t send him into the jaws of the beast to fight recklessly. He went willingly. He made the choice. And yes, it was a stupid choice and one that almost got me and Shang Shixiong killed as well, but it was his choice . Not yours.”

Yue Qingyuan opens his mouth. “But I—”

“No. Stop.” Liu Qingge’s voice shakes. “Shixiong, you’re not a god. You’re not some all-seeing saviour who’s supposed to fix every miserable thing that happens in this sect. You can’t hold everyone together with sheer fucking willpower. You tried . That’s all you could do.”

Yue Qingyuan’s throat works silently. His face is blotched from crying, hands still trembling at his sides.

“You didn’t fail him,” Liu Qingge says, a little softer now. “He just didn’t let anyone save him.”

The silence that follows is ragged.

Liu Qingge doesn’t know what to do with the way Yue Qingyuan is looking at him, like he’s not sure whether to hate him or fall apart again.

After a moment, he reaches out. His hand brushes Yue Qingyuan’s sleeve hesitatingly.

“It is understandable to be upset,” he mutters. “Just... don’t bleed for shit that was never yours to carry.”

Yue Qingyuan’s eyes flicker, red-rimmed and tired. He doesn’t speak.

But he nods.

And Liu Qingge exhales, like he’s been holding it in all night.

The silence between them is heavy, pulsating with tension and fear.

Then, the infirmary doors slam open so hard they almost ricochet off the hinges.

“ Binghe! ”

Shen Qingqiu barrels in like a storm, sharp, violent, and already on the edge of breaking.

His robes are crooked. There’s mud on the hem. His eyes are bloodshot, and his hair lashes out in wild, directionless waves.

Liu Qingge turns and instinctively drops a hand to his sword hilt.

Yue Qingyuan steps forward. “Xiao Jiu—”

“Don’t talk to me!” Shen Qingqiu snarls. “Where is Binghe?! Where is he?!”

His voice shreds at the edges, frantic. He looks terrifyingly unhinged.

“He’s—he’s in the next room— ” Yue Qingyuan tries, but Shen Qingqiu doesn’t hear it. Or won’t. His hands are already fisting in Yue Qingyuan’s robes.

“Why didn’t you tell me? ” He screams, his voice hysterical. “How long have you been here? How long—? Binghe— He’s dead—he’s dead and none of you told me—”

Liu Qingge stiffens. “He’s not—”

“ Shut up! ” Shen Qingqiu rounds on him, pushing him away and his eyes wild with fury and grief. “You were on that fucking mission, weren’t you?! What the hell did you let him do?!”

The air around him warps with heat, rage and grief of a man who has lost the most precious treasure of his life.

Yue Qingyuan grabs his shoulders, shaking him sternly. “ Xiao Jiu — listen to me— he’s alive. Barely. But he’s alive.”

That gets through.

Just barely.

Shen Qingqiu goes very still.

Then he breathes in once, sharp and ragged, and his knees give out. Yue Qingyuan catches him before he hits the ground.

“Alive, ” Shen Qingqiu echoes, somewhere between a whisper and a sob. “He’s— he’s alive— he— ”

He gasps like he’s surfacing from water.

And then he bolts.

Yue Qingyuan barely has time to blink before Shen Qingqiu tears himself free and charges for the treatment wing. A flash of spiritual energy flares from his palm as if he’s about to rip the warding seals off the doors with brute force.

“Xiao Jiu, wait—! ” Yue Qingyuan grabs for his sleeve.

“They won’t let me in, will they? ” Shen Qingqiu snarls. “I will break through— I swear on my life, I will —”

From behind them, Liu Qingge pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling a slow, exhausted breath.

“Right, ” he mutters. “My work here is done.”

And with all the grace of a man who’s just survived both a spirit beast and a nervous breakdown not his own, he turns on his heel and walks away, leaving Yue Qingyuan to wrestle a hysterical Shen Qingqiu off the infirmary doors as the night finally begins to settle.

He tells himself, firmly and resolutely, that he’s right to keep his distance from things like love.

And he keeps walking, as if he believes it.

Chapter Text

The first time Liu Qingge visits the infirmary, it’s because of emotional blackmail.

Bai Zhan Peak disciples do not indulge in thoughtless activities like visiting people when they are sick. Besides, Liu Qingge does not see the point of checking in on someone who wouldn’t even care if he showed up. But Shang Qinghua, in one of his rare bursts of upright moral indignation, had berated him and spouted some nonsense about sect loyalty, brotherhood, and called him heartless under his breath for not even thinking of sparing Luo Binghe a look.

So, eventually, Liu Qingge shows up, begrudging, embarrassed and more irritated than concerned.

He doesn’t stay long, of course. One incense stick’s worth of time and no more.

Luo Binghe is, unfortunately, conscious when he arrives and propped up by so many pillows, he looks like a child pretending to be a king. His skin is pale and waxy, his spiritual core is still splintered, and his meridians are still just as damaged as they were when Liu Qingge dragged him to Qian Cao Peak. Yet, the asshole smiles at him anyway, bright and obnoxious, teeth flashing in that cocky way that makes Liu Qingge want to knock him out just on principle.

“Oh,” Luo Binghe says, with all the nerve in the world. “Look who showed up.”

Liu Qingge scowls. “You’re lucky I didn’t leave you to rot in that marsh.”

Luo Binghe’s grin only grows. “I am indeed indebted to Liu Shidi. I’ve been told you carried me here all on your own.”

“I should’ve dropped you off a cliff,” Liu Qingge mutters.

Luo Binghe laughs at that and promptly chokes on it, hunching over, breath catching on the edge of a wince. For a second, he looks small and pale. He is trembling and trying valiantly to pretend he isn’t.

It makes something twist in Liu Qingge’s gut.

“Don’t pull that shit again,” he snaps, already halfway to the door. “This is the first and last time I bother saving your neck.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply.

But his hand hovers near his sword the entire walk back.

Later, while sparring with three of his martial brothers well past sunset, he lands hits too sharp, too quick. He is more brutal than usual, and something simmers in his head, unshaken.

He keeps thinking about the way Luo Binghe winced when he laughed and how slow his recovery was between breaths. How dull his skin has become, and how his face has lost its glow.

Stupid, Liu Qingge thinks, slamming his opponent into the dust, his breath barely out of place even after the fight. Stupid, suicidal bastard.

Still.

He wonders if Jing Xin is too heavy for Luo Binghe now. He doesn’t think the spiritual weapon is dangerous for him, but it certainly could be demanding. It wasn’t designed for someone with a damaged core. He knows Luo Binghe would manage, eventually, because that stubborn bastard always does at the end, but something lighter might serve him better for some time.

Perhaps something easier to draw, something that doesn’t take more than it gives.

A short blade, maybe or maybe a dagger. Something that is durable with modest spiritual drain and reliable enough to get him out of trouble without killing him in the process.

Liu Qingge doesn’t mention it to anyone.

But that night, when he passes the forge on the lower slope of Bai Zhan Peak, he slows for a moment.

Then, he keeps walking.

—✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦—

He doesn’t expect to see Yue Qingyuan so soon since their last meeting at the infirmary.

He’s leaving Qian Cao Peak a few days later, irritation simmering beneath his skin. He hadn’t meant to visit Luo Binghe again— once was torturous enough— but he’d run into Qi Qingqi mid-errand, and she’d latched onto his sleeve like it was divine fate.

She’d handed him a parcel of sweets (“You’ll look rude if you show up empty-handed!”) and marched him down the path like a general leading his prized horse in battle.

Liu Qingge doesn’t understand her either.

She’s sharp-tongued and bright-eyed and terrifyingly good at reading him. She smiles like she’s about to kick you in the ribs, and then she does. She drinks him under the table at banquets and forces him to make small talk with strangers. Once, she taught his martial brothers a pressure point technique so cruel that three of them couldn’t walk for days.

“It’s for their own good,” she’d said, delicately sipping tea, a devilish grin dancing on her lips. “Do you want to challenge me on it?”

Liu Qingge never really agreed to be her friend, but then again, she didn’t ask either.

Somewhere along the way, she simply started showing up, started finishing his sentences, started threatening to strangle him with his own robes if he didn’t take better care of himself.

He suspects he should mind her being so nosy, but he never really does.

There’s something reassuring about her presence. She is always predictable, loud, and impossible to shake.

So when she caught him and dragged him along, he didn’t even bother resisting.

She talked most of the way, teasing him about anything and everything under the sun and how he would traumatise Luo Binghe into behaving just by looking at him. Liu Qingge didn’t bother replying, but she didn’t seem to need him to. That has always been the strange comfort of Qi Qingqi. She never makes him feel like silence is something he has to apologise for.

After a short, snippy conversation inside, she’d settled near Luo Binghe’s bedside like she belonged there and waved Liu Qingge off without looking.

“Go on then.” She’d said. “I’ll manage just fine without your brooding.”

And she would. Of course, she would.

So, Liu Qingge left, the sweet parcel long since deposited and the awkwardness of his second visit clinging to him like the scent of bitter medicine.

He’s halfway down the stone path when Yue Qingyuan rounds the corner.

They both stop, the way people do when time catches on a breath and the light between them shifts.

It’s the first time they’ve seen each other since that day.

Yue Qingyuan looks as composed as ever in his immaculate robes, and his hair is bound with clean precision, but up close, it’s impossible to miss the fraying at the seams, the emotional exhaustion that clings too tightly to the hollows beneath his eyes and the way his fingers curl around the edge of the scroll in his hand like they’ve forgotten how to let go.

Liu Qingge straightens without thinking. He doesn’t speak.

Yue Qingyuan inclines his head, gentle and just a little too fond to be formal.

“Good morning, Liu Shidi.”

He’s smiling. It’s not the practised curve he wears in front of elders and their juniors, but the real one. The quiet and genuine one that softens the lines of his face like morning light through mist. It catches Liu Qingge utterly unprepared, like a sweet, stinging blow to the ribs. He turns his gaze away before it can land too deeply.

“Good morning, Shixiong.”

Yue Qingyuan hums. The sound is small, content. The silence that stretches between them is not heavy, only hesitant, like a thought still forming.

Then Yue Qingyuan says, “Thank you. For that day.”

Liu Qingge frowns. “Which day?”

Yue Qingyuan’s voice is gentle, as if naming it aloud might give it too much weight. 

“At the infirmary. When Binghe was brought in. When I—” He draws in a breath and there’s a fleeting, guilty look on his face. “—wasn’t at my best.”

“You don’t need to thank me.” Liu Qingge shifts, discomfort twitching at the corner of his mouth. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You were there,” Yue Qingyuan insists. “And that helped.”

Liu Qingge exhales, then looks away again. “Anyone would’ve done that.”

Yue Qingyuan watches him for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze. Then, softly, he sighs, “But it was you.”

It’s not meant to disarm, but it does.

Liu Qingge falters, just for a heartbeat. “...Right.”

Yue Qingyuan nods. He is still smiling and being kind in that way that always feels like it costs him something. Like warmth offered with both hands, even when he should keep it for himself.

Liu Qingge finds it unbearable, always. It is not quite annoyance, but a strange mix of sadness and anger and an emotion he doesn’t quite know how to decipher.

He opens his mouth to say that, to tell him that he doesn’t have to be so grateful for everything, but no words come out. Not when Yue Qingyuan is looking at him with those bright, hopeful eyes.

So, he just nods quickly and turns to go.

He takes two steps down the path, then stops but doesn’t turn around.

“Yue Shixiong doesn’t need to worry so much,” he says after deliberating over his words for what seems like hours. “Luo Shixiong is healing well. He’ll be fine.”

There’s a pause, longer this time and softer too.

“Thank you, Liu Shidi,” Yue Qingyuan answers; this time, his voice carries something tender beneath it. Something close to relief.

Liu Qingge keeps walking.

But his steps feel heavier and slower than before, as if his body has already left, but something else hasn’t caught up. As if his soul refuses to move along with the rest of him.

He still doesn’t look back.

If only he had.  

Because if he had, he’d have seen Yue Qingyuan standing very still, watching him the way someone watches a departing ship long after the sails have vanished over the horizon and wondering if he was meant to call out, if it’s too late now, if it ever wasn’t.

—✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦—

Time passes slowly after that.

They don’t become close in any way that is loud or obvious, but something shifts quietly and gradually, like dust settling in sunlit corners or the hush that follows the end of a snowfall.

They begin to cross paths more often. It’s not in sweeping gestures or shared confidences, but in small, almost forgettable ways. A word here, a glance there, a moment that lingers just long enough to matter.

Once, Liu Qingge stops by Qiong Ding Peak to return a junior’s training sword left behind during a sparring session. Yue Qingyuan thanks him with a nod, and Liu Qingge shrugs nonchalantly. “It was on the way,” he mutters.

It wasn’t, and they both know that.

Neither says so.

Another time, Yue Qingyuan finds a scroll left on his desk after a summit he’d missed due to an unexpected illness. It’s a complete summary, with margins neatly annotated. The lines are written in Liu Qingge’s hand, but no name is signed. It doesn’t need one.

And then, on a soft spring morning, Liu Qingge appears outside the Qiong Ding training hall with two still-warm rice buns in hand. Yue Qingyuan is seated on the steps, lost in his reading, a half-filled scroll beside him.

Liu Qingge stands there for a second, then clears his throat like he’s debating whether to leave or speak.

“I was passing through,” he says at last, handing one of the buns over without meeting his eyes.

Yue Qingyuan blinks before he takes the bun carefully, as if unsure it’s meant for him.

“Thank you, Liu-shidi,” he manages, eventually, his voice tight and deeply touched.

It’s just a bun, but he hadn’t eaten breakfast again, and somehow, this simple offering makes it worse. Or better. He’s not really sure.

Liu Qingge only nods and leaves before the moment can become anything else, as if the weight of it would simply crush him under its weight if he lets it linger too long, but the warmth of the bun stays in Yue Qingyuan’s palm longer than it has any right to.

He takes a bite once Liu Qingge is gone, still sitting alone outside the training grounds. The filling is sweet. It catches in his throat. He doesn’t make a sound, but he finishes it all, anyway.

These moments come and go not often or regularly, but with a rhythm that feels steady in its own peculiar way. Yue Qingyuan doesn’t wait for them, but he notices when they happen and notices when they don’t.

He starts to recognise the quiet care behind them.

Liu Qingge never hovers and never imposes. He doesn’t remain at his side or fill the air with unnecessary words. But every so often, he appears like a shadow cast in the same direction as his own.

A fleeting presence. Always reliable.

Yue Qingyuan does not name what they are. He doesn’t try to define it. But he feels the way something in his chest eases, just slightly, when he sees Liu Qingge standing at the back of a meeting hall. The way his fingers relax when a heavy report he’d meant to rewrite has already been marked up in someone else’s terse, familiar script.

They aren’t close, not really.

But Liu Qingge has become something in his life.

He is never warm and never soft, but steady and always present. A hand resting just within reach for Yue Qingyuan to take if wishes to.

And Yue Qingyuan, who never asks for help, finds himself not minding that Liu Qingge offers it anyway.

—✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦—

It’s late afternoon when Yue Qingyuan stops by Qian Cao Peak. He is not there for any formalities, but to return a text on rare antidotes Mu Qingfang lent him last week. The sun is dipping behind the trees, scattering gold on the floor of the outer corridor.

Mu Qingfang accepts the scroll with a nod, not looking up as he continues scribbling something into a ledger.

“It’s been too long, Yue Shixiong,” he mutters. “Once Binghe left, you didn’t bother checking up on me again, hm?”

Yue Qingyuan laughs softly. “You know how things are, Mu Shidi. Still, I apologise.”

Mu Qingfang glances up at that and sighs, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “You want tea?”

“Only if you’re already making some.”

“I’m not,” he says, but he gets up anyway.

They sit by the open window, teacups balanced against the ledge, watching a few birds hop around in the courtyard before taking flight again. Their conversation meanders between medicinal root shortages, an upcoming meeting with some sect elders, and some silly gossip from here and there.

Then, in the lull, Mu Qingfang asks, “By the way, is Luo Shixiong using the dagger?”

Yue Qingyuan frowns. “What dagger?”

“Liu Shidi dropped one off for him last week. He didn’t say much and just asked him to use it until he gains more strength in his limbs. He walked out before Luo Shixiong could say thanks.”

“Oh,” Yue Qingyuan says, his words quiet, but he doesn’t really feel surprised by this kind gesture from Liu Qingge. “Is it helping?”

Mu Qingfang shrugs. “I am not sure if Luo Shixiong is using it, so I asked you. You know how stubborn he is. His pride would never allow him to change his weapon even if it meant easing his life, but I think it would help him a little. I inspected the blade, too. It doesn’t demand as much from his core as Jing Xin does. Good craftsmanship, too. Balanced and sharp.”

There’s a pause.

Mu Qingfang sips his tea. “Liu Shidi is terrible at showing it, but he is very kind.”

Yue Qingyuan smiles faintly at that, but his gaze has gone distant and turned inward. He’s not thinking about Binghe anymore.

He’s thinking about Liu Qingge. That silent, stubborn way of his. The way he always acts instead of speaks. The effort that never asks for thanks.

“Liu Shidi didn’t mention it to me,” Yue Qingyuan murmurs.

“Didn’t think he would,” Mu Qingfang says. “Because that’s not why he did it, is it?”

No, Yue Qingyuan thinks. It isn’t.

There’s a feeling that lingers in him for the rest of the day, something small and quiet and warm, caught between his ribs.

He doesn’t name it.

He only thinks, later, when he’s alone in his room with a stack of unfinished documents and a cooling cup of tea, that Liu Qingge is not quite the man he thought he was, once.

And for some reason, that feels like something worth writing down.

—✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦—

The day Liu Qingge learns that Shen Qingqiu and Luo Binghe are finally together, he’s polishing his sword.

Qi Qingqi is the one who tells him that, without ceremony, like she’s commenting on the weather.

“They’re together now,” she says, leaning back on her seat beside him leisurely and biting into a plum. “Officially.”

Liu Qingge blinks once, then again, before he stares at her like she’s grown another head.

“…What the fuck.”

She shrugs. “Took them long enough, right?”

He looks down at the blade in his hands as if it might offer some clarity. It doesn’t.

“This,” he mutters, wiping a little too hard, “is exactly why romance is a waste of time.”

“Oh?”

“Obviously! So much drama. Luo Shixiong nearly died. Shen Shixiong threw a tantrum at the infirmary and was punished with five strikes. And for what? To end up together anyway?”

“You’re very passionate about this.”

“I just think,” Liu Qingge grits out, “if they were going to get together, they should’ve just done it from the start and spared the rest of us the emotional collateral damage.”

Qi Qingqi chews slowly. “You know, I used to think you had no opinions about anything that wasn’t combat-related. This is very enlightening.”

“I’m just saying! If they’d fought properly like normal people, none of this would’ve dragged out for months. Is that so hard? Just knock each other’s teeth in and be done with it! Instead, those idiots made it everyone else’s problem.”

Qi Qingqi swallows. “Mmm. That’s indeed devastating.”

“And the root of it all was probably that ridiculous rumour about Luo Shixiong being jealous of Shen Shixiong being the head disciple. If that was really what set him off, then Luo Shixiong is even stupider than I thought.”

“Rumours,” Qi Qingqi replies breezily, inspecting her nails and waving the half-eaten plum around. “I don’t believe it for a second. If Binghe had any real resentment, he’d have snapped long before Shen Qingqiu got promoted. Something else happened. I’m guessing something messy. Something personal.”

Liu Qingge scoffs. “Exactly. That’s the problem. That’s what I just said. If you’ve got issues, just throw a punch and move on. Why drag half the sect into your emotional swamp?”

Qi Qingqi wipes her fingers on a napkin, giving him a long, measured look.

Then she smiles.

“No reason at all,” she says. “Truly, who could be that emotionally incompetent?”

Liu Qingge squints at her, sensing mockery but unable to locate the source.

“I’m not wrong,” he insists stiffly.

“No,” she agrees, laughter slipping into her voice. “Of course not. You’re never wrong.”

He glares, then returns to his sword, polishing it with the silent conviction of a man who has learned nothing from the events around him.

Qi Qingqi just watches, amused and a little bit fond.

A long pause stretches between them, filled only by the soft rasp of cloth on metal as Liu Qingge goes back to polishing.

Then, unprompted, he says, “Yue Shixiong must be relieved.”

Qi Qingqi glances at him. “Hm?”

Liu Qingge doesn’t look up. “About Shen Shixiong and Luo Shixiong. He has less drama to deal with now. That’s… good. He has enough on his plate as it is.”

Qi Qingqi’s expression shifts slightly. She gives him a look, slow and pointed, like she’s examining a new, exotic species of fish.

Liu Qingge scowls. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says, tone far too neutral. “Just interesting, that’s all.”

“I’m just saying, don’t you feel bad for him?” he mutters. “People keep dumping their problems on him like he doesn’t already carry the whole sect.”

“Hm. I suppose.”

Liu Qingge stays silent for many moments, his jaw set, and the polishing cloth forgotten in his hand.

“I mean,” Liu Qingge continues, knowing damn well that his blustering would only amuse Qi Qingqi all the more but he just can’t seem to be able to stop talking. “That poor man works himself to death. The only thing that makes me happy about this situation is that at least he is relieved on this front now.”

He shuts up after that, his ears going pink and realising he did speak too much.

Qi Qingqi watches him for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind her gaze. Then she looks away, exhaling softly through her nose.

“…Interesting,” she mutters again.

But her tone is not unkind.

Liu Qingge turns back to his blade. The steel catches the late afternoon light— bright, sharp, too clear.

He doesn’t know why Yue Qingyuan was the first person he thought of.

It was a passing thought. A stray reflex.

Still, it lingers, soft and inexplicable, as though something delicate had brushed against the edge of his mind and left the faintest mark behind.

It’s stupid.

Probably.

Hopefully.

Chapter Text

Time passes.

Not in the dramatic, life-altering kind of way, but in the quiet manner of seasons slipping past a window, mellowed out by sunshine and the gentle raindrops falling against the same earth, flowers dying and blooming again against the same sky. Meetings blur into years, injuries heal and leave aches that only flare in the cold and somewhere in that slow accumulation of years, Liu Qingge and Yue Qingyuan become a fixture in each other’s lives.

They are not lovers, and not quite friends in the traditional sense either. They don’t visit each other often or crack jokes at each other’s expense. They rarely seek each other out, and there are hardly any late-night conversations. There are no lingering cups of tea, no shared laughter echoing through the halls. The sense of duty, of hierarchy, of loyalty holds over them. If their bond were a thread, it would be a taut, invisible one, something that’s never touched, never tangled, but always there. 

They are something, though. Something delicate, beautiful and soft. Something that has built over the years in stolen glances, in silent support, in fierce, bleeding loyalty.

A kind of gravity builds between them. Quiet. Constant. Pulling.

When Yue Qingyuan looks up from a stack of petitions, Liu Qingge is already stepping forward to take the ones that aren’t his to carry. When Liu Qingge finds paperwork too bothersome, Yue Qingyuan offers to share the load. When the pressure of running a sect efficiently tightens like a noose during times of crisis, Liu Qingge doesn’t provide comfort, but he starts doing more than his share of work without being asked.

Nothing is spoken. Nothing is owed.

And yet.

It has been years.

Years of catching one another’s glances and looking away, of deliberate silences that stretch just long enough to be noticed, of unacknowledged tenderness woven so tightly into routine it feels indistinguishable from duty. 

And somewhere along the way, the sharp discomfort Liu Qingge once felt around Yue Qingyuan because of his ridiculous discipline, his impossible serenity, and his unending benevolence simply faded.

Not all at once, but slowly like the rocks smoothed over by the flow of rivers.

Now, more often than not, he catches himself watching, but not in the way he used to once. His eyes no longer hold the calculation, the confusion, the irritation. Instead, he finds it calming, with a sweet sort of wonder in his heart.

He lingers in a room a little too long after Yue Qingyuan leaves, and he finds his eyes tugged to the movement of his hands when he speaks, the faint merriment in his eyes when he says something particularly clever. There are moments when he catches the faint curve of Yue Qingyuan’s smile and feels something like heat under his ribs.

He does not name it.

He has no language for feelings that don’t end in action. But he feels it, more and more.

The curve of Yue Qingyuan’s fingers around a tea cup, the line of his throat when he tips his head back to laugh. His rare, rare laughter, always soft and short-lived. The stillness in him, one of an unshakeable mountain and his strength that matches it. The way he listens, the way he never asks for help, but accepts it when it’s offered, quietly, gratefully, like it means the world.

Liu Qingge doesn’t understand it, doesn’t understand why he notices it all, and files every stray look, every nonchalant gesture, and every careless word away in his mind like it is a precious treasure. He doesn’t know what to do with it, but knows he can’t help it. He keeps watching and showing up for his sect leader every step of the way.

And Yue Qingyuan, for all his discipline, for all his quiet dignity, never asks why.

He just lets him.

Sometimes, Yue Qingyuan wonders if anyone else notices the way Liu Qingge is always near, even when he pretends he isn’t. The way he never interrupts, never lingers, but is always there when Yue Qingyuan turns around, wondering if he is alone in his journey.

He is the quiet presence in a room when everything else feels too loud, the silent companion he gained without meaning to, the one man who only gives because he knows there are already enough to take from Yue Qingyuan.

Liu Qingge thinks no one else sees it.

But Yue Qingyuan sees it.

He sees all of it.

And he lets it be because to ask for more would break the tender balance they’ve built over the years. Whatever it is, whatever they’ve become, is beautiful as the wings of a butterfly and just as delicate, too. The only thing Yue Qingyuan thinks he can do is cup the soft glow of this relationship in his palms and hope it doesn’t fly away one day.

Still, there are moments.

Brief flickers of closeness, small and inexplicable. A brush of their sleeves, a word caught between them, a look held just a moment too long. A smile exchanged, private and unnoticed by the world.

Moments where it feels like something could happen.

But doesn’t.

So the rhythm continues, and they dance around each other, skilled and slow and close but always too far.

Until one day, something tips the balance. Or at the very least, starts to.

Liu Qingge arrives at Qiong Ding Peak to deliver a monthly update. It’s routine work involving reports and Bai Zhan’s patrol notes, as usual. It’s nothing special, just protocol. He’s dropped off similar reports dozens of times over the years, sometimes exchanging a few words, sometimes not.

But this time, Yue Qingyuan is already outside his study.

He’s standing near the outer steps of Qiong Ding Peak, speaking in low tones to a man Liu Qingge doesn’t recognise. Judging by the robes, he assumes the man to be a visiting envoy. Polite words are exchanged between the Cang Qiong Mountain Sect Leader and the envoy, and hands are pressed together in parting. The envoy bows and departs down the path, flanked by a junior disciple.

Liu Qingge slows just slightly, enough for the moment to register, before he steps forward, face unreadable.

“Liu Shidi,” Yue Qingyuan greets him with a smile, genuinely pleased to see him. “You’re right on time. Come in.”

The study is quiet, warmed faintly by the brazier lit in the corner. Tea is already steeping. Liu Qingge places the scrolls on the desk, and Yue Qingyuan pours a cup for him without asking.

They fall into easy conversation. Report summaries, minor border scuffles, and a small issue with material procurement for outer sect disciple. It’s nothing urgent, just small talk. Liu Qingge enjoys it all the same, without even meaning to.

He almost doesn’t ask.

But Yue Qingyuan, in that very Yue Qingyuan way, is wearing the faintest trace of something on his face, something like exasperation and amusement and guilt. It would be unreadable to anyone else, something someone would miss easily.

Not Liu Qingge, though. He has memorised this man’s face, his tics, his expressions, the most subtle shift in his eyes and the faint twitches of his brows. He knows it all. 

Liu Qingge sips his tea before he asks, “Forgive me if I am being rude, Zhangmen Shixiong, but who was the envoy?”

Yue Qingyuan pauses and his fingers still around his own cup. 

“Not rude at all, Liu Shidi.” He answers, his grey eyes flicking to Liu Qingge once before he takes a sip of his tea. “It was a proposal.”

Liu Qingge blinks. “For what?”

“Sect alliance.” Yue Qingyuan answers and then, after a moment’s hesitation and looking strangely discomfited, he continues, “Through marriage.”

“Ah.”

“The Sect Master of Tian Lei sent word. He has a daughter of suitable age, and…” Yue Qingyuan trails off, swirling the tea in his cup. “He believes a marital bond with me would strengthen diplomatic ties.”

Liu Qingge stares, his expression unmoving and impassive like a stone, but something in his chest tightens, a slow constriction that catches at the base of his throat. He swallows once, but the feeling doesn’t leave. It’s not pain, exactly, but more like pressure, like the air around him has thinned.

It makes sense, of course.

Yue Qingyuan is the strongest cultivator of their generation, a respected Sect Leader, and unfairly handsome on top of that. He is graceful in motion, terrifying in battle, serene in presence. Of course, there would be offers, proposals, sect alliances, and noble daughters and families scrambling for a match with someone like him.

It’s only natural.

And yet, it infuriates Liu Qingge.

He doesn’t understand why.

The thought of Yue Qingyuan accepting one of those proposals, marrying some stranger for duty, and smiling that soft smile at someone who had never even witnessed his struggles as a youth makes something ugly twist inside Liu Qingge. Something hot and stubborn and utterly without name.

“That makes sense,” he says, finally, almost pushing the words out through gritted teeth. “For the sect.”

“Yes,” Yue Qingyuan agrees.

There’s a silence that stretches just a second too long.

Then, without quite meaning to and before he can stop himself, Liu Qingge continues, “You shouldn’t agree to something like that if it isn’t what you want.”

Yue Qingyuan looks up at him. “It’s just politics.”

Liu Qingge’s jaw ticks. 

“So?”

Yue Qingyuan huffs a soft laugh. “You sound offended on my behalf.”

“I’m not,” Liu Qingge replies too quickly. Then, to sound normal, he adds, “I just think you work too hard already. You deserve someone who sees that and who actually cares. Not… some stranger who might be as unwilling as you are.”

There’s another pause in which Liu Qingge feels his ears warming up with faint embarrassment, but he holds his gaze steady, his scowl in place.

Then Yue Qingyuan asks, quietly amused, “Do you have someone in mind?”

Liu Qingge stares at him, entirely blindsided and stunned by this simple question.

“No,” he answers, eventually.

But something in his chest twists. There’s an odd, tight ache, like someone is slowly squeezing the air out of his lungs.

He thinks, inexplicably, If you marry someone like that, I think I might lose my mind.

The thought is so loud it startles him.

He looks away.

Yue Qingyuan doesn’t press and just smiles again, with an oddly disappointed glimmer in his eyes that goes entirely unnoticed by Liu Qingge, and returns to his tea.

They say nothing more about the subject, and the conversation dulls into something else again, but neither has their heart set on it anymore. Eventually, Liu Qingge takes his leave.

But long after Liu Qingge has returns to Bai Zhan Peak, the words echo in his head with infuriating clarity.

Do you have someone in mind?

No.

Probably.

Maybe.

Liu Qingge doesn’t mention it again after that day.

Not the proposal, not the sudden clench in his chest when Yue Qingyuan had informed him about the proposal, then added that it would be beneficial for the sect.

But something lodges in Liu Qingge’s chest, an irritant under the skin and in the silence that follows of days folding back into routine, reports, skirmishes, and drills, he keeps returning to that moment, unable to let it go.

He tells himself it’s nothing, that it was a passing conversation, like many others they have shared, and utterly meaningless. That Yue Qingyuan’s marriage, if it happens, has no bearing on him whatsoever.

And yet.

When he returns to Bai Zhan Peak after a week-long mission, bruised and mud-soaked from battling a particularly nasty demon, he finds two Qian Cao healers waiting for him in the courtyard. He is not surprised to see them either. He knows why they are here and who sent them. Earlier, he used to resist, would kick and throw a fuss and ask them to go away.

Now, he only scowls, tells them to leave once and then lets them patch him up anyway.

Later still that night, after the sky has darkened and the hallways have quieted, a letter with a jar arrives at his door, folded with precision and sealed with the Sect Leader’s personal stamp and carried by one nervous Qiong Ding Peak disciple.

Liu Shidi,

I trust the mission went smoothly. I’ve included another jar of ointment. This one has been slightly modified. You mentioned, once, that the scent of camphor gave you headaches. This one should be gentler. 

Rest well.

Yue Qingyuan

Liu Qingge stares at the letter for a long time and then longer still at the jar, which smells faintly of sandalwood and citrus. It’s cleaner, lighter and definitely without even a trace of camphor. It’s the kind of scent that lingers on clothes and sleeves and paper.

He doesn’t know what to make of it.

What kind of man remembers something said once, offhand, in irritation?

What kind of man changes the salve blend he sends, without being asked?

What kind of man sees through silences as if they’re loud things?

Liu Qingge applies the ointment to his side, where bruising from a strike has already darkened to deep purple. It warms slowly against the skin, mellow and soothing, like honey gliding over skin.

And he thinks Yue Shixiong has always been like this.

Steady, undemanding, and attentive in ways that don’t draw attention to themselves.

It’s not the first time, and it definitely would not be the last. There’s always something he does. Some extra ledgers filed away, a healer dispatched, balms like these… his gestures are always so quiet it would be easy to miss if Liu Qingge weren’t looking.

But look, he does. And he sees something else, too.

Yue Qingyuan does not do this for anyone else but only for him. Sure, he breaks his back to care for his sect and his disciples and his martial siblings and sure, it is perhaps etched in his very bones to be this thoughtful, but even so, many of his kind gestures are reserved solely for Liu Qingge.

Why?

Why does he do that?

And why does it matter?

Liu Qingge has known Qi Qingqi longer. She’s been by his side in every meeting worth remembering, accompanied him on countless assignments and missions, cursed at him with affection, dragged him to every seasonal banquet, stitched his wounds shut with one hand and scolded him with the other.

But he has never, not once, felt this strange, impossible ache. This constant awareness, this sense of being seen, like every one of his moments is watched… It makes no sense, and to some extent, neither does he want it to.

That night, as he sets the salve jar down, fingers still stained with its scent, the thought returns with quiet, unbearable certainty.

If he marries someone else…

Liu Qingge doesn’t finish the thought.

He is too terrified to.

—✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦—

Qing Jing Peak glows in soft red and amber.

Paper lanterns sway from tree branches, their light pooled in delicate ovals on the cobblestone and silk streamers flutter like wind-stirred flame. Junior disciples move gracefully between tables, carrying platters of candied lotus, steamed buns, bowls of rich soup and delicacies fit for an emperor.

Somewhere in the background, strings and flutes weave gentle melodies through the quiet air. There’s no raucous cheering and no loud toasts. Instead, there is only the quiet hum of celebration, elegant and restrained, just like Shen Qingqiu, whose peak this is.

And for once, Shen Qingqiu doesn’t look distant or wary or cold.

He looks... content.

Seated at the head table in formal wedding robes of deep red with breathtaking embroidery done exquisitely, he is quiet, composed, and undeniably radiant. His posture is perfect, and his expression, usually flat with disdain or aloof and detached, is softer than Liu Qingge has ever seen it.

He’s saying something to Luo Binghe, and Luo Binghe is looking at him like he’s the only thing that’s ever mattered. When Luo Binghe pours him wine, Shen Qingqiu allows it, and then he lets Luo Binghe kiss his knuckles before flicking him on the forehead in half-hearted rebuke.

Even his scolding looks gentle and loving. Luo Binghe grins at him like a fool.

It’s not for show, it’s not some carefully rehearsed performance for anyone to see.

It’s just… them. Natural and unguarded, and two halves of a whole that somehow found their way to each other despite all the madness they’d caused years ago before getting together.

Liu Qingge, who’d been stuffing himself on the delicious food and wine all day so far, watches them in silence until a voice beside him breaks the spell.

“They’re beautiful together, aren’t they?” Yue Qingyuan asks. “I can’t take my eyes off them.”

He’s smiling, honest and quiet and unguarded. It’s not his polished smile at summits or the one smoothed into place for junior disciples. This one is soft at the edges, touched with something like peace.

The one that’s so rare that anyone who witnesses it is forced to stop and stare, even if it is for a moment. It makes Liu Qingge’s breath catch, just a little.

“I’ve never seen you this happy,” he says before he can think better of it.

Yue Qingyuan chuckles under his breath, shaking his head lightly.

“They’re my family,” he replies, nodding toward Luo Binghe and Shen Qingqiu. “I’ve seen them become friends and fight unruly kids in shady alleys and now… They’ve grown up so well. I’m happy they’re at peace and together.”

Liu Qingge looks back at the couple.

They’re not doing anything extraordinary. Luo Binghe whispers something to Shen Qingqiu, who groans, exasperated, before he dissolves into helpless laughter. Luo Binghe watches it all, his eyes adoring and never straying once. 

It’s ridiculous. 

And yet, there’s a steadiness in the way they move, a rhythm that belongs only to them, a kind of ease Liu Qingge has never had with anyone.

“They’re… definitely something,” he mutters finally.

Yue Qingyuan lifts his cup again and glances at him sidelong. “That’s what it looks like when you’re at home with someone.”

Liu Qingge doesn’t answer.

Because Yue Qingyuan is still looking at him, still smiling. Still open and honest and oh so gentle and sweet.

Liu Qingge knows it is not just because of the wine or the celebration. It’s because they’re here, side by side, because they exist in the same moment.

Something in Liu Qingge’s stomach curls tight, like a bowstring drawn back. It breaks and blooms and makes him light headed with too much of something.

He doesn’t look away at first, not right away.

But when he does, he turns a little too fast, blinking down at his plate like it’s personally offended him.

Beside him, Qi Qingqi, on her third bottle of wine, keeps drinking, still frighteningly sober. Perhaps, that is why she notices his discomfort almost immediately. 

“Something wrong with your dumplings?” She asks, taking another swig from her cup. “You looked strange for a second there.”

“I think my stomach’s acting up.” Liu Qingge says, blinking hard at his plate. “There has to be something wrong with the food.”

“Eh?” She raises a brow. “That can’t be true. Zhangmen Shixiong supervised everything. Besides, I’ve had eight dumplings and I feel incredible.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“It should be.”

Liu Qingge scowls at her, but it’s automatic. The words pass through him without weight.

His chopsticks pause mid-air and he sits back, barely tasting anything anymore, the noise of the celebration retreating to a distant hum. For a long time, he doesn’t speak. He only picks at his food, not really eating, posture too still, breath too shallow.

Because something is shifting deep inside of him, like a long held breath finally releasing.

He doesn’t feel ill, not in the way he claimed. He feels… full of something else. Something nameless and urgent, pressing under his chest.

His eyes flick up, just once.

Yue Qingyuan is still there, framed in lantern light, smiling that radiant smile, touched by wine and contentment and something gentler than joy. He laughs at something Mu Qingfang says and tips his head, eyes crinkling faintly at the corners.

Liu Qingge looks away quickly but it’s too late.

He gets it now.

He finally understands not in words or logic but in longing. Longing that isn’t reckless or throws itself forward and begs to be answered but something much slower and softer.

The kind that builds itself into the bones over years of silence and steady presence. The kind that lives in quiet glances and shared responsibilities and arguments that never quite land because they’re always half-rooted in care. The kind that slips in unnoticed until one night, watching a man who’s carried a mountain for decades laugh freely, Liu Qingge realises, he wants to be beside him.

Not in theory or in vague, confused half-thoughts. Instead, he wants to be the one who sits next to Yue Qingyuan when he’s tired, who listens to his complaints, who notices when his tea’s gone cold and warms it again without a word.

He wants that steadiness, that rhythm, that ease, just like Luo Binghe and Shen Qingqiu have.

He wants to be the reason behind Yue Qingyuan’s smile.

He wants red silk and lanterns again, not for Luo Binghe and Shen Qingqiu, but for himself and for Yue Qingyuan. 

There cannot be any other man or woman or stranger from some far-off sect. Just the two of them. Just Liu Qingge, seated at the head table with sleeves brushing and nothing left unsaid.

The thought guts him.

It’s not painful but devastating all the same because now, he knows what he wants and he doesn’t know what to do with it.

He wants it so badly. It’s too much, all at once and frightening in its clarity but it’s there now, settled beneath his skin like the warmth of wine, like the memory of a hand never held and it won’t leave.

There is no opponent to fight, no duel to win, and no battlefield where he can strike this feeling down and walk away victorious.

It just is.

It’s unavoidable and unbearable.

There’s no room for this in the world they’ve built and no space for asking. Liu Qingge can see no path forward that doesn’t feel like a ruin waiting to happen.

Yue Qingyuan is the Sect Leader. He is Liu Qingge’s Shixiong, his senior, a bachelor sought out by one too many. And Liu Qingge is... Liu Qingge.

And that is good, that is brilliant, but he doesn’t know what he can offer Yue Qingyuan besides being reliable and loyal and silent. He doesn’t know how to tell him that he will go down on his knees and take a thousand poisoned arrows for him if it means that Yue Qingyuan would smile like that for the rest of his life.

And so Liu Qingge sits there, quietly, while his food cools in his plate and the lanterns sway gently overhead.

He says nothing and just watches the man he wants from across a life too disciplined, knowing there’s no sword he can raise against this distance.

And no reason Yue Qingyuan would ever cross it.

Chapter Text

Liu Qingge is fine.

He’s been saying that a lot lately, with increasing certainty. Not out loud because he’s not deranged, not yet, but in the quiet moments before dawn, while tightening the bindings on his wrist guards, while meditating in solitude.

He is perfectly fine. 

So maybe his appetite’s shifted a little, and maybe he’s been running around his Peak filled with restless energy and polishing Cheng Luan every five minutes before he gets lost in his thoughts and starts over while muttering to himself, but that’s not cause for concern. 

He’s probably ill or hexed or going mad.

Because it can’t be what it feels like. That would be ridiculous. That would be dangerous.

What he’s experiencing is likely exhaustion or mild poisoning or seasonal allergies, even though, as a cultivator, he is not supposed to have any seasonal allergies. The weather’s been unstable lately, and the younger disciples are slow and too stupid to learn quickly enough. Perhaps, Qi Qingqi cursed him for any reason that caught her fancy, which is why he has been driving himself up in a tizzy these days. Also, that one Qian Cao Peak healer said stress can manifest in irrational preoccupations, and Liu Qingge has been very, very stressed lately.

The point is, whatever the case may be, his condition is entirely unrelated to Yue Qingyuan. It definitely cannot be about Yue Qingyuan.

Absolutely not.

Even if his emotions tipped over the same night Yue Qingyuan looked at him like that and smiling like Liu Qingge was something known and understood and, inexplicably, liked, even if the feeling gets worse when they’re in the same room, when Yue Qingyuan so much as brushes past him with his soft voice and softer eyes and—

No. 

There is no correlation. He’s thought this through, and there’s no pattern here.

Whatever strange ideas he had at Luo Binghe and Shen Qingqiu’s wedding were just the wine he got into his head and nothing else. He simply wants to serve and protect Yue Qingyuan like any loyal martial brother.

There is no reason his hand shook for half a second some evenings ago after handing over the pastries he didn’t even like (because they weren’t for him, they were clearly an accidental order) and there is certainly no reason his ears had burned when Yue Qingyuan took them and said, so happily, “These are my favourites.”

No reason at all.

(Liu Qingge also did not, in fact, remember that the pastries he’d “accidentally” ordered were Yue Qingyuan’s favourite and he had once mentioned it in passing to Mu Qingfang and Liu Qingge had overheard the remark.)

There wasn’t anything odd or special about it, that is for sure.

He’s fine.

It’s not that he catches himself watching Yue Qingyuan from across a room more often than should be permitted, or that he recognises his footsteps or that he sometimes sighs when he thinks no one’s listening. It’s not that Yue Qingyuan’s presence seems to follow him around like a shadow, turning up in his thoughts when he’s eating, meditating, sparring, or bleeding. It’s not that more often than not, he finds himself thinking if Yue Qingyuan is resting, if he has eaten, if he is working himself to death, yet again.

It’s definitely not that whenever Yue Qingyuan smiles, Liu Qingge feels like his chest is collapsing under the weight of something too large and too soft to be named, getting lost in the moment and forgetting his own damn name.

He’s been bringing Yue Qingyuan small things a lot lately. Nothing excessive, just food, tea, a scroll he found that he thought Yue Qingyuan might like, and an embroidered scarf that Yue Qingyuan once admired in passing during a winter festival. Just… things. Thoughtful, practical things. Necessary things.

And he always has an excuse.

“I was passing by.”

“It was discounted.”

“Someone gave me too many.”

“It’s yours already. I don’t want it.”

Yue Qingyuan never questions it. He only smiles, gently, without expectation, and thanks him as though Liu Qingge has done something extraordinary.

He hasn’t.

He’s only thinking of Yue Qingyuan more often than is strategically advisable. He’s only adjusting his schedule to intercept errands that pass near Qiong Ding. He’s only started taking on more and more work, so that he has more reasons to directly report to Yue Qingyuan.

He’s only seeing him everywhere, every day.

It’s maddening.

There’s no reason for this ache in his chest when Yue Qingyuan is nearby, or the ridiculous peace that settles there when he hears that voice, low and calm, calling him Liu Shidi like it means something sacred. There’s no reason for the way his breath stills when Yue Qingyuan glances up from a document and meets his gaze like he’s been waiting for him all day.

This is not a condition he knows how to treat.

There is no wound here, and yet he feels it in a steady, breathless, impossible manner like standing too close to the edge of something he doesn’t dare name.

He’s never been good at emotions. He understands action, effort, and the edge of a blade. He does not understand why his hand hesitated, just once, brushing Yue Qingyuan’s sleeve the other day while passing a scroll across the desk. He does not know why he felt as though his entire body had caught fire at that fleeting touch, why the heat in his chest didn’t fade for hours afterwards.

Or maybe he simply does not want to.

He is not dramatic. He is not weak.

He simply doesn’t know what to do with this feeling, this quiet, unbearable need to be near. This desire to give small things, warm things, pieces of himself that he has never known how to offer.

He tells himself it’s nothing, he tells himself it will pass, and he tells himself that Yue Qingyuan deserves someone kinder, cleverer, and more composed. Someone who knows how to speak plainly, who knows how to smile in return. Someone who doesn’t stand there red-eared and tongue-tied when faced with the man himself.

But somewhere between all those quiet lies, something gives because it isn’t nothing, it isn’t a passing feeling, fleeting like the early rains of summer. It isn’t just loyalty, or duty, or any of the other names he’s tried to force onto it.

He knows what it is now. He knows it a little too well to be comfortable with it.

It is love.

It’s not the kind he understands, not the kind he knows how to carry, but it is love all the same. Love that is steady and shattering and unrelenting in its gentleness. Love that is entirely his.

There is no escape from it, no unthinking it, no way to cut it clean from the centre of him.

And the worst part, the part that undoes him more than anything, is that it feels so natural, as if he was always meant to carry this quietly for as long as Yue Qingyuan lets him stay close.

He isn’t dramatic. He isn’t weak. But he is, undeniably, hopelessly in love.

He is Liu Qingge.

And he has never been further from fine.

—✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦—

Yue Qingyuan has known for years.

He didn’t have a crashing epiphany like stories do with lightning strikes or falling cherry blossoms or a heart that beats too fast to bear. No. It came slowly for him, like snow thickening on the branches, soundless, almost imperceptible, until one day, he woke and found the landscape of his heart entirely altered. One day, he looked at Liu Qingge in the quiet between obligations and realised it was too late and he already loved him. 

Loved him so much he could die under the weight of it, his entire being shattering under the enormity of this truth. One day, he looked at him and thought he would sooner cease to exist than live in a world that would not have Liu Qingge in it, that he could not even start fathoming a reality so bleak. 

And how could he not? How could he not love him? How could he not love this strange, stiff and devoted man who stands behind him like his shadow? In a sect where everyone takes and tugs and demands, Liu Qingge gives. He doesn’t give words or grand declarations, but presence and protection and unending, unconditional loyalty. He is everywhere and yet nowhere. He is in the sword drawn before Yue Qingyuan even speaks, in the ledgers filled after a long day, in the nights when Yue Qingyuan wakes at his desk to find a blanket over his shoulders, though no one ever entered his study.

Liu Qingge doesn’t ask. He never has. He simply appears. He simply stays. And then, just as soon as he finishes his task, he disappears with the same grace.

That is what undid Yue Qingyuan, in the end.

He could have endured affection, could have ignored the glances, the long held stares, even the brush of knuckles during a passing handover, but he could not endure Liu Qingge’s unwavering, unsentimental care. He could not bear being seen not as a sect leader, not as a responsibility, not as a symbol of grace and strength, but simply as a man. As someone worth protecting, as someone Liu Qingge quietly, relentlessly refuses to let collapse.

So Yue Qingyuan fell for him. Of course he did.

Liu Qingge is just like that. Beautiful and strong and ridiculously reliable.

And yet, every moment Yue Qingyuan spends with him is sheer agony because Liu Qingge is not cruel or unkind but simply unaware of the weight his tenderness carries, unaware that each word, each offering, each silent vigil feels, to Yue Qingyuan, like a promise never made, and therefore never broken.

And Yue Qingyuan, foolish man that he is, holds them close anyway.

Not because he believes he is loved, but because Liu Qingge, without ever meaning to, makes him feel like someone worth choosing. 

So he treasures what he is given: the loyalty, the silent regard, the constant presence at his side. It is enough. It has to be.

Until recently, it no longer is.

Liu Qingge has changed something, shifted some invisible balance. He has always brought quiet, thoughtful things for him, but even Yue Qingyuan can’t help but notice how the frequency has increased significantly over the past few weeks. There is no reason he can pinpoint, but Liu Qingge just cannot seem to stop himself from visiting him daily with some offering or the other. It has reached the point that even Yue Qingyuan can no longer pacify the fluttering hope in his heart anymore.

He, of course, receives all the gifts with the grace expected of him, smiles softly and thanks him, but he is reeling inside, all the same because everything Liu Qingge brings are intimate, deliberate gifts. They are the things one gives to someone one cannot stop thinking about.

And Yue Qingyuan doesn’t know what to do with that.

He sits at his desk long after night has fallen and Cang Qiong Mountain has steeped into a deep hush, his fingers curled around the edge of his desk, staring at the latest gift Liu Qingge brought for him.

It’s a manuscript he’d once mentioned wanting to read in passing months ago. He is not quite sure how Liu Qingge managed to get his hands on this rare treasure, but he did, nonetheless. It’s something only he would understand. The kind of gift a man chooses only after years of watching, of knowing.

Yue Qingyuan wants to believe. Gods, he wants to.

Because it’s so easy, here in the hush of his room, to let the hope swell in his chest like a wave waiting to crash through, to wonder if maybe, just maybe, Liu Qingge feels it too. That this isn’t kindness, isn’t duty, isn’t simple care for his sect leader, but something else. Something bigger and sweeter and heavier.

But the fear is there too, just beneath his ribs.

What if he is wrong? What if he’s seeing patterns where there are none? What if Liu Qingge is simply the same as always, and Yue Qingyuan is the fool who dares to dream?

He has lived for years with the ache of loving in silence, but this fragile hope is worse. It opens a door and shows him what it might be like if his feelings are reciprocated. A future so tender and sweet that he sometimes wants to weep just thinking about it, yet he cannot stop fantasising about it every night before his eyes close.

Yue Qingyuan doesn’t know how to close that door again.

So he puts the manuscript away, carefully, like a wound, as if handling it too roughly might make his feelings too visible, as if touching it too long might burn.

He tells himself it is nothing and that Liu Qingge is just kind, thoughtful, and the same as always.

And yet… and yet somewhere, deep in the most secret part of himself, Yue Qingyuan dares to wonder:

What if he’s not?

—✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦—

Liu Qingge is mid-mission, deep in the southern foothills, hunting some demons that have been terrorising a string of villages. The poor, panicked inhabitants of these villages had pooled together their resources and requested aid from Cang Qiong Mountain, and so, of course, Liu Qingge had gone alone.

He doesn’t really like sharing his assignments with other people (he blames Luo Binghe for that trauma), and in any case, he is strong enough to deal with some scummy demons himself. There is a reason he is called an undefeated War God, after all.

By mid afternoon, the sun is a dull smear behind the clouds, and the village is thick with rot and silence. Liu Qingge moves through it silently, sure and unstoppable. His back is straight, his brows furrowed in concentration, and his sword held aloft in his arm. The ground is wet with old rain, and his boots leave deep indents in the soft mud.

He’s run his blade through nearly a dozen three-horned crab rats the whole day, and his body is tense with residual killing intent when something squeaks behind him.

He turns sharply, sword raised, breath low in his chest, poised to strike without hesitation.

But it’s not another demon. It’s… something else.

A creature. 

Sort of.

It’s small enough to fit in his palm and round and vaguely frog-shaped. It sits in a patch of moss like a misplaced marble, glimmering faintly. Its fur, if one can call it that, shimmers like wet glass, slick and translucent. Its eyes are enormous and bulbous and black and far too large for its face, glinting with innocent confusion. 

The creature blinks at him, tilting its head to one side, half of its body swaying with the motion.

Liu Qingge blinks back.

Then the thing sneezes, high-pitched and ridiculous, and falls sideways from the effort.

Liu Qingge stares.

The little blob rights itself with great struggle and begins wobbling toward him on trembling limbs, making the most pitiful squeaking sounds Liu Qingge’s ever heard as if the mere act of shifting on the ground is using up half of his life span.

The poor thing is neither jinxed nor malevolent, as far as Liu Qingge can gather, and it has no spiritual energy, no defensive aura and not even the dignity of camouflage. It would be utterly hopeless in a fight; it’s definitely not edible and possibly cursed by destiny itself. 

It’s absolutely useless.

The thing bumps into Liu Qingge’s boot and looks up at him with expectant eyes, as if he is supposed to know what to do now. As if he is the god of this little thing.

Liu Qingge sighs.

“You’re not even good at being a beast,” he mutters, sheathing his sword. “How can you be this useless?”

The creature makes a noise that might be an indignant protest against being called useless, or maybe it just simply farted. Liu Qingge is not too sure.

He waits for it to wander off again and get lost in the foliage it came from, but it doesn’t. Instead, it trembles harder, then sneezes again and falls over.

It’s so deeply pathetic that even Liu Qingge feels moved.

“Ugh,” he groans.

He glances around again to see that nothing is stirring in the bushes and the blood of the demons he'd slayed still steams behind him. Then, he crouches and gathers the pitiful thing into one calloused hand. 

The creature is damp and warm and incredibly soft, like holding a heartbeat wrapped in jelly. 

It doesn’t struggle against Liu Qingge and just burrows a little closer in his palm, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.

“Fine,” Liu Qingge sighs, with the finality of a man accepting his fate. He wraps the creature gently in a spare cloth and tucks it into the pouch at his side.

Then, as if this minor incident hadn’t happened at all, he stands and adjusts his grip on his blade before continuing his mission through the foothills, his new gelatinous companion making occasional warbling sounds as it bounces against his hip.

Liu Qingge finishes the mission in record time and does not think about the creature and what to do with it, the entire way back to his sect when he flies on Cheng Luan.

(He does.)

—✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦—

Three days later, Yue Qingyuan returns to his study from taking morning lectures to find something unexpected resting on his desk.

He doesn’t feel too surprised, though. Knowing the way things have been going, he suspects it must be something new left behind by Liu Qingge. He recently returned from an assignment anyway, and it would have been more surprising had he returned empty-handed.

So, Yue Qingyuan curiously approaches the small bamboo basket on his desk, its lid covered with a square of fine cloth embroidered on Bai Zhan Peak’s crest. Though the threads are worn and the corners faintly scorched, there’s a carefulness to the way it’s been arranged, almost intentional in its care, like someone tried very hard not to look like they were trying at all.

Curious, Yue Qingyuan lifts the cloth.

Inside, curled atop another folded cloth like a pearl tucked into silk, is a small, round, and pathetic creature. The little beast stirs once in its sleep and lets out a tiny snore, blissfully oblivious to the change in its surroundings.

Yue Qingyuan stares at the thing, unsure about how he is supposed to react when his gaze catches on the piece of parchment nestled beside it, plain and creased at the edges. A short message, written in a sharp, clipped hand that leans just slightly to the right, as though the writer couldn’t decide whether to care about neatness or not.

Zhangmen Shixiong,

This thing is not dangerous and might be funny at times. Do what you want with it.

Liu Qingge

Yue Qingyuan makes a choked sound as a small, startled laugh slips out of him before he can think to restrain it.

It is absurd, so absurd, but the warmth that floods his chest is instant and bewildering, light as a spring rain, silly and enormous.

“Oh,” he chuckles, reaching out to touch the edge of the basket with one finger, then adjusting the cloth slightly to keep the little thing warm. The creature kicks its stubby limbs once and sighs in its sleep.

Yue Qingyuan’s eyes crinkle faintly at the corners. He pokes gently at its gelatinous side.

“Not dangerous,” he repeats to himself, his voice low and amused. “That’s one way of putting it.”

He lifts the creature along with the cloth it’s resting on into his palms, cradling it like something far more precious than it has any right to be. Then, under his breath, like a secret, he whispers, “I hope you like your new home, Xiao Bao.”

And then, perhaps for the first time in years, he grins, wide and real and excited as a child receiving new toys and candies.

That night, Liu Qingge himself stops by the Sect Leader’s residence.

For once, he has no excuse about summons or pressing sect business. Thus, he awkwardly hovers by the veranda of the residence as though he might change his mind, one hand curled loosely at his side, the other resting on his sword hilt like it might ground him. The soft orange glow of lamplight spills through the half-open windows. Somewhere inside, papers rustle, followed by a quiet laugh.

Liu Qingge knows he has to witness it himself, with his own eyes, and not just hear it. Thus, steeling himself, he nods to himself once, then twice, before he marches up the steps of the house and knocks. 

“You can enter,” calls the mellow voice of Yue Qingyuan. “The doors are not locked, Liu Shidi.”

Liu Qingge startles, wondering how Yue Qingyuan knew it was him just from his knocks, but he doesn’t hesitate for long and pushes open the doors and steps inside.

Yue Qingyuan looks up from where he is seated, relaxed behind the centre table of his living room, and smiles.

“Liu Shidi,” he says, voice warm. “Come in.”

Liu Qingge hesitates for another moment before he crosses the threshold. He stands awkwardly, like he’s half-forgotten how to occupy a room. His eyes flick toward the low table, where the creature now rests with its limbs draped dramatically over a lacquered inkstone.

“I hope,” he mutters, “I didn’t offend Zhangmen Shixiong with the… thing.”

Yue Qingyuan blinks before he laughs again, soft and genuine, like it bubbles up before he can help it. He reaches down to nudge the creature, who promptly starts climbing up his sleeves.

“Not at all,” he says, shaking his head. “I really like Xiao Bao.”

Liu Qingge short-circuits.

His face does nothing, of course, and he just lets out a neutral grunt and nods once, arms stiff by his sides but inside, something crumples, bursts into flames and self-destructs in a quiet, honourable blaze. His heartbeat goes erratic, his ears burning with embarrassment for reasons he is not sure of. He doesn’t know why, but something about his prim, proper Shixiong calling the thing Xiao Bao does something to his constitution that he cannot put into words. 

It’s adorable, that’s what it is.

Liu Qingge never thought he’d use the word in any context for anyone, but it is the only word that he can use to describe Yue Qingyuan poking at Xiao Bao with his long fingers. It's making him go a little insane.

The spirit beast sniffles in response.

Yue Qingyuan makes a fond sound in the back of his throat and brushes its head with the back of one finger. “He’s been following me around the whole day. I can’t even write a word without him climbing into the ink pot.”

Liu Qingge stares at the top of the spirit beast’s shimmering head, and then back at Yue Qingyuan, who’s smiling like he’s trying very hard not to.

Fuck he is beautiful like this, happy and amused and content.

Liu Qingge makes a faint noise, affirmative, probably, and turns to go, afraid that another moment here would simply make his heart collapse completely.

“Good,” he pushes out, barely audible. “I’m… glad. I will take my leave now.”

“Why so soon?” Yue Qingyuan asks, frowning. “You must stay for tea. You never even—”

“Work!” Liu Qingge blurts out before he turns on his heels, practically flying back to Bai Zhan.

A very perplexed Yue Qingyuan watches him flee before he sighs, shaking his head. He rubs the back of the creature again and whispers, “Whatever shall I do with him, Xiao Bao? Every day… he just becomes more and more loveable.”

Xiao Bao blinks at him, as if it, too, is at loss for words, and Yue Qingyuan huffs out a wry laugh. 

“I suppose enduring is the only thing we can do, hm?”

The spirit beast lets out a hiccup and promptly rolls off his sleeve. Yue Qingyuan catches it before it hits the floor and cradles it absently in one hand.

He looks back towards the door Liu Qingge vanished through and smiles, faint and helpless.

“…Truly, what am I going to do with him?”

Chapter Text

The main meeting hall on Qiong Ding Peak is ancient. It remembers the clang of swords and the weight of decisions, the echo of footsteps pacing through war councils and the quiet dread of incoming storms. It was built to endure and lead and be a haven where the best, most talented minds and souls of the cultivation world came to gather to solve and discuss problems. 

It was not built for whatever this is.

Sunlight filters through latticed windows, scattering like broken gold across a lacquered table where the Peak Lords sit. Camellia and sandalwood linger in the air, and robes rustle softly as a breeze threads through the room like an old friend, nosing at teacups and sleeves. On the surface, everything is still and in perfect order.

At the head of the table, Yue Qingyuan turns a page.

Even this is elegant. His fingers move delicately with each motion, smooth and deliberate, and his voice, low and calm, carries through the room as he outlines routine matters with great clarity. His presence is magnetic, his words commanding. Every single Peak Lord present is focused entirely on him.

But no one is focused quite as much as the Peak Lord of Bai Zhan Peak is.

Liu Qingge not only listens with rapt attention, but he also watches. He watches like one might watch falling snow, or the unfurling of a blossom they didn’t mean to care about, his gaze never straying. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t fidget, doesn’t move. Instead, he simply exists in the shape of attention, attuned entirely to the man across from him.

Someone observing might say the fearsome warlord is nearly smiling.

And Yue Qingyuan…Yue Qingyuan sees it. Not obviously, not with flourish, but in the way he glances over his notes now and then, quick and sidelong. Liu Qingge catches each look.

And then, once, he catches something else.

The barest tilt of Yue Qingyuan’s mouth, the faintest twitch between his brows, the crinkle along the side of his eye. 

A smile. 

It’s not the polished one reserved for his sect, but something unguarded and warm, so fleeting it feels like a dream fading in the morning. Just as quickly as it graces the handsome face of Yue Qingyuan, it vanishes too.

But Liu Qingge sits bolt upright, heart thudding with the graceless force of a blade striking against a rock. It takes several long moments before he remembers how to breathe, before he feels the heat in his ears subsiding.

Much later, when patrol schedules are brought up, Liu Qingge finally speaks. He doesn’t really correct anything but suggests his ideas with uncharacteristic softness, words weighed and low.

He deliberately avoids looking at Yue Qingyuan.

But the man himself looks at him, startled not by the suggestion because everyone knows Liu Qingge is the most reliable person in this field, but by the tone. How gentle it is, how unhurried and sweet his words are. Yue Qingyuan makes the conscious decision to not dwell on the words, to not let silly hope flutter in his heart, and just nods once, amending the record.

The other Peak Lords pretend not to notice. Which is to say, they stare resolutely at their tea, their notes, the ceiling, anything that isn’t the very obvious soft thing that just passed between their Sect Leader and their fellow Peak Lord.

Someone coughs into their sleeve, someone else scribbles something entirely incoherent. A pause stretches, long and uncomfortable, like a thread pulled too tight.

This has been happening for months.

Every meeting is the same, with precise pointers, polite discourse, and air thick with longing so palpable that it may as well be fog.

It’s not the sect politics, the demon subjugation reports, or the resource scrolls Shang Qinghua submits, footnoted to oblivion, that are agonising. Instead, it’s Yue Qingyuan and Liu Qingge.

Or more precisely, the exquisite torment of watching them pretend that they are not ridiculously in love with each other.

They sit at a careful distance and speak to each other only when required. They think no one notices the way their eyes drift across the room and always find each other, as if no one else is worth paying attention to. They think no one sees that they are both yearning for each other on levels one previously believed to be unattainable.

But everyone does.

Everyone sees how Liu Qingge’s gaze lingers on the curve of Yue Qingyuan’s wrist, the slope of his shoulders, the quiet furrow between his brows when he reads and how Yue Qingyuan, for all his composure, lets him look, lets his eyes rest on the mole on Liu Qingge’s face as if he wants to brush it with the pad of his thumb and then kiss it softly. How he smiles for him, privately and without restraint.

The rest of the Peak Lords endure with the quiet horror of people locked in a very slow, very public tragedy.

Wei Qingwei’s tea has become progressively stronger. Mu Qingfang’s jaw tightens so often it’s a wonder he hasn’t cracked a molar. Shang Qinghua’s brush snapped mid-sentence twice in the same meeting.

Even Shen Qingqiu, who would rather be thrown into the Abyss than witness another second of this emotional drama, sits stiff-backed and silent, eyes glazed with psychic damage and second-hand embarrassment and mortification for his Qi Ge. He truly believes he is being slighted every time he is asked to leave his husband alone at their home and witness this absolute madness unfold in every meeting he attends.

It’s unbearable.

His mind drifts. Not to anything dramatic, but just the image of Binghe’s head resting in his lap, half-asleep and fiddling with the hem of Shen Qingqiu’s robes like it’s the most important task in the world. The hush of the room, the steady rhythm of breath, the deep, indulgent peace of doing absolutely nothing with someone who never asks for more. Then, Binghe cracking some ridiculous joke and Shen Qingqiu laughing because how could he not, and Binghe giving him his lazy, dimpled, slow smile and then—

A soft plop, followed by a hiccup and then another plop.

Shen Qingqiu startles out of his daydreams as all heads turn in unison.

From the fold of Yue Qingyuan’s sleeve emerges a glimmering, vaguely frog-shaped creature no larger than one’s fist. It blinks solemnly at the people present and rolls onto the table with the theatrical despair of a man wronged by fate.

“…Xiao Bao,” Yue Qingyuan chides, tone equal parts scolding and affectionate, like a parent addressing a child caught stealing sweets. The spirit beast hiccups, glittering faintly in the light, and begins its slow march toward Mu Qingfang’s ink pot.

Mu Qingfang lifts the pot with all the weariness of a man whose patience has become a relic of the past, long since accustomed to the antics of the little pet their sect leader has so quickly become fond of.

“My apologies,” Yue Qingyuan says smoothly, serene as still water, and lifts Xiao Bao with the grace of a man used to scooping chaos into his sleeves. The creature gurgles with delight and vanishes into the fabric with a final, triumphant shiver.

Liu Qingge doesn’t blink once during the entire episode.

Or rather, he doesn’t look away from Yue Qingyuan cradling Xiao Bao with that same quiet gentleness he brings to everything else he’s ever loved.

Yue Qingyuan notices. Of course he does.

He hides his smile in the fold of his sleeve, fingers idly stroking the lump of spirit beast tucked against his wrist. 

“Traitor,” he whispers, but it sounds like gratitude.

Shen Qingqiu downs half his tea in one go and mutters some annoyed grievances against the beast and the situation in general under his breath. Not long after that, the meeting ends. And once more, it ends without any hope of any future confessions and revelations.

Perhaps that is why Qi Qingqi decides to take matters into her own hands.

It’s the first peak lords’ meeting she’s attended since Shen Qingqiu and Luo Binghe’s wedding after having spent months alone in the Lingxi Caves, meditating, cultivating, and enjoying the blissful, near-sacred peace of not having to witness her best friend lose his mind in slow motion.

She came back thinking, foolishly, that maybe time had worked its magic. That maybe Liu Qingge had, in her absence, grown a brain or at least a slight capacity for emotional clarity.

She was wrong.

It took precisely one meeting to confirm it.

One meeting to watch him stare at Yue Qingyuan like a man trying to brand the image of his beloved in his brain so that he’d remember it till the day he dies. One meeting to watch Yue Qingyuan smile for him like he was the only person who mattered. One meeting to realise that the rest of the Peak Lord were very close to snapping.

Qi Qingqi has always known. She knew years ago, even before Liu Qingge did— especially before Liu Qingge did. But she didn’t push. She thought he’d get there on his own, that with time, he’d figure it out, and she wouldn’t have to embarrass either of them by talking about it out loud.

But no.. Of course not. How could she be fortunate enough to experience that proud moment? She should have known. She’s known Liu Qingge since they were kids, she knows him better than he knows himself, and it’s almost laughable to her that she made such a huge lapse of judgement in analysing the situation.

Her best friend is Liu Qingge, who is as stubborn as a rock, whose feelings are buried deeply under his skin, and who has the emotional range of a damp washcloth.

So now it’s on her because apparently someone has to fix this disaster before it kills them both. If she has to be the one to kick him directly into romantic progress, so be it. She is not sitting through another meeting like that.

He is going to confess, or elope, or cry on someone’s shoulder after a rejection, which she is also certain would not happen because Yue Qingyuan is also stupidly in love. Qi Qingqi does not care what form it takes, but something will happen because she did not spend three months in spiritual retreat only to come back and watch this walking war crime of unspoken feelings continue to unfold.

Armed with this resolve, she hunts Liu Qingge down without wasting another moment.

Liu Qingge is halfway back to his peak when Qi Qingqi appears at his side with the silent, ominous precision of a night ambush. Her face is unreadable, and her sleeves are perfectly ironed. She looks like she’s about to ask him something important.

“I want a word with you,” She demands. No greetings, no explanations. She simply fixes him with a terrifying look, daring him to refuse her order. Confused but not scared, Liu Qingge shrugs. 

He only slows his pace and says, “Alright. Walk with me.” And after waiting for a beat, he adds, quiet but sincere, “You were gone a long time. How was your retreat?”

“It was fine.” Qi Qingqi waves an impatient hand. Then she fixes him with a piercing look. “What have you been up to?”

“Hm? Oh, nothing much, just—”

“Just running around collecting useless pets as gifts for Zhangmen Shixiong?”

Liu Qingge stumbles and nearly falls flat on his face. 

“Wh— what are you saying?” He asks, his voice slightly louder than he intends it to be. “I— no. That’s not—”

“You need to stop that.” Qi Qingqi interrupts his blustering, arms crossed, eyes steady. “Just confess and get it over with. Tell him that you love him, for heaven’s sake.”

“I— That’s not— I am not—”

“Oh no.” Qi Qingqi looks aghast. “Oh no, please don’t tell me you still haven’t realised you are in love with Zhangmen Shixiong.”

“I—”

“See, if you haven’t, then I am telling you. You are in love with our sect leader Yue Qingyuan. You have been for years. Apparently, it got a lot worse in the months I was away in the caves. You need to confess to him and put us all out of our misery.”

“I— We’re just... friends.”

Qi Qingqi stares at him incredulously before she scoffs, “No, you’re not.” 

“Yes, we are—”

“No. We—” Qi Qingqi gestures wildly between herself and Liu Qingge. “Are friends. What you have going on with Yue Qingyuan is an extremely embarrassing courtship ritual, which you both are unaware of. I cannot lecture Zhangmen Shixiong like this, but I can lecture you. So pull yourself together and confess to him.”

Liu Qingge opens his mouth to protest, to refute her claims, to tell her to shut up, but in the end, all he does is hang his head. 

“I don’t know how.” He mumbles, staring down at his palms. “I don’t know how to tell him that.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I… Whenever I see him, I lose all my ability to speak.”

Qi Qingqi studies him for a few moments before she speaks again in a much softer voice. “That’s normal. People lose words around those they love.”

“No. You don’t understand.” Liu Qingge looks at her, and there’s no pride left in his expression, only despair. “He’s not just anyone to me. He’s the person I would follow into death without question. He’s my sect leader. He’s my— He’s—” He stops himself before he says everything and swallows hard. “If I say something and it ruins what we have, I won’t be able to stand it.”

There’s a heavy silence after this confession. The kind that gathers in the chest and makes breathing feel like a chore.

Finally, Qi Qingqi exhales. “And if you don’t say anything? Will you be able to stand that?”

Liu Qingge doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.

“Tian Lei’s sect leader sent a marriage proposal for him… for Zhangmen Shixiong to marry his daughter,” he says, voice barely more than a whisper. “He said it would strengthen diplomatic ties. She’s elegant and skilled in swordplay and calligraphy and everything a sect master’s wife should be.” 

Liu Qingge shakes his head once, sharply, like he’s trying to dislodge the image. “One day I’m going to wake up and find out he’s agreed to one of these proposals.”

“And that’s not a future you want.”

“No.” He closes his eyes. “But I don’t know how to ask for the one I do.”

Qi Qingqi nods slowly. “I understand.”

He looks up.

“I do,” she insists when she sees his narrowed eyes. “That fear that if you reach out, the thing you want most might pull away. That maybe it was never yours to begin with.” She exhales, steady and quiet. “But I’ve watched him too, and I’m telling you, he’s waiting.”

Liu Qingge stays silent.

“He looks at you like he’s hoping for something. Every time. And when you’re not looking, he still is. If you asked him for the future you want, I promise you, he would give it to you with both hands.”

Liu Qingge swallows. The ache in his chest shifts. It’s lighter now, but no less real. Hope flutters in his heart like something shy and wild, and he is afraid to breathe too loudly in case it shatters.

“…Thank you,” he says eventually, and means it.

Qi Qingqi offers him a smile, crooked and fond. “About time you said that to me.”

They walk in silence a few steps more.

And yet, even with her words still warm in his ears, there’s something sharp left behind. A quiet whisper Liu Qingge doesn’t voice: What if I’m wrong? What if he doesn’t want me at all?

But he says nothing.

—✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦—

The bamboo house on Qing Jing Peak has stood for generations, long before Shen Qingqiu or Luo Binghe ever called it home. It was never rebuilt, only repaired. It’s weather-worn and slightly crooked, with joints that groan in the wind and floors that remember every footfall, but it still stands proud and elegant.

To Yue Qingyuan, it has always looked a little too small from the outside. But inside, it feels like stepping into warmth. There’s always a teacup drying on the windowsill. If he swivels his head, he finds Binghe’s handwriting on a scroll lying leisurely on a table. At the entrance, Shen Qingqiu’s boots always lie pointed the wrong way. They live there like they have always lived there, in sweet domesticity and gentle harmony and the house, stubborn and old, has softened around them in quiet approval.

Yue Qingyuan visits them once a week, or every other week, depending on the season and their schedules. The visits are always planned. Binghe insists on it. He likes having enough time to prepare

And prepare he does.

The door swings open before Yue Qingyuan even finishes knocking.

“Qi Ge,” Binghe greets him, grinning brightly and full of affection. He steps aside quickly to let him in. “You’re here. Good. Jiu-er’s already trying to steal the food.”

“Stealing?” Shen Jiu, who’s seated cross-legged at the table with a cup of wine, quips as he lifts an elegant brow. “Who said anything about stealing? I was quality checking. You’re the one who insists on presentation. Shouldn’t I, at the very least, help you by confirming the taste?”

Yue Qingyuan studies the table that has already been laid. The air smells of grilled tofu, soft buns, and lotus root soup simmered in light broth. Sweet glutinous rice cakes rest neatly on the side. Shen Jiu always pretends not to care for them, but he never leaves a crumb behind.

Binghe sets a new dish on the table, looking mildly amused. “You’ve ‘quality checked’ half the pork already.”

“I like pork,” Shen Jiu answers, perfectly unapologetic and taking another bite out of the food. 

Yue Qingyuan laughs, stepping inside as he shrugs off the weight of the day. “Alright, alright. I’m sure it’s all excellent.”

He moves to sit beside Shen Jiu, who shifts to make space for him. Binghe sets down the final dish on the table and takes a seat before the two of them. 

“Let us eat before the food grows cold,” Binghe says, already ladling out soup for everyone in bowls. “Jiu-er might have been stuffing himself, but I am starving, and I am sure Qi Ge is hungry too.”

“I am,” Yue Qingyuan nods, taking the bowl of soup from Binghe. “Thank you, Binghe. Xiao Jiu, you should really help out your husband sometimes.”

“He never lets me.” Shen Jiu answers, rolling his eyes as he takes a spoonful of the soup. “I think he has erected barriers in the kitchen. He never lets me enter.”

“Because you misplace everything.” Binghe frowns, putting more green shoots in Shen Jiu’s bowl with his chopsticks. “It’s exhausting. Besides, I love cooking for you and Qi Ge.”

Yue Qingyuan shakes his head, smiling fondly. “The food is delicious as always, Binghe.”

Binghe smiles, proud and pleased. 

Yue Qingyuan leans back slightly, fingers still warm around the porcelain of his bowl. His shoulders have dropped, he realises. The tightness between them, the one he carries from his everyday duties, is just... gone. It’s melted into the quiet, the smell of steamed buns and old bamboo, and the way Shen Jiu brushes against him without thinking.

Everything is too good.

Binghe pours him more tea before he can ask. Shen Jiu takes the biggest rice cake without shame. Binghe puts more meat in Shen Jiu’s bowl without him asking, and Shen Jiu absent-mindedly feeds him rice with his chopsticks. Yue Qingyuan talks about some new petitions he has received, and Shen Jiu offers scathing commentary. Their voices rise and fall, easy and teasing, and Yue Qingyuan simply flows with the conversation. He doesn’t need to hold up the world here. He doesn’t need to be wise, or measured, or unshakable.

He is just their brother. Just a man eating dinner in the quietest house on Qing Jing Peak, with the two people who know him best.

And he is happy. 

He is happy conversing, laughing, and listening. 

At some point, he reaches into his sleeve and gently pulls out Xiao Bao, curled and content. The little spiritual beast blinks sleepily at the light and gives a soft hiccup, barely louder than a breath.

Yue Qingyuan smiles, breaking off a corner of a bun and holding it out. Xiao Bao nibbles with tiny, eager teeth.

“Oh!” Binghe sits forward, brightening. “Qi Ge brought Xiao Bao, too?” His voice is casual, but the glint in his eyes is not, as if he was waiting for something like this to happen all along.

Yue Qingyuan chuckles. “Of course. He gets fussy if I leave him behind.”

“Liu Qingge gifted him to you, didn’t he?” Binghe asks, tone casual, but his brown eyes are fixed on Yue Qingyuan in a way that’s almost scary. He is entirely fixated on his mission now. 

Yue Qingyuan, blissfully unaware of the trap he is walking into, only nods, still smiling. “Yes.”

Across the table, Shen Jiu raises a brow as he takes a sip of his tea. “He gifts you a lot of things.”

Yue Qingyuan doesn’t even hesitate. “I know. But that’s just how things are between us.”

Binghe and Shen Jiu exchange a glance, then. It is one of those split-second, wordless things they’ve perfected over years of knowing each other too well. An entire conversation takes place in that brief moment, and they don’t even have to utter a word. 

Yue Qingyuan catches it just a moment too late, but before he can even acquaint himself with the dangerous waters he has unknowingly treaded into, Binghe asks, “Are you happy with that?”

“…What do you mean?”

Shen Jiu, who has never known how to be diplomatic when impatient, puts his bowl down with a thunk. The table goes silent. Binghe lets out a sigh, long suffering, knowing damn well his husband can no longer be restrained now. 

“Qi Ge, we’ve respected your boundaries for years, but come on. Neither of you are fooling anyone. It’s so obvious Liu Qingge is in love with you, and you love him back. When exactly are you planning to do something about it?”

Yue Qingyuan blinks. Open-mouthed, slightly stunned. “Xiao Jiu—”

“I mean, I get it.” Shen Jiu huffs, massaging his temples as Binghe stares at him with a half-amused, half-exasperated expression, “I get the embarrassment of being in love with Liu Qingge. That man has the intellectual and emotional capacity of a mule, but he is… alright overall. Binghe and I won’t judge you.”

Yue Qingyuan looks like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Binghe leans in, gentler but firm. “Jiu-er’s right, Qi Ge. We’ve tried to be understanding because we know you’re the most reasonable out of all of us. If you haven’t done something about your feelings, then we both understand there must be a good reason for you not to. But watching you twist yourself in knots pretending you don’t want this is painful.”

He hesitates, then adds softly, “You are our family and we want you to be happy. Please. Do something.”

Shen Jiu sniffs at that before he nods stiffly as well. “He’s right, Qi Ge. Please, do something. For my sanity and yours.”

For a long moment, Yue Qingyuan doesn’t respond. He lowers his gaze, his eyes resting on the little creature in his palm and the only sound heard in the room is the soft munching of Xiao Bao, blissfully unaware of the emotional ambush unfolding around him.

“…But what if you’re wrong?” Yue Qingyuan asks finally, voice low and for the first time, he looks uncharacteristically sombre and hopelessly dejected. “What if it’s not like that? I’m his senior. I’m his Sect Leader. I can’t afford to be wrong.”

“Qi Ge—”

“I have tried, you know?” Yue Qingyuan continues, fingers rubbing the back of Xiao Bao. “I have tried to gauge his feelings, I have hinted so many times that I… that I hold deep affection for him. But he never understands. What else am I supposed to do?”

“That idiot.” Shen Jiu mutters, looking extremely put off now. “That absolute fucking idiot. Qi Ge, Liu Qingge’s skull is thicker than the walls of this house. I can understand your pain. There were so many times when I wanted Binghe to confess when we were younger, but he just never got my hints either.”

“Hey!” Binghe protests, looking offended now. “Your hints were you threatening to dislocate my jaw if I got too close. How was I supposed to understand that?”

Shen Jiu only rolls his eyes at that, but his tone is softer when he addresses Yue Qingyuan again. “Qi Ge, I understand your apprehension, but considering how painfully oblivious Liu Qingge can be, I do not think you can be vague any more. And I know it can be daunting, but you must tell him how you feel. It is undeniable that he loves you.”

“It really is.” Binghe sighs, shaking his head. “He looks at you like you’re the sun. It’s not subtle. So what we mean to say is that you don’t have to do it today. You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. But you deserve to know that it’s not one-sided. We wouldn’t say this if we weren’t sure.”

For a long time, Yue Qingyuan doesn’t speak. Xiao Bao finishes his snack and curls into the dip of his palm, warm and content. Slowly, the tension in his brow eases.

“…Thank you,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, but steady. “I’ll think about it.”

Binghe nods in approval, not quite satisfied with this outcome but pleased that they got somewhere , at least.

“Also,” Shen Jiu adds, “if he turns you down, which he won’t, I’ll push him off a cliff.”

Yue Qingyuan laughs in response despite himself.

“I’m serious.” Shen Jiu insists as Binghe gives him a fond smile as if he isn’t actively discussing murdering his martial brother. “I do not mind some blood on my hands.”

Yue Qingyuan smiles then. It’s a small smile, faint and a little fragile, but real. 

For now, this faint hope is enough.

Maybe one day, he will have the courage to confess, but till then, he is content with loving Liu Qingge in secrecy. 

Chapter Text

It has been a week.

And still, Yue Qingyuan feels it like an echo in his chest, like a hand hovering near his shoulder, steady and persistent. Shen Jiu’s and Luo Binghe’s words return to him at odd hours, sharper than he expects, softened only by their maddeningly clear-eyed certainty.

You can’t keep pretending this isn’t what you want.

He hadn’t denied it. He hadn’t dared.

How could he?

He might be a coward who quietly bears the weight of his feelings without revealing them, but that doesn’t mean he is a liar. He knows he is in love with Liu Qingge. Hopelessly, eternally.

There have been brief, suspended moments where the words have nearly slipped out of him. A shared silence over tea. A lingering glance. The way Liu Qingge rested his palm on Yue Qingyuan’s back, warm and grounding, during a joint training session of Qiong Ding and Bai Zhan disciples, once that had spiralled into chaos. Each time, Yue Qingyuan almost said it. 

Almost. 

And then not.

Because what does it mean to finally name something he’s kept silent for so long? What if it ruins them?

He’s spent years mastering the art of restraint. What frightens him isn’t just the possibility of rejection but the weight of the wanting itself because wanting is loud. It slips into his voice when he calls Liu Qingge’s name. It curls in his fingers when they brush too close. It burns behind his eyes when he watches him walk away.

Wanting is dangerous. It makes him hesitate at thresholds, swallow down truths that rise too easily in the throat. It makes him imagine ridiculous, impossible things. Fantasies of a shared room, a hand reaching for his in quiet mornings, a silhouette walking beside him, unafraid.

There’s no place for such thoughts in his neat, orderly world, yet they grow, seeded in the cracks of his discipline, blooming in silence.

He knows what he feels. He has always known, but Yue Qingyuan also knows the cruelty of hope. And so, he keeps his confessions folded sharp beneath the tongue. He lets them live only in the spaces between them and bloom in what isn’t said, in what his gaze holds too long.

Across the peaks, Liu Qingge is no less haunted because even a week later, Qi Qingqi’s words do not leave him.

It’s not as if they told him anything new. Liu Qingge was already too far gone when she returned from her retreat. He knew what it was, this stubborn, maddening thing that had grown wild inside him. It took root long before she named it and long before he dared to look at it directly.

He remembers Qi Qingqi standing before him with her arms crossed and her gaze unflinching, tearing every layer of denial from his skin with the precision of a blade.

That is what startled him.

It was not the truth, but the fact that someone else could see it. That he is transparent and foolishly so.

He’d tried to argue, but even as the denials left his mouth, he heard how empty they sounded and how Qi Qingqi ignored them all and spoke with the finality of someone who has had enough. 

“Pull yourself together and confess to him,” she’d said, as if it were that simple. As if what stood between him and Yue Qingyuan wasn’t an entire lifetime of restraint and reverence and loyalty.

But what cut him deepest was not her irritation or her bluntness.

It was her softness.

“He’s waiting.”

Those two words follow him everywhere. They follow him through training drills, through sleepless nights, through long hours of silence where he stares at his ceiling and tries to rehearse what he might say to Yue Qingyuan before he falls quiet again.

It’s gotten embarrassingly bad, even more so than before. Yue Qingyuan can’t take a step without Liu Qingge’s gaze following him. When he smiles, it leaves Liu Qingge wrecked with want that lives in clenched jaws and wordless offerings. The kind that twists itself into longing every time he hears Yue Qingyuan laugh from another room.

He’s taken to gripping Cheng Luan’s scabbard in his hands just so he won’t reach out.

He thinks he’d made peace with loving Yue Qingyuan in silence and was fine with standing beside him without asking for anything more. He thought it was the kind of devotion he could manage, a pain he could endure.

That is, until Qi Qingqi told him his feelings might be returned.

Suddenly, the ache in his chest stopped being something still and bearable. It became a thing with sharp edges, something with wings.

And so, one day, he decides he’s waited enough. That now he can no longer hold himself back. He rises early and dresses himself in his white and grey robes, his hair tied tighter than usual, as if that would keep him from falling apart. His fingers twitch on instinct toward his sword hilt, not because of any threat, but because he’s never felt this exposed.

This time, when he goes to meet Yue Qingyuan, he doesn’t bring a gift or an excuse or anything of the sort. He only brings the bare, fragile, and unbearable absolute truth.

Today, he thinks as he steps outside his home, I tell him I want him.

Even if the words don’t come out perfectly, even if his voice breaks halfway, even if Yue Qingyuan doesn’t return his feelings, Liu Qingge will tell him, and then he will finally know. At least then, he would stop pretending that silence is enough.

— ✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦ —

Liu Qingge is already seated when the knock comes at the door.

He hadn’t said why he’d come, and Yue Qingyuan hadn’t asked. 

Outside, the late afternoon sun clings to the rooftops of Qiong Ding like molten gold. Inside, the study is illuminated by the sunlight, the rays of the sun catching on Yue Qingyuan’s hair and at the corner of his mouth, making it appear like he’s been lit up from within, and dappling across the silver thread of a discarded scroll, the slow curl of steam rising from a forgotten teacup. 

Liu Qingge sits across from Yue Qingyuan, arms crossed, gaze fixed not on him but somewhere just past his shoulder, like he’s carefully and diligently studying the walls because he doesn’t trust himself anymore to act normally when faced with the man.

He had been so sure, so damn resolved earlier. He’d risen at dawn with the clarity of a man walking to war, rehearsed his words until they felt less like feeble excuses and more like something that might land with precision. He’d come to say them, truly, without any excuses or deflections.

But then Yue Qingyuan opened the door with that quiet, startled smile, tilted his head just so, and said, “Come in, Liu Shidi,” and Liu Qingge lost his words. His nerve, his spine, every ounce of the brittle courage he’d gathered cracked under the weight of that voice, that familiarity and that wretched, gentle kindness.

Now he sits in silence, seething, not at Yue Qingyuan, but at himself, because all he’s done is sit here like a fool and waste time. Time that slipped by far too fast, carried by the soft scratch of Yue Qingyuan’s brush, the subtle rustle of parchment, the unbearable calm of being near him.

He’s enraptured in these thoughts when the knock comes.

Yue Qingyuan glances up and calls, “Enter.”

The door slides open. A young Qiong Ding disciple steps inside, her robes damp with mist. She bows and holds out the scroll.

“Shizun, Tian Lei Peak has sent another scroll. They urged that you respond with utmost urgency—”

The name alone hits Liu Qingge like a blow, like a blade he never saw coming. He goes still, breath halting in his chest. His gaze drops to the scroll and the delicate crimson seal holding it shut.

Not again.

“I know,” Yue Qingyuan says, before she can finish. “Thank you.”

His disciple bows again before she withdraws, and the door closes behind her with a hush. Yue Qingyuan breaks the seal and begins to read.

Across from him, Liu Qingge doesn’t move at first, but his chest feels tight in a way that’s hard to name.

He knows what the scroll must contain, and it makes his blood run cold.

Tian Lei Peak sent something similar months ago. He remembers the first scroll and the envoy, too. He never read it, so he does not know the words, but he remembers his anxiousness at the tidy suggestion of union, the sleepless nights that have followed him afterwards.

He had come here to speak his heart out, but the moment he entered, it had slipped from him. The resolve, the words, the entire reason he had come simply slipped from him like sand falling between his fingers.

And now this.

His hands curl into fists where they rest on his knees. He doesn’t look at Yue Qingyuan.

He can’t.

Because what if this is the moment? The one he let slip through his grasp like an idiot, all because he was too much of a coward to say three simple words. Too much of a coward to convey his feelings.

He’s furious with himself, with this timing and the universe, which apparently delights in humiliating him like this.

He waited too long and hesitated when he should have moved. He let silence settle where something honest, something his, should’ve been, and now some other name sits on Yue Qingyuan’s desk, neatly inked, boldly declared without an ounce of hesitation there.

And Liu Qingge? Still mute, still sitting here like a fool.

“What does it say?” he asks, eventually, his voice low though he knows the answer already.

Yue Qingyuan doesn’t look up. “Exactly what it said the last time.”

“Did you accept?” 

That gets him a calm, pointed look.

“No,” Yue Qingyuan answers. “I rejected them the last time, too. But the Sect Leader is very persistent. I have to give him that.”

Liu Qingge doesn’t answer.

He stares down at the edge of the desk. There’s a small ink stain near the edge, shaped like a thumbprint. He fixates on it.

It’s a ridiculous thing to be angry about.

And yet he is. He is absolutely livid as he shifts in his seat, tension rolling off him in waves and stares straight ahead, jaw tight, voice flat.

“Then just say no again.”

Yue Qingyuan blinks at the sudden shift in his tone, which has suddenly grown cold and scathing. “Liu Shidi—”

“Actually,” Liu Qingge cuts in, sharper this time, “ignore the scroll altogether. Let them wait. That will show them for being so discourteous to Zhangmen Shixiong and not respecting his wishes the first time.”

Yue Qingyuan sets the letter down, one brow arching in quiet rebuke. “That’s not how sect diplomacy works, Liu Shidi.”

And that definitely breaks something open inside Liu Qingge. His hand comes to grab the table’s edge, as if he wants to flip it over. Anything to stop this ridiculous proposal.

“So what?” He snaps. “You can refuse if you want to. No one’s holding a sword to your throat.”

Yue Qingyuan says nothing, stunned by his sudden outburst.

Liu Qingge doesn’t let up and continues to stare at Yue Qingyuan before he breathes out, low and furious, “Unless… you don’t want to refuse.”

Silence.

Liu Qingge leans forward slightly, voice dropping, rough and ragged now. “Tell me, Zhangmen Shixiong. Do you want to marry her?”

Yue Qingyuan looks at him then, truly looks. For a moment, his mask slips and something flickers in his expression. Surprise, maybe, then something far more complicated. Perhaps regret or maybe a terrible, dawning understanding.

Or maybe it’s just his restraint and patience snapping into two.

Yue Qingyuan answers with a question of his own, sharp as an arrow and stinging like one. “What if I say I do?”

Liu Qingge goes very still as the words hang between them.

They don’t land all at once. Instead, their implication spreads, slow and bewildering, like a blade twisting deeper with every breath. His eyes flick up to Yue Qingyuan’s face, searching, uncomprehending.

He had expected and hoped for a refusal, maybe even a reprimand or a lie meant to keep the peace, but not this.

Not this impatient, sudden, “What if I say I do?”

Liu Qingge doesn’t speak, doesn’t move for what feels like hours. His body stays upright through sheer force of habit, but something inside him sags and collapses in on itself. He can’t even feel his fists anymore, can’t tell if they’re still clenched or if he’s just forgotten how to let go.

The silence grows unbearable, scalding and scorching. He forces himself to stand, and the movement is jerky and too fast. His chair scrapes back with a loud screech against the floor.

“Understood,” he says, bowing stiffly, his voice hoarse but steady. “Zhangmen Shixiong is free to do as he pleases.”

Yue Qingyuan’s brows draw together. “Liu Shidi—”

But Liu Qingge is already turning away, his bow a shield, his steps stiff and mechanical like he’s marching himself out before he breaks.

“Liu Qingge.” Yue Qingyuan’s voice sharpens, command in every syllable.

It stops Liu Qingge, but he doesn’t turn. He stands rooted to the spot, one hand outstretched toward the door handle, the other curled so tightly at his side that his nails bite deep crescents into his palm. His shoulders tremble with restraint, with the sheer force of holding himself together.

He can’t look back.

If he does, he knows he’ll see the end written plain on Yue Qingyuan’s face. Knows it will undo him. Already, the air feels thinner, as if something vital has been pulled from his chest and won’t return. The ache behind his ribs is hollow and enormous, a shape he knows he’ll carry forever.

He bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, the taste of iron a small anchor against the pull toward breaking. One wrong breath and he’ll fall apart completely, and there will be no putting himself back together.

He wants to leave before he humiliates himself further, before he says something that will ruin them entirely. But he can’t move forward, and neither can he make himself let go of the door.

What does Yue Qingyuan want from him now? To stand here and make him watch as the one person he’s just started to dare to hope for is sealed beyond reach? 

“You misunderstand me.” Yue Qingyuan says, and Liu Qingge wants to laugh at that, mirthless and despairing. 

What misunderstanding? Didn’t Zhangmen Shixiong say he wants to marry someone else? What is Liu Qingge not interpreting correctly in this situation? 

Before he can retort with anything, though, Yue Qingyuan steps around him and stands before his study door, blocking his path. He’s close enough now that Liu Qingge can see the fine tremor in his hands, the tightness at the corners of his mouth.

“I asked,” Yue Qingyuan speaks quietly, “because I want to know why you care. You glare when I speak of marriage proposals, you bristle when others try to draw me away, but when I give you the chance to speak, you say nothing.”

Liu Qingge looks at him, silent, jaw tight.

“If your concern is just for your sect leader, then spare me,” Yue Qingyuan whispers. The steadiness of his voice is at odds with the way his fingers tremble and twitch, as if he means to reach out and grab hold of Liu Qingge’s sleeve to anchor himself.

“I can’t bear your kindness if it’s only duty,” he continues, and now the faint tremor in his voice betrays him. “Do you know what it’s like to take every moment you’ve given me? Every meal, every walk, every quiet evening? And always, I have to wonder if it’s only because you are bound by respect. That every time you look at me, it’s only as Zhangmen Shixiong and never as—”

He cuts himself off, his jaw tightening. His mind is a riot, half of it aching for Liu Qingge to deny it outright, to say of course it’s more than duty, and the other half already bracing for the final blow if he says nothing at all.

Liu Qingge, however, only stares at him in stunned silence.

“What am I supposed to make of you?” Yue Qingyuan asks, at last, almost to himself now, the question falling heavy into the space between them, as if he were begging Liu Qingge to say something.

He has worn the role of Sect Leader like armour for so long that his desperate words feel strange in his mouth. They are too raw, too unguarded, but he can’t stop now. 

“You guard me like I’m something precious, but never reach for me. You keep me here, on this edge, never letting me fall and never letting me cross, and I— what am I to you?”

His breath hitches, once, twice. His eyes are bright in the sunlight, too bright. 

“I can’t live in this haze anymore, Liu Shidi. If it’s for me—” His voice catches, a bare fracture. “then say it. Say it, and I will turn down every proposal I’ve ever had. I will turn down the heavens themselves if they offer me something else. I will stay. For you.”

Liu Qingge’s breath comes shallow, and his eyes are locked on Yue Qingyuan’s face like he’s afraid he’ll vanish if he so much as blinks.

He doesn’t say anything for many moments, his throat working around words that won’t come, his mind still struggling to comprehend the weight of the feelings he has received.

It’s not hesitation that holds him back but the force of something vast pressing against the limits of his body, searching for a way out without shattering him entirely. Only when the ache of holding it in becomes worse than the fear of letting it go does he finally speak.

“I don’t… know the right name for what you are to me.”

Yue Qingyuan stills, the air caught sharp in his throat. 

His stomach twists, bracing for the blow, for the clean, killing cut of being told it isn’t what he thinks, what he’s hoped for and feels himself teetering on the edge of something that could ruin him.

“But you’re in every part of my day.” Liu Qingge continues, dropping his gaze, as if looking at Yue Qingyuan would set him ablaze. “When I wake, it’s your face I think of before I even open my eyes. When I meditate, it’s your voice I hear in my head. When I lie down at night, it’s your name that follows me into sleep.”

His tone dips lower, his words trembling under the enormity of his feelings that he can no longer hide behind gifts and acts of care. 

“I remember every word you’ve ever given me, even the ones you’ve long forgotten. I know the set of your shoulders when you’re tired, the way your smile changes when it’s real. I know when you’re hurting, even when you don’t speak of it.”

He exhales, slow, deliberate, the air shaking just slightly as it leaves him. 

“I’ve spent years telling myself it’s only duty. That it’s only loyalty. But—” Liu Qingge swallows as he finally meets Yue Qingyuan’s eyes, and the force of it is like being struck. “If duty feels like this, then I would serve no one else. If loyalty burns like this, then I would burn gladly, until nothing of me is left.”

His jaw works, like there’s more he wants to say but no human language for it. 

“I want to be the one who carries what you can’t. I want to be the first you reach for. I want you safe. I want you happy. And I want it to be because of me.”

A beat passes long enough for his words to settle like the final blow in a match.

“Maybe that’s love,” he says at last, voice quiet but unshakable. “But love feels like too small a word for this.”

For a long moment, Yue Qingyuan doesn’t speak. He only looks at him, something unguarded and luminous in his gaze, like Liu Qingge, who has been standing in front of him his whole life, and only now does he see the whole of him.

Then, slowly, he lifts his hands and cups Liu Qingge’s face. His palms are warm, thumbs brushing over the strong planes of his cheekbones, his fingers settling just on the nape of his neck as though he means to hold him there forever.

Liu Qingge’s breath hitches, but he doesn’t pull away. His eyes flicker shut when Yue Qingyuan tilts his head back, a touch so gentle it’s almost absent, coaxing rather than taking.

And then Yue Qingyuan kisses him.

It’s deep but unhurried, a kiss that feels less like discovery and more like return. It’s like stepping through the door of a home you’d forgotten you had, only to realise you’ve carried the key in your pocket all along. 

Liu Qingge tastes faintly of tea and winter air, and Yue Qingyuan drinks him in like he’s been parched for years, his lips moving softly, drawing out the most breathless sounds from deep within.

One of Yue Qingyuan’s hands slips into Liu Qingge’s hair, the other steady against his neck, grounding him even as the world narrows to the press of their mouths. Liu Qingge’s fingers curl into the folds of Yue Qingyuan’s robes, holding tight, not to pull him closer because they’re already as close as they can be, but instead to keep himself steady under the force of something so achingly right.

Yue Qingyuan breathes him in like it’s the first true breath he’s taken in years. Somewhere in the slow give-and-take of the kiss, memories press in. Years of restrained glances, swallowed words, the ache of standing close enough to touch but never daring. Of affection disguised as duty and fleeting glances held and dropped like embers.

Yue Qingyuan had thought himself resigned to it, had told himself that wanting Liu Qingge was a selfishness he could endure quietly until the end of his days. That loving him from afar was already a privilege, and to want for more would be blasphemy.

But Liu Qingge is here. 

Liu Qingge is kissing him back like this was inevitable, like all those years of aching were merely the prelude to this one perfect moment.

It’s too much, and not enough, and its weight presses warm behind Yue Qingyuan’s eyes. He doesn’t mean to cry, but when the first tear slips free, Liu Qingge only tightens his hold, kissing him deeper, as if to anchor them both.

Yue Qingyuan lets himself lean into the taste of salt between them, the steady beat of Liu Qingge’s heart against his own and thinks, with a certainty that steals his breath, this is mine. This was always mine.

They part slowly, not from any real need for air, but because the moment demands to be drawn out, every last trace savoured before it slips away.

Yue Qingyuan’s eyes open first, heavy-lidded, his hands still framing Liu Qingge’s face as if afraid he’ll vanish the second they let go.

Liu Qingge stays close, their foreheads nearly touching, breath mingling in the quiet between them. His eyes are dark and steady, and yet there’s something raw in them. There’s the quiet awe of a man who has just stepped into the thing he’s been dreaming of and found it real.

Neither speaks. 

They don’t need to. The kiss lingers in the air between them, in the faint warmth on their lips, in the quiet certainty that whatever comes next, they’ve crossed the threshold together.

Yue Qingyuan’s thumbs brush once more over Liu Qingge’s cheekbones, a silent promise. Liu Qingge answers by lifting his hands and cupping Yue Qingyuan’s hands in his sword-callused palms.

Yue Qingyuan’s face breaks into a small, shaky smile, but it’s brighter than Liu Qingge has ever seen it. 

“Stay,” he says, the word almost a plea. “Not for duty for your sect leader. For me.”

Liu Qingge doesn’t hesitate. “I already was.”

Something in Yue Qingyuan’s chest loosens, a knot he’s carried for years unravelling with that single truth. He leans in again. This time, his lips brush softly against the mole under Liu Qingge’s eye.

“I always wanted to do that.” He admits, and Liu Qingge flushes, turning his eyes away and swallowing nervously as his heart, already thundering against his ribs, picks up pace again.

Yue Qingyuan laughs, slow and fond at this shy, startled reaction, and his hands fall, only so he can wrap his arms around Liu Qingge fully, drawing him close until there’s no space between them.

For the first time in years, Yue Qingyuan doesn’t feel he’s balancing on the edge of loss. For the first time, Liu Qingge allows himself to stop dreading the future where he’d lose Yue Qingyuan completely to someone else.

They stand there for a long while, simply breathing in each other’s presence, until the moment becomes less a fragile spark and more a quiet, enduring flame. 

Liu Qingge can barely hold still. His fingers twitch at Yue Qingyuan’s waist, heart hammering in his chest like a frantic drum. Only moments ago, he was certain he was about to lose Yue Qingyuan forever to some stranger’s name written in a sealed scroll, to the quiet machinery of duty and obligation.

And now, here he is, standing close enough to feel the steady warmth of Yue Qingyuan’s breath, the soft press of his hands, and the steady beat of his heart against his own.

He swallows hard, throat tightening, eyes wide and searching, as if trying to make sure this isn’t some trick of light, some desperate wish twisted into reality.

Yue Qingyuan’s hands remain steady at Liu Qingge’s back, his cheek resting lightly against Liu Qingge’s hair, grounding them both in this fragile moment.

After a long silence, Yue Qingyuan leans back just enough to meet Liu Qingge’s gaze. His thumb brushes once gently against Liu Qingge’s side in a small, grounding touch.

“I…” He hesitates, lips pressing together, the weight of the moment settling in his chest. “I never want to part from you.”

Liu Qingge’s ears flush scarlet, his eyes darting away as a flood of emotions crashes through him.

Relief, disbelief, and a trembling hope he thought long buried.

He shifts, caught between the desire to close the distance and the fear that this might slip through his fingers like a dream upon waking.

Yue Qingyuan’s smile is faint, almost shy, but his eyes are unwavering. 

“I’ve been thinking… for years, really… if I ever had you here like this, I wouldn’t let go. Not for anything.” His voice softens. “And I mean to keep that.”

Liu Qingge blinks, breath catching, unsure where this is headed, and Yue Qingyuan draws a steadying breath, bracing himself.

“I want to marry you,” he says quietly, but with a certainty that still sends a shock straight through Liu Qingge’s chest.

Liu Qingge’s head snaps up, eyes wide. “…What?”

“I’m tired of those proposals,” Yue Qingyuan murmurs, his gaze never wavering. “I’ve never wanted any of them. Only you. Now that I have you, I want nothing else for the rest of my life. So, marry me.”

For a heartbeat, Liu Qingge can do nothing but stare, chest tight, the words settling over him like a warmth he never dared hope to feel.

In that quiet pause, his mind drifts to the countless days and nights spent watching Yue Qingyuan from just a step behind, the secret smiles, the silent yearning.

He recalls the wedding of Shen Qingqiu and Luo Binghe. How he’d been there, watching the happiness between two others, imagining a future that felt far beyond reach. A future where he and Yue Qingyuan might stand side by side, unhidden and unafraid.

The memory sharpens the ache in his chest, but beneath it blooms something fragile and fierce. Hope carved from years of restraint.

His breath catches, and his throat tightens as the words he never thought he’d say finally rise.

“…Alright,” he breathes finally, voice rough with emotion. “I’ll marry you.”

Relief and joy soften Yue Qingyuan’s face into something radiant.

“Good,” he whispers softly. “We’ll marry.”

Liu Qingge blinks, his breath catching, eyes wide and unblinking, as if the words are still settling around him. The room feels suddenly too small and too vast all at once, every heartbeat loud in the silence between them.

Yue Qingyuan’s gaze holds Liu Qingge’s with an unbearably fond look full of years of quiet devotion and fierce tenderness. Slowly, he leans in and rests his forehead lightly against Liu Qingge’s, a soft, grounding touch that says everything words cannot.

“Just us,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “A quiet ceremony. And then we’ll tell them afterwards and make it clear I’m no longer entertaining proposals.”

Liu Qingge’s fingers twitch slightly at Yue Qingyuan’s waist, his throat tight with everything he wants to say but can’t quite find. He studies Yue Qingyuan carefully, searching for any hint of jest or second thought.

Finding none, his shoulders relax, and he nods slowly.

“Just us?” he asks quietly, voice raw with something like disbelief and hope all tangled together.

“Just us,” Yue Qingyuan repeats, steady and sure.

A long, shaky breath escapes Liu Qingge as a small, tentative smile begins to tug at the corners of his lips.

“…Then let’s get married.”

Chapter Text

The village is gone.

It had been a small settlement of neat rows of houses, farmland fat with grain, markets busy with people, but now there is only ruin. 

Charred beams claw at the sky like broken fingers, fields have been stripped to mud, and corpses lie around at every corner. Ash grits between the teeth, burns at the back of the throat.

The demons had come swift and merciless. By the time word reached Cang Qiong Mountain, most of the villagers were already smoke.

For devastation this complete, even the Sect Leader had to descend the mountain. Never before had the sect heard of such annihilation within their domain, so the response was strict, swift, inevitable.

At once, a small but efficient party was dispatched to assess the remains.

Yue Qingyuan walked among the wreckage all day with Liu Qingge beside him, Qi Qingqi and Mu Qingfang not far, their disciples scattered across the ruins like ants combing through bones. They buried who could be buried, carried away those with breath left in them, and read rites until their mouths went dry.

The demons’ trail waits in the hills, but that day, there was only what could not be undone.

By the time they return to the camp, some disciples have set up at the edge of the village, smoke still clings to their hair, black streaks the folds of their sleeves, carnage trailing them inside.

The Sect Leader’s tent waits at the edge of the camp, its canvas heavy with dust. When the flaps fall shut behind Yue Qingyuan and Liu Qingge, the clamour of disciples outside dulls to a low murmur, as though the air itself softens around them. Inside, lamplight pools warm and gold, the first gentle colour either of them has seen all day.

Yue Qingyuan’s body yields to gravity at last. He lowers himself to his bedroll, the stiffness of command draining from him like water from a cracked jar, leaving only exhaustion in its wake. For the first time since dawn, his shoulders curve, his gaze loses its sharpness, and his mouth slackens.

Liu Qingge follows without needing to be asked, as though tethered by something older than habit. He sits beside him precisely where he belongs, and their knees brush, the air between them sagging beneath the horrors of the day.

For a while, neither speaks. The silence is not empty but unhurried, carved out of years spent walking the same roads and sharing the same bed.

At length, Liu Qingge reaches for the kettle, pours water, and presses the cup into Yue Qingyuan’s hands. It is not a ceremony but ease; something done a hundred times before, on a hundred weary evenings. Yue Qingyuan accepts it. In return, his fingers smooth the crease in Liu Qingge’s sleeve. 

He does not think about it. He would not do it for anyone else.

“Thank you,” He murmurs, lifting the cup. Liu Qingge tilts his head in acknowledgement as he pours one for himself.

The water tastes faintly metallic, but it is cool. Yue Qingyuan swallows, his breath easing, and without meaning to, he leans sideways until his head finds Liu Qingge’s shoulder.

There is no hesitation, no stiffness. Liu Qingge shifts, steadying the weight, his hand coming to rest against Yue Qingyuan’s knee, thumb tracing idle circles through the fabric.

This is what their marriage has become after some years: not grand confessions, not constant fire, but the certainty of a shoulder exactly where it is needed. Perhaps it was always less about declarations, more about the silence that can hold them both, the quiet assurance that when the day ends with blood on their boots and smoke in their lungs, they will still sit together, and it will be enough.

Yue Qingyuan thinks, fleetingly, that if every day ended like this, he could endure a lifetime of ruin.

He draws a breath, meaning to say something. Nothing important. He only wishes to talk, if only to hear Liu Qingge’s voice answer.

“Shizun,” a voice calls from outside the canvas, muffled, hurried and interrupting Yue Qingyuan just as he opens his mouth to speak. “Shizun— this disciple begs forgiveness for disturbing you, but… Shizun, we found a child.”

The words cleave the heavy silence inside the tent in two.

Liu Qingge’s hand stills instantly. Yue Qingyuan straightens, Sect Leader’s steel snapping back into place before he even realises it. Their eyes meet in stunned silence before Yue Qingyuan is already on his feet, Liu Qingge rising a heartbeat later.

“Enter,” Yue Qingyuan commands.

The flaps part. The glow of torchlight from outside spills wider as a disciple steps in, and in her arms is a child.

He is too small, too smudged with soot, his bare toes dangling in the air. His face is pale beneath streaks of ash, lashes clumped, hair matted with mud and gore. His eyes are wide, bewildered, his little hands clutching the fabric of the disciple’s robe with desperate force.

Inside the tent, beneath the soft lamp’s glow, he looks almost insubstantial, as though he might vanish if one breathed too hard.

And yet the adults present stare, astonished.

Yue Qingyuan feels disbelief cut sharp beneath his ribs, eyes widening. Behind him, he hears Liu Qingge take in a sharp breath.

A survivor.

A toddler, at that.

The demons had been merciless. Even the strongest men of this village were torn apart, and those who lived were left broken and bleeding. Yet this boy, no more than three or four, not only endured the devastation but is, impossibly, whole.

What can this be called, if not a miracle?

Yue Qingyuan steps closer, softening his voice.

“Hello,” he says, bending slightly to meet the child’s eye. “Are you well?”

The boy’s gaze flickers above his head, narrowing for a fraction before widening again. He scans the tent, eyes catching on Liu Qingge. For a moment, surprise lights his little face. Then it vanishes, his attention snapping back to Yue Qingyuan. 

He nods, careful, uncertain.

“Child,” Yue Qingyuan asks gently, “where are your parents?”

The boy stares, lips parting soundlessly. His gaze darts again, as though combing the air for answers, then drops to his knuckles. His throat bobs once, twice. When he speaks, the sound is thin, tremulous.

“I… I don’t know.”

Yue Qingyuan’s brows crease. He hadn’t expected much clarity, but the sight still tugs at something deep in his chest. He softens further, voice like coaxing a skittish colt. 

“Then tell me, little one, what did your Baba and Mama call you?”

The silence stretches long. Behind him, Liu Qingge shifts, restrained but impatient.

Finally, the boy whispers, words trembling at the edges, “A-Yuan.”

“A-Yuan,” Yue Qingyuan repeats softly, steadying the name on his tongue. “Good. Tell me, are you hurt anywhere? Where were you hiding when we searched the village today?”

The child’s lashes flutter. “I… I was in my— I was... inside the ground.”

“Inside the ground,” Yue Qingyuan echoes slowly. The boy nods with frantic earnestness, as if effort alone could make the blatant, ridiculous lie hold.

“And your parents?” Yue Qingyuan asks, tone still gentle. “Did they hide you there?”

“Yes. A-Yuan does not know…” the boy falters, “…does not know where Mama and Baba are.”

Behind him, Liu Qingge folds his arms, frown deepening. His gaze flicks to the disciple. “Where did you find him?”

“He was loitering outside the camp, Liu Shisu,” she answers quickly, rubbing the child’s back as if to soothe him. “Zheng Shixiong and Xue Shixiong found him while patrolling.”

Liu Qingge grunts, then looks back at the boy, eyes narrowing. His voice comes blunt, though reined in. “How did you find this place, boy? How did you come out of the ground?”

The boy fidgets, shaking his head. “I— I was hungry. I was looking for Mama and Baba.”

“Mn.” Liu Qingge leans a fraction closer, suspicion pressing. “And did you see any demons? Your Mama and Baba— what were their names?”

The child blinks rapidly, chin wobbling. His little fingers twist the disciple’s sleeve until the fabric strains.

“Enough, my dear,” Yue Qingyuan interrupts, his glance flicking toward his husband. He misses entirely the way the boy’s eyes nearly fall out of their sockets at the casual endearment. “A-Yuan has had enough fear today. There’s no need to interrogate him.”

Liu Qingge humphs, but relents.

The boy buries his face in the disciple’s shoulder, shivering faintly. And perhaps there is something so pitiful in the sight of a frightened child that even Liu Qingge makes a low, awkward sound in his throat, turning his head away, slightly embarrassed.

Yue Qingyuan’s lips curve in the faintest smiles, and he nods, meant to reassure. He knows Liu Qingge did not mean to be harsh but was only earnest, and that he only wanted the truth. 

Inspirited, when Liu Qingge speaks again, his voice is steadier and more careful than before. 

“Listen, boy.” He inclines his head, as if lowering himself closer to the child’s eye level. “Even if you cannot remember now… it doesn’t matter. No demon will touch you again. Not while I live.”

For all his bluntness, the words fall not like a warning but like a vow, iron-sharp and unwavering.

The boy makes a small, uneven sound, his breath stuttering in his throat. His face stays hidden, pressed hard against the disciple’s shoulder.

Yue Qingyuan leans back slightly, easing the intensity of the moment. His tone is soft, but no less sure. “You are safe now. That much is certain.”

The child hesitates. Then, tentatively, he peeks out. One wide, wary eye and the faintest tilt of his head. After a long pause, he nods, slow and small.

The two men exchange a glance, subtle and unreadable to anyone else. They are not fathers, not caretakers of children so young but still, they bend toward him, their authority folding itself awkwardly, sweetly, into the shape of reassurance. For this moment, the Sect Leader and the Peak Lord make themselves smaller, softer, enough to fit into the fragile space that holds one child.

At last, Yue Qingyuan straightens, regaining the measure of command in his voice. He turns to the disciple. 

“See him bathed and fed. Change him into something more suitable. Look for injuries. I will visit shortly.”

“Yes, Shizun,” she answers, bowing her head. She adjusts the child against her shoulder, careful and steady, and carries him out beyond the flaps.

The canvas falls closed behind her.

The tent is quiet again, but it is no longer the same quiet as before.

Yue Qingyuan exhales slowly, the sound slipping from him like a thread unspooling. His gaze lingers on the flap where the child had disappeared, the glow from the torches still quivering faintly along its edge.

“How did a child survive?” His voice is low, hushed, edged with disbelief. “Among all those bodies…”

He circles around the space, lost in his thoughts, and Liu Qingge watches him quietly. At length, he sits back down, the line of his shoulders still taut, before he lifts his hand and clasps his palm around Yue Qingyuan’s wrist, stilling him.

Their eyes meet, and a silent understanding passes between them. Then, Yue Qingyuan sighs, allowing himself to be pulled back down on the bed beside Liu Qingge, rubbing his face with his other hand, as if the act would ground him to this absurd situation.

“I don’t think we’d ever know how he survived,” Liu Qingge says. “The boy is clearly too befuddled to recall anything correctly. We will just have to chalk it up to a miracle.”

“That boy…” Yue Qingyuan says after a pause, “was clearly hiding a lot of things.”

“I know.”

“Or perhaps he was just scared.”

“Perhaps he was.” 

“Do you think he can be a demon in disguise?”

“I don’t think so. He felt human. Besides, we brought our best disciples here. They must have vetted him before they brought him to us.”

“I suppose.”

Silence settles between them again, heavier this time. 

Neither speaks further. There is little to say.

At length, Yue Qingyuan says, “We’ll have to look after him now.” His words are careful, as if tasting them aloud. “His parents… I don’t think they survived.”

Liu Qingge makes a quiet sound, not agreement so much as acknowledgement. “Yes. He could live at Cang Qiong. The disciples’ quarters—”

“No.” Yue Qingyuan interrupts softly and draws a breath, deliberately avoiding Liu Qingge’s eyes. “He is too young. I will personally see to him. I will… raise him.”

“…You will?”

“I will.” 

There is a pause.

“Why?”

“Must there be a reason?”

“Yes,” Liu Qingge frowns, perplexed. “Saving him is sufficient. Taking him back to our sect is benevolence. Raising him as your own? That is too much to do without sufficient reason.”

Yue Qingyuan sighs, tilting his head back and studying Liu Qingge. “He is very young. He needs proper guidance.”

“And you can give him that?”

“My dear,” Yue Qingyuan asks, the corner of his lips pulling up in an amused smile. “Are you doubting me?”

“I am not.” Liu Qingge answers flatly, not falling for the ruse. “It is just that you are the Sect Leader. You have your own duties to attend to.  How will you tend to the needs of a four-year-old?”

“I can manage. You know I can.”

“Alright.” Liu Qingge acquiesces. “You can. But why?”

Yue Qingyuan blinks. “Why…?”

“Why do you care so much about this child? You’ve seen hundreds in worse states. Why him? Why raise him? Why turn around your world for him?”

For a moment, Yue Qingyuan says nothing. His fingers twist the edge of his sleeve, and the faint twinkle in his eye from before fades away. 

“He… reminds me of Xiao Jiu,” he admits at last. “How small he was… the way he was clearly lying, so afraid. I— it reminded me all those years ago, when I found Xiao Jiu for the first time.”

Liu Qingge doesn’t say anything, just tilts his head.

There is still so much Yue Qingyuan keeps hidden from him, pieces of a cursed childhood sealed away like wounds that will not close. Even without words, Liu Qingge knows how the memories gnaw at him, how regret drags heavy at his steps, whispering that he failed, that he did not do enough.

He has woken to find his husband trembling in dreams, breath caught in his throat; woken again to see him sitting upright in the dark, fists clenched in the sheets as though he could hold himself steady against ghosts that will not let go.

It doesn’t matter that Shen Qingqiu and Luo Binghe carry only reverence for him, only unshakable love. Yue Qingyuan still carries shame for not doing enough. 

And Liu Qingge, who can tear through demons bare-handed, can do nothing against this. All he can offer is his presence, his hand closing over Yue Qingyuan’s wrist until the trembling stills, an arm around his shoulders until his breath evens out. 

Small anchors, wordless vows. Steady, but never enough to drive the ghosts away.

“And?”

Yue Qingyuan’s mouth presses thin. “… Isn’t that reason enough?”

“No. It’s not.”

“I only want to make up for what I couldn’t do before.”

“You don’t have to make up for anything.” The words fall with the weight of habit, a truth Liu Qingge has spoken more times than he can count.

“But I do. I wanted to protect him from everything,” Yue Qingyuan insists, the restraint in his voice finally giving way, words tumbling fast. “But I couldn’t. I failed. Binghe did better than I ever did. Then, I couldn’t even protect Binghe. I—”

“That’s not true,” Liu Qingge interrupts, sharper this time. “And don’t bring up Luo Binghe. That idiot is the only one responsible for whatever happened to him. I happen to be a witness to that. As for Shen Qingqiu, you need not carry the burden even now. He is alive and whole and happy. They are both happy. You need to stop blaming yourself.”

Yue Qingyuan glances at him, weary and startled by his tone. “I... could have done better.”

“You did enough.”

“You weren’t there.”

“I know enough.” Liu Qingge doesn’t falter, doesn’t allow room for doubt. “You were a child, too. You did what you could.”

“That excuse—”

“It’s not an excuse. It’s the truth. You were only one boy, and still, you kept the three of you alive. You gave them a chance at a future. Don’t call that failure.”

Yue Qingyuan swallows hard, but the guilt clings. He shakes his head faintly.

Liu Qingge watches him, unblinking. 

A faint exhale escapes him, almost a sigh, his shoulders dipping before he straightens again. There’s no frustration in his face, only the quiet sadness of a man who has said these words a hundred times, and knows he will say them a hundred more. 

Yue Qingyuan may never believe it fully, but Liu Qingge will keep reminding him anyway.

“So is it only guilt, then?” he pries, still unrelenting. “Is that why you want to keep the child? Because if that is all, then I will not allow it.”

Yue Qingyuan’s lips part, close. His lashes lower. “…Maybe it is more than that.”

“Then say it.”

Silence stretches, the air humming with too many things left unsaid.

Finally, Yue Qingyuan murmurs, “I always wanted… a family. Something steady. Brothers who stayed, parents who didn’t vanish. I never had that growing up. I thought— I thought maybe I could give it to someone else.”

Liu Qingge is very still.

“A family,” he repeats, as if testing the word.

Yue Qingyuan’s laugh is brittle, edged with grief. “Foolish, isn’t it?”

For a long moment, Liu Qingge doesn’t answer. Then, firmly, he says, “No. Not foolish.”

Yue Qingyuan lifts his gaze, searching his face. “Then why does it feel so? Why do I feel selfish?”

“Because you always think of others first.” Liu Qingge leans in, words steady. “You want a family? Then make one. With me. With this boy. There is nothing selfish in that. That is a good reason to take in the boy.”

Yue Qingyuan looks stunned, caught between guilt, longing and hope. “…You would…?”

“I already agreed, didn’t I?” Liu Qingge answers, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world, his hand closing around Yue Qingyuan’s with conviction. “I meant it.”

Yue Qingyuan stares at their joined hands. Gratitude wells sharp in his chest, almost painful in its force. His voice is quiet when it breaks free. “You are… you have always been my greatest blessing.”

At that, Liu Qingge doesn’t know what to do with his face. His ears tint red, his gaze flicking briefly away before he forces it back. The faintest, sweetest smile tugs at his mouth in a quick, fleeting moment, but it’s genuine. “Mn.” 

The sight pulls a startled, breathless laugh from Yue Qingyuan, the ache behind his ribs easing just a little. “… I’m sorry for placing such a responsibility on you.”

Liu Qingge shakes his head, his ears still red. 

“To have a family with you—” He stops, throat working, the words catching like they’re too heavy for him to push out all at once. He coughs lightly then tries again, rough but steady. “It’s not a burden. It’s… a privilege.”

Yue Qingyuan laughs again. “You must stop saying you don’t understand romance when you keep saying things like this.”

Liu Qingge’s eyes slide away, muttering, “I truly don’t understand it. I just know I love you.”

Yue Qingyuan blinks, then leans in without hesitation, closing the distance between them with a kiss that is slow and certain, lips brushing once, twice, before parting just enough to breathe him in. 

Liu Qingge startles for the briefest heartbeat before he yields. 

And once he does, it is with his whole self. 

His mouth presses back with a quiet certainty, firm and warm, as though he has no intention of letting Yue Qingyuan drift away. Their joined hands tighten, knuckles pressing close. Then Liu Qingge leans in harder, shoulders angling, his free hand finding the back of Yue Qingyuan’s neck. 

His grip is broad, deliberate, not tugging or commanding but simply there, as if to say, I’m here with you.

The kiss deepens not with urgency but with recognition, with the quiet inevitability of something lived in, returned to again and again. Yue Qingyuan feels the steadiness of him, the heat, the simple reality of being met. 

As his thumb grazes the mole beneath Liu Qingge’s eye, lingering, he thinks helplessly that love has never been fire for him. It has always been the quiet of Liu Qingge’s mouth moving against his, the hand at his nape, the weight of years folded into something unshakable.

When they finally part, it is only by a breath. Their foreheads remain pressed together, breath mingling, eyes half-lidded in the lamplight.

“The destruction I witnessed today was unbearable.” Yue Qingyuan whispers after what feels like hours. “But each time my eyes found you, it anchored me. That the world could still be endured, so long as you were in it.”

The words slip free as naturally. To anyone else, he might have swallowed them, held them tight behind his teeth. But with Liu Qingge, there is no need.

For a moment, silence stretches. Then Liu Qingge’s hand tightens around his, grounding. His thumb traces once along Yue Qingyuan’s knuckles, rough and certain.

No words. He never needs them. The weight of his touch says more than speech ever could.

Yue Qingyuan lets out a slow exhale, leaning into the hold. The ruin of the day ebbs from him at last, and in its place, something else takes root. 

The warmth of Liu Qingge’s hand, the echo of a child’s small voice and the fragile, startling promise of a family.

— ✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦ —

Shen Yuan, arguably, has been having the worst day of his life.

To start off, he woke up in hell.

Or close enough. 

The first thing he saw was smoke curling from the wreckage of houses, black earth under his hands, air thick with the smell of charred meat. Where there should have been villagers, there were only bodies. 

For one disorienting second, he thought he was in some kind of nightmare, until the second horror arrived.

【 Congratulations, User! You have successfully transmigrated into a derivative Proud Immortal Demon Way Universe. Please enjoy your stay ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀ ꒳ ˉ͈́ ) ✧ 】

Shen Yuan had sat up slowly, head pounding, trying to make sense of the jarringly annoying voice blaring directly inside his brain.

“…Excuse me?”

【 Initialisation complete. This world utilises Proud Immortal Demon Way canon settings and characters, with deviations under Alternate Universe protocols. 】

Which Shen Yuan translated as: Welcome to a badly written fanfiction of a badly written web novel. Have fun surviving!

He had blinked at the smouldering ruins around him, frustrated and bewildered. 

It was humiliating enough that he’d died raging at the absolute dumpster fire of a ‘novel’ that Great Master Airplane had authored. To think that he’d been yanked out of his life into someone else’s fantasy based on that garbage was entirely unacceptable.

And then came the real kicker.

He was short.

His hands were chubby, his legs stubby, his voice thin. The first time he tried yelling at the System, the sound cracked so high-pitched it startled a crow out of the rafters. He’d caught sight of his reflection in a puddle and nearly had a stroke.

He was no longer a full-grown man but a child.

A toddler, actually.

Whoever had written this fanfiction truly hated him.

He staggered through the ruined village on tiny legs, ash sticking to his hair, arguing with the nauseatingly cheerful System every step, trying to remember where he could possibly be in the canon. 

But then again, this was a fanfiction. He could be anywhere. Everywhere.

Or worse, nowhere.

The only consolation was that he was still a boy, which meant even if this was a fanfiction, the protagonist couldn’t fall in love with him and make him his wife. 

Surely.

But that could also mean he was perhaps a cartoonishly evil canon fodder.

No, no, no!

A horrified Shen Yuan had tried to ask the System what character he’d been transmigrated into. He had been informed, unhelpfully, that he was an OC and there was no set storyline for him yet.

This should have felt like a relief until the System informed him that a few years down the line, he’d have to assist the protagonist in adapting to this universe.

Then the System had refused to elaborate on the how.

By the time a pair of Cang Qiong disciples discovered him, Shen Yuan was exhausted, starving, and soot-stained, loitering like a stray dog at the edge of the charred village. To their credit, they were very kind and gentle, murmuring reassurances as they lifted him up.

But there is no humiliation quite like being carried in someone’s arms like a sack of rice when you are mentally twenty years old and still possessed of a perfectly functional sense of dignity.

Still, Shen Yuan bore it in silence. Mainly because the System threatened him to.

I am an original character! You said so yourself! How can an original character behave OOC?

【 User is currently four years old. Until the System finishes syncing your physical and mental age, you must act as four. 】

What the fuck do you mean by syncing my physical and mental age? System???

The System had, conveniently, shut up after that.

And Shen Yuan had too because the disciples wasted no time hauling him off to meet their Sect Leader, Yue Qingyuan.

The meeting had started off decently. 

Shen Yuan had been startled to find not only Yue Qingyuan but also Liu Qingge waiting in the tent, both alive and well (for now), but he managed to cover his surprise. 

He answered their questions as best he could, feigning wide-eyed terror and halting speech. Sure, he didn’t know half of what they asked, but he was fairly certain he played the role of a traumatised child well enough that they let him off the hook.

The encounter could have been grounding. It could have assured Shen Yuan that, no matter how absurd his circumstances, at least the characters were still written like they were in the original work.

That is, until Yue Qingyuan had turned toward Liu Qingge, who’d been interrogating him with ruthless efficiency and, with all the casual intimacy of someone commenting on the weather, said “Enough, my dear.”

Shen Yuan’s soul very nearly left his body again.

Absolutely not.

No.

No, no, no.

He shoved his face into the disciple’s shoulder so fast he nearly inhaled half her sleeve.

System! What the hell is happening? What the actual— what fanfiction did I land in? Why is Yue Qingyuan calling Liu Qingge that?? What sort of brotherly camaraderie is this supposed to be?!

【 This is an Alternate Universe setting. There is no brotherly camaraderie. They are married. 】

Shen Yuan nearly fainted. 

Married? 

Yue Qingyuan and Liu Qingge?

Peak Lord of Bai Zhan and the Sect Leader of Cang Qiong? The fearsome warlord and the fabled Xuan Su sword married?!

After that horrifying revelation, Shen Yuan barely registered anything else, too busy spiralling. He didn’t even notice when he was carried out of the tent like a parcel and deposited where the disciples were staying. 

Not until hands started tugging at his ragged clothes did he snap back to awareness.

There are few things more mortifying in existence than being stripped and bathed like a stray puppy when you still remember being an adult. The disciples were gentle enough, yes, with careful hands and patient voices, but that only made it worse. 

One held his shoulders steady, another worked soap through his hair, another tipped warm water over his back, cooing at him to “hold still, A-Yuan.”

Shen Yuan wanted to sink beneath the bathwater and never resurface. A second death felt preferable to being towel-dried like a baby duck.

Yet he sat there, sulking in the tub, scowling ferociously at his reflection in the rippling surface. Round cheeks, stubby arms and big wet eyes that only made him look more pathetic when he glared, ignoring the way the older girls tittered and pinched his cheeks, calling him the cutest baby they’d ever seen.

A baby.

A four-year-old baby who had somehow been dropped into a war zone, in a shitty alternate universe based on a shitty web novel, where Yue Qingyuan and Liu Qingge were, of all things, happily married.

Truly, this was the worst day of his life.

【 Congratulations, User! +20 Affection Points earned! 】

Shen Yuan slapped the bathwater, furious.

Chapter Text

The lantern light is soft, casting the room in a hush that invites sleep, but Yue Qingyuan is still awake.

His long day is over, completed and dusted after countless hours spent in his study. Then it’d been time for a small dinner while listening to A-Yuan’s excited voice chittering about how he’d spent his day with Xiao Bao, the two exploring every nook and cranny of the sect together, how the older disciples had later helped him build another nest for the little palm sized beast that has quickly become his best friend. 

Thereafter, A-Yuan had trudged to his room for the night, and Yue Qingyuan had at first watched him wobble on half-asleep legs like some drunkard until he’d finally scooped up the boy and carried him the rest of the way, tucked him in, kissed his warm forehead.

Now he lies in his own bed, reading.

His hair is down, his inner robes tied loosely at the waist, and his back against the headboard with a book in his hand. He turns the pages patiently, his brow smoothed from the day’s weight. In this quiet, he looks more like a man in the middle of his life than a sect leader carrying the world’s concerns.

That is when the door to the room slides open with a faint creak.

Yue Qingyuan doesn’t have to look up. The familiar heaviness of those steps, the quiet gravity they carry, is something he can recognise even in a dream.

Liu Qingge enters without a word, the day’s fatigue written into his shoulders, and crosses the room with the same bluntness he brings to everything in life. He bends down and brushes Yue Qingyuan’s lips with his own in a quick, habitual kiss.

“I’m home.”

The words are simple, but they make Yue Qingyuan smile anyway. He returns the kiss without thinking, his mouth softening instinctively against his husband’s, even as his eyes remain lowered on the page. 

“A-Yuan’s already asleep,” he murmurs by way of greeting. “He went to bed some time ago.”

“Mn.” Liu Qingge’s reply is more sound than word. “I know. I checked on him before coming in here.”

“He missed you at dinner.”

“Did he?”

“Yes,” Yue Qingyuan says, turning a page of the book. “Some disciples taught him some trick with a wooden sword, and he wanted to show it to you. He didn’t say that outright, but I could see his disappointment when I told him you’d return late today.”

Liu Qingge hums again in acknowledgement, tilting his head.

“I will see it tomorrow.” He says very seriously. “And make it up to him by taking him to Bai Zhan later.”

“You are going to get our son killed someday.”

“Kids need to be tough.” Liu Qingge quips, rolling his shoulders, the motion betraying the soreness of muscle and bone, before making his way to the adjoining chamber.

Yue Qingyuan shakes his head, smiling despite himself.

Low sounds of water follow from the adjoining chamber. Splashes, the sigh of relief Liu Qingge can’t stifle when heat meets skin, the scrape of a basin set aside.

Yue Qingyuan turns another page, waiting.

When Liu Qingge returns, steam clings to him. His hair is damp and loose against his shoulders, with droplets running down the strong line of his neck to catch at the edge of the towel he’s used only in half measure. His skin is flushed a deep pink, the bath’s heat lingering on his bare chest, his collarbones, the dip of his stomach where the towel clings, hastily knotted.

He rummages around in the closet, picking out loose robes he can wear to bed while Yue Qingyuan watches him with great interest, forgetting all about the book lying open against his chest.

“Do you really need clothes, my dear?” He asks at last, grinning as Liu Qingge ties a knot on the robe he has pulled over his chest. “I was rather enjoying the view.”

“Shameless.” Liu Qingge mutters in a half-hearted rebuke as he continues dressing himself, all too used to these comments now.

Yue Qingyuan laughs, setting his book aside as he watches his husband climb into bed beside him with the gracelessness of someone utterly spent, movements blunt and unthinking. The mattress dips beneath his weight, and he lets out a breath closer to a groan, rolling onto his side and pressing his face into the pillow.

Yue Qingyuan sighs, still smiling.

He has been married to Liu Qingge long enough to know this scene by heart. The weary return, the kiss, the retreat into silence. And yet in moments like this, the sheer sight of him still lands with the force of revelation. His eyes linger on the droplets still clinging to the hollow of his throat, the pale line of his jaw shadowed by loose hair, the way his broad back curves, finally unburdened.

A single thought rises in Yue Qingyuan’s mind, disarmingly simple and utterly consuming.

He is beautiful.

So beautiful.

And all his.

Yue Qingyuan doesn’t even realise when he is shifting to lie behind him. His arm slips around Liu Qingge’s waist, body curling naturally to fit against his back, chest to spine, the way water fills a vessel.

Liu Qingge makes a faint sound of acknowledgement, his body easing under the familiar comfort of the embrace. His hair, still damp, tickles Yue Qingyuan’s chin where their heads meet.

Yue Qingyuan makes a sound of quiet contentment deep in his chest and presses a kiss to the back of Liu Qingge’s shoulder, feather-light, then another higher up, where bone meets muscle. He breathes him in, warm and damp from the bath, faintly scented with soap, the iron and sweat of a long day washed clean. Each kiss lingers longer than the last, slow enough that even Liu Qingge’s exhausted body seems to register the difference.

“Still sore?” Yue Qingyuan’s voice is a low murmur into his skin.

Liu Qingge hums and shifts to ease the ache and bring Yue Qingyuan flush against his back.

The act makes Yue Qingyuan smile, soft and wry. His hand splays over Liu Qingge’s waist, thumb tracing idle circles through the layer of loosened fabric. His mouth moves steadily, inexorably, up the column of his neck, each kiss deliberate, a string of warmth leaving a trail of shivers in its wake.

Liu Qingge’s body, rigid by habit, begins to soften. His shoulders droop, his throat tilts instinctively, as though offering more. His breathing slows, deepens, then hitches again when Yue Qingyuan’s lips find the hollow beneath his ear.

“You should rest,” Yue Qingyuan murmurs, though his mouth betrays him, still tracing petal-soft kisses over every inch of skin he can reach.

It is always like this. 

Years of restraining himself from loving Liu Qingge left Yue Qingyuan utterly undone once he was allowed. He can never stop touching him, kissing him, showing him how adored he is.

Liu Qingge makes a low sound carrying all the weight of surrender. His hand reaches down, fumbling but firm, finding Yue Qingyuan’s wrist and tugging, guiding him beneath loosened fabric, opening himself without hesitation.

The sight makes Yue Qingyuan’s composure falter for a beat.

He draws him closer, lips pressing harder now, leaving the faint sting of teeth, the promise of bruises where only he will ever see. His hand slips beneath the folds of cloth, palm sliding over bare skin still hot from the bath, tracing muscle and scar with reverence disguised as hunger.

His arm tightens, pulling Liu Qingge closer, cradling the weight of his body against his chest. His lips linger at the curve of his throat, then lift just enough to speak into the quiet.

“If you’re too tired, we can stop here.” His voice is gentle, threaded with that same patience he brings to every impossible thing. His fingers skim over the flat of Liu Qingge’s stomach, soothing even as he offers reprieve.

He asks the question entirely in command of himself even as he feels his body burning with desire, his cock hard and unyielding. His arousal drags thick and deliberate against the curve of Liu Qingge’s ass, impossible to ignore, and Liu Qingge feels the heat flushing through him. It makes his pulse stutter, makes something deep in his gut twist with sudden, restless want.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifts back minutely, just enough that the blunt pressure grinds more firmly against him and shakes his head.

“I want you.” He says, hand clenching the sheets, breath already stuttering in anticipation.

The laugh that breaks from Yue Qingyuan is soft, unguarded. He presses his forehead to the back of Liu Qingge’s shoulder, nodding his head once, then shifts to urge him gently.

“Turn to me.”

Liu Qingge does, rolling onto his other side carefully. 

For a moment, neither of them moves.

They simply look at one another in the low light, shadows breaking softly across Yue Qingyuan’s face, the quiet steadiness of his gaze caught and held in Liu Qingge’s own. In the stillness, something wordless passes between them. The weight of longing, of tenderness that never needs language, grows until it feels overwhelming to be apart.

Then, they lean in almost at the same time.

The first touch is barely a kiss with the slightest brush of lips, testing, tasting; the ghost of contact that draws a shiver down Liu Qingge’s spine. Yue Qingyuan lingers there, his breath warm, his mouth shaping against his in gentle coaxing until Liu Qingge tips forward to close the space entirely.

Then, it shifts. 

The kiss deepens, heat sparking sharp and insistent, tongues meeting in a slow slide that quickly grows hungry, greedy. Their breaths catch and mingle between parted mouths, neither willing to give the other reprieve.

Yue Qingyuan’s hand comes up to cradle Liu Qingge’s jaw, his thumb stroking just beneath his cheekbone, tilting him into the kiss as if he never wants to let him go. Liu Qingge’s hands are less refined and more urgent as he grips his husband’s robes, trying to pull the fabric out of the way to feel the press of skin beneath his palms, all the while never drawing back for breath.

The taste is intoxicating, and achingly familiar. Yue Qingyuan tastes of tea and warmth, of home itself, and each slide of mouth and tongue only pulls Liu Qingge deeper, until he feels half-maddened by it.

It should be routine after so many years, yet it isn’t. If anything, the knowing only sharpens the want. Every place Yue Qingyuan touches, every press of lips and teeth, carries the weight of memory of a thousand times before, and the ache of wanting it still.

Liu Qingge doesn’t stop fisting his hands in Yue Qingyuan’s robes until he finally tugs them open with impatient jerks.

Yue Qingyuan yields to the pull, his fingers working deftly at the fastenings of Liu Qingge’s robes. Cloth loosens, then slips, his sleeves dragging down his arm, baring pale skin to the cool air, and Yue Qingyuan’s palm is there immediately, spanning across it, warm, grounding.

Every inch exposed sharpens their desire. Liu Qingge shivers when Yue Qingyuan’s hand skims up, calloused fingers tracing the planes of his chest, circling a nipple just enough to make him jolt. His response is unthinking, and he presses harder into the kiss, biting at Yue Qingyuan’s lip until he hears that low, ragged sound torn from his throat.

Yue Qingyuan’s lips leave Liu Qingge’s only long enough to drag a trail down the line of his jaw, his throat, teeth grazing before murmuring low against his skin, “Qingge…”

The sound of his name sends heat rushing down Liu Qingge’s spine. He pulls Yue Qingyuan closer still, fingers threading through his hair, swallowing his mouth again, as though he will fuse them together by sheer force of will.

Yue Qingyuan’s hand slides everywhere now, his thumb pressing against the hard peak of Liu Qingge’s nipple. He brushes lightly again, then presses, circling until the muscle under him tenses and Liu Qingge arches, moaning into Yue Qingyuan’s mouth. The noise is caught, swallowed, their kiss messy with gasps, their mouths parting only to find each other again.

Every shift of Yue Qingyuan’s thumb draws another shiver, another helpless sound, and still he kisses him through it.

When he finally draws back, lips shining and breath uneven, he catches the dazed look in Liu Qingge’s half-lidded eyes dark with want and something fierce and fond curls through him. With careful hands, Yue Qingyuan tugs away the last folds of his clothing, stripping him down to bare skin.

Then, his mouth trails lower, scattering kisses over the collarbone and sternum before pausing at the swell of Liu Qingge’s chest. His lips close over his nipple, tongue pressing, teeth nipping lightly until Liu Qingge jerks, breath sharp, back arching into the heat.

The sound that escapes him is sinful, his hand threading into Yue Qingyuan’s hair with a faltering grip, caught between pushing him away and dragging him closer. Yue Qingyuan’s lips curve faintly against his skin at the contradiction, though he does not relent.

When Liu Qingge shudders again, cock brushing against Yue Qingyuan’s thigh, Yue Qingyuan lifts his head just enough to meet his eyes, a smile tugging at his mouth, warm and edged with want, as if to say impatient already?

His hand smooths down over Liu Qingge’s ribs, steadying, grounding, before his mouth resumes its slow descent. Each muffled gasp only draws him further, lips and teeth charting a deliberate path down the taut line of his abdomen until there’s nowhere left to go.

He pauses there deliberately, the warm gust of his breath making Liu Qingge shiver. His lips brush, feather-light, against the base of his cock, then along the underside, a teasing press of mouth and tongue with no real relief. Each touch is fleeting until Liu Qingge can feel his muscles coiling tighter and tighter with every drag of heat against sensitive skin.

“Please—” The word breaks from him, half plea, half warning.

Yue Qingyuan only hums in satisfaction at his fraying composure. He lingers at the tip, tongue flicking once, light and maddening, before pulling back again, looking up at him through lowered lashes. The patience in his gaze is infuriating, almost tender in its calm, and Liu Qingge’s breath stutters, his hands fisting hard in the sheets.

Only then does Yue Qingyuan finally close his mouth around him. Just the tip at first, slow, careful, like he intends to make Liu Qingge feel every deliberate second of it. 

The sudden heat and wetness feel like relief, and Liu Qingge’s elbows pushes him half upright without thought, eyes wide, fixed on Yue Qingyuan’s face as if the sight alone could unravel him.

His breath comes out ragged, and when Yue Qingyuan sucks, soft but purposeful, his head falls back, the line of his throat bared. A groan spills from him, low and helpless.

Yue Qingyuan’s mouth curves against him in a fleeting grin before he drags his tongue along the underside, slow and thorough, before sinking lower, deeper, until his lips are stretched around more of him.

Liu Qingge’s hips shift, bucking despite himself, the helpless drive of his body betraying his restraint.

“…Ge, please…” 

His voice comes out soft and unguarded, almost boyish in its need. It is rare, the kind of plea he makes, and Yue Qingyuan’s chest tightens at the sound of it, arousal sparking sharper.

He hums around him, insistent now, his hand steadying Liu Qingge’s hip even as his mouth works him deeper. Each muffled sound, each ragged breath only pushes him further, until the serene expression he always wears gives way to hunger, to wanting more of the man trembling under his touch.

His pace stays unhurried, lips sliding down only to pull back again, his tongue tracing each ridge and vein as though committing them to memory, like he hasn’t done this countless times before.

He never looks away from Liu Qingge.

Liu Qingge’s hands have no discipline left in them. One clenches the sheets, the other buries itself in Yue Qingyuan’s hair, fingers tangling and tugging with a desperation he hardly ever allows himself to show. His chest heaves, and sweat beads along his temple.

Yue Qingyuan hollows his cheeks and draws him deeper, then pulls back with a wet sound, just enough to let the cool air ghost over him before taking him in again, slower, harder. Each pass is deliberate, meant to drive him out of his mind.

“Ge…” Liu Qingge groans as his head tips forward again, watching through heavy-lidded eyes. His mouth hangs open, breath harsh, as though even forming that syllable cost him.

Yue Qingyuan smirks, pleased, but he doesn’t relent. His hand smooths along Liu Qingge’s thigh, pinning him gently when his hips thrust, forcing him to yield to the pace Yue Qingyuan sets. Every time Liu Qingge thinks he would get the relief of more, Yue Qingyuan eases back again, tongue circling the flushed tip, dragging out his torment.

The sounds spilling from Liu Qingge grow rougher and more unrestrained, his patience shredding thread by thread. He gasps and swallows down moans, his jaw tight and his hand tugging uselessly at Yue Qingyuan’s hair, unable to decide whether to push him down or pull him up.

Yue Qingyuan hums again, the vibration running through him. Liu Qingge’s groans, cracking on the edges, his head thudding back against the pillows.

“Ge, stop.” He finally grits out, his thighs still trembling where Yue Qingyuan holds him down. “No— no more.”

Yue Qingyuan licks his lips as he finally lets him slip free. His smile tilts in half-smirk, half-affection. “No?”

Liu Qingge shakes his head, trying to steady his breath. 

“No. I don’t… want to come like this.” His eyes flicker shut, hot with embarrassment even as his hand cling tighter in Yue Qingyuan’s hair. “I want it— I want it with… you. Inside me.”

Something softens in Yue Qingyuan’s face, his teasing smile gentling into quiet fondness. He leans up, cradling Liu Qingge’s face in both palms and kissing him with slow care, unhurried and reverent. 

“If that is what you want, my dear,” he murmurs against his lips.

When he pulls away, he reaches for the small vial by the bedside, working the stopper loose with ease. He pours a little into his hand, warming it between his fingers before reaching lower. His gaze lingers on Liu Qingge as though to ask once more for permission. When Liu Qingge’s thighs part without the faintest hint of hesitation, he begins.

He eases Liu Qingge’s knees up and apart, holding him there with a steadying hand hooked behind the bend of his thigh. The position leaves Liu Qingge fully bared, heat prickling along his chest and throat as Yue Qingyuan settles comfortably between his legs, eyes dark with focus.

When the first finger presses in, slick and sure, Liu Qingge groans, low and broken, his cock twitching against his stomach. His body clenches around the intrusion, then eases, his hips tilting as if to take it deeper.

“Still so tight,” Yue Qingyuan breathes, voice velvet and shameless. His free hand strokes slow circles into the inside of Liu Qingge’s thigh, steadying him even as he slowly pushes his finger deeper into him. “You love this, don’t you? The stretch. The way I open you up.”

A flush burns hot across Liu Qingge’s chest, but his answer comes in the arch of his back, the sharp exhale as the second finger slides in beside the first. The stretch borders on too much, but his cock throbs at the sensation, leaking precum in thick drops.

Yue Qingyuan twists his fingers, spreading him with deliberate care, and Liu Qingge’s hips buck helplessly. 

“Ge,” he grinds out, his voice hoarse, “stop talking and—”

Yue Qingyuan laughs lightly, tilting his head, his fingers ceaseless as they stroke him in a rhythm.

“And what?” He asks, curling his fingers just so and brushing against that spot that he knows always makes Liu Qingge moan helplessly.

“Ge—”

“Mhm. Does it feel good?”

Liu Qingge nods just as Yue Qingyuan pushes a third finger in, slick and relentless, and he lets out a low cry, sheets fisting tight in his hands.

The stretch burns, sharp and heady, but his body swallows it down, clenching greedily around the intrusion.

“Fuck—” he curses, hips rocking up into Yue Qingyuan’s hand.

Yue Qingyuan swallows, eye glinting darkly, voice thick with want.

“You’re dripping all over yourself,” he murmurs, utterly unabashed. “So hard, so desperate. I could keep you like this all night, just spread open like this.”

Liu Qingge feels so full that it is nearly unbearable, yet it is not enough. His whole body hums with the sensation of being stretched open, and it is not enough to satisfy him.

“Ge, I—”

“What is it, baobei?” Yue Qingyuan asks smoothly, fingers pumping in and out of him at a maddeningly unhurried pace.

“Ge, I— I need—” Liu Qingge groans when those fingers curl just right. Swallowing hard, he forces the words out. “I need you. Inside.”

“I am inside you.” Yue Qingyuan’s smile tilts wickedly as he bends to kiss the inside of Liu Qingge’s knee. “Is that not enough? What is it you want?”

Flushed and panting, Liu Qingge screws his eyes shut. 

“I— I want your… cock,” he gets out at last, the word breaking ragged off his tongue.

Yue Qingyuan’s smile sharpens, and he pumps his fingers long enough to press a wet kiss against the trembling muscle of Liu Qingge’s thigh.

“Good,” he murmurs, voice roughened now, no longer playing at patience. “That’s all you ever had to say.”

Saying so, he finally withdraws his slick fingers, leaving Liu Qingge trembling against the sheets, every muscle strung tight as if he could somehow hold himself together. His chest rises and falls too fast, a sheen of sweat clinging to his skin, hating the sudden emptiness now that Yue Qingyuan has pulled back.

Even as Yue Qingyuan reaches for the vial again, the movement is mesmerising. His body glistens, smooth and taut, the ridges of muscle along his chest and arms catching the lantern light. His cock, ridiculously thick and long, pulses against his abdomen as he slicks himself, veins prominent, tip already glistening. Liu Qingge’s eyes trace every movement, cheeks burning, throat tightening at the sight, every nerve raw with longing.

Yue Qingyuan’s gaze lifts, locking with his, voice low and steady. 

“Ready?” he murmurs, the heat behind the word promising.

Liu Qingge nods in response. Yue Qingyuan strokes himself again before he positions himself between Liu Qingge’s legs, hovering over him with one hand braced to the side, the other guiding himself in.

Liu Qingge’s body tenses instinctively as Yue Qingyuan nudges inside, the heat and fullness coiling tight around him. His hands clench, knuckles whitening as the first stretch rolls through him, but the ache is layered with want, a deep burn that makes his chest tighten.

“Just like that,” Yue Qingyuan groans, lips brushing along Liu Qingge’s jaw. “You feel incredible.”

Liu Qingge tilts his hips, pressing back instinctively, his cock twitching against his stomach. He bites his lip, and Yue Qingyuan leans closer, teeth grazing the shell of his ear.

“Don’t hold back. Say it… Say how much you want me.”

“Ge…” Liu Qingge’s words are ragged, drenched with heat and lust, breath hitching with each movement, his hand clutching Yue Qingyuan’s back in an iron grip. “So… good…”

Yue Qingyuan’s hand cups his face, thumb brushing his mole as he rocks a fraction deeper. “So tight, so good. Every time I enter you, I could lose myself in you.”

Liu Qingge’s back arches, his fingers gripping Yue Qingyuan’s arms, and then his back, needing something to hold. The press of skin on skin, the friction of muscle and the heat are too much, and not nearly enough.

“Look at you,” Yue Qingyuan murmurs, voice dipping lower, awe, adoration and desire mixed in. “All mine…”

Liu Qingge pants, hips tilting again, trying to meet him halfway, desperate to close the distance, to feel every inch as deeply as he can. Yue Qingyuan shifts slightly, pressing his forehead to Liu Qingge’s shoulder, thumb brushing over his ribs, voice teasing yet possessive. 

“Mine. Always mine.” Yue Qingyuan whispers as he finally settles inside him all the way in, and every nerve in Liu Qingge’s body sings. The ache of stretch melts into a deeper, lingering burn, the delicious tension making Yue Qingyuan feel sharper, hungrier, more intimate.

“You’re ready,” Yue Qingyuan whispers against his lips, pulling back just enough to look at him. “Aren’t you?”

Liu Qingge gives a sharp nod, his jaw set. “Move.”

Yue Qingyuan kisses him then, slow but firm, as though to anchor them both. Then, his hips roll, shallow and unhurried, the first motion enough to make Liu Qingge’s back arch into him. He doesn’t give him what he wants right away. He rocks his hips slowly, nearly dragging the full length of himself out before sliding back in slow, deliberate inches.

Liu Qingge tilts his face away, flushed, but his legs only lock tighter around Yue Qingyuan’s waist.

“Ge, faster—” Liu Qingge’s breath catches, ragged, but Yue Qingyuan silences him with another kiss, tongue sweeping deep, coaxing him into surrender.

He pulls back just enough to whisper against Liu Qingge’s lips, voice a husky tease. “So eager, baobei… But you feel too good. Let me have this.”

Liu Qingge grits his teeth, his muscles taut, trying not to buck up, not to beg even as his nails rake shallow lines down Yue Qingyuan’s back.

Yue Qingyuan shifts his angle just enough so that his cock brushes the spot that makes Liu Qingge jolt, before he stills again, letting him writhe around the intrusion. 

“There,” he says, eyes glinting with mischief. “You like that, don’t you?”

Liu Qingge’s reply is only a bitten-off groan, head tipping back as heat surges through him. His stubborn refusal to answer makes Yue Qingyuan’s smile soften even as his thrusts stay maddeningly shallow, more tease than relief.

“You’re perfect like this,” Yue Qingyuan breathes, his hand smoothing down Liu Qingge’s side, sliding over the arch of his waist, the firm muscle trembling under his palm. 

Liu Qingge shudders hard, teeth sinking into his lower lip to stifle the obscene sounds that threaten to break free. His hips jerk up, chasing more, trying to take Yue Qingyuan deeper, harder and forcing himself onto the thick length inside him. The sensations rip a strangled groan from his throat, and his stomach tenses, the bulge of Yue Qingyuan’s cock pressing from inside making him clench around it, desperate. 

“Ge… please…”

Yue Qingyuan catches his chin, holding him still even as Liu Qingge writhes against him, trying to fuck himself on the slow, deliberate thrusts. His laugh is low, warm, teasing. 

“So eager tonight. I thought you were tired.” He presses in just a fraction harder. “So very greedy.”

“Please,” Liu Qingge rasps again. His nails clawing uselessly at Yue Qingyuan’s back, his body straining upward. “Ge, I need it— I need you—”

Yue Qingyuan’s eyes darken at his wrecked tone, at how thoroughly undone he has him. He kisses the corner of his mouth, slow and tender, before murmuring, “If Qingge wants more, how can this husband ever deny him?”

Then, his hips roll in deep, unrelenting strokes that make Liu Qingge’s vision blur, the press of it overwhelming. Each push leaves him clenching tighter, and Yue Qingyuan’s composure frays. His jaw slackens, a hiss breaking into something closer to a moan.

He shifts his grip, one hand sliding up, threading between Liu Qingge’s fingers, the other bracing hard against the bed as though anchoring himself against the pull of his own need. When Liu Qingge spasms around him, Yue Qingyuan’s thrust falters, drags out longer, rougher than intended, and he curses under his breath, low and fervent.

The slip is brief but telling, his desire eating into his practised control. He leans forward, teeth grazing the hollow of Liu Qingge’s throat before sinking a kiss there.

“You feel too good,” he pants, voice cracking in the middle of it, and keeps moving, driving deeper, chasing every shiver that runs through the man pinned beneath him.

At length, he kisses him, deep and lingering, before pulling away entirely, leaving Liu Qingge empty, who hisses at the loss, at the sudden lack of feeling overwhelmingly full.

“Ge—?”

“Turn over for me.”

Liu Qingge barely hesitates and turns onto his stomach, propping himself up on trembling arms. His body still quivers from the sudden emptiness, his muscles tight with want. He buries his face into the pillow for a moment, biting down hard to ground himself before spreading his legs, offering himself back with a shamelessness born only from need.

The mattress dips as Yue Qingyuan settles behind him, one hand smoothing along the arch of his back, guiding him down until his spine bows, ass lifted. He presses a kiss to the nape of Liu Qingge’s neck, a tender contrast to the way he grips his hips the next moment, anchoring him firm.

The first thrust back in steals Liu Qingge’s breath. Yue Qingyuan gives him no time to gather his bearings before he is fucking him with relentless intensity. There is no teasing now, just the full, heavy force of Yue Qingyuan driving into him over and over, the sound of their bodies colliding sharp and obscene in the quiet room.

Liu Qingge’s hands fist into the sheets, his jaw slack as the noises spill out of him unchecked. The stretch is brutal, the pace merciless, every stroke brushing deep enough to make his vision swim.

“Fuck,” Yue Qingyuan groans lowly, each snap of his hips punctuating the word. 

His grip tightens on Liu Qingge’s hips, pulling him back onto him, forcing him to feel every inch, every relentless drag.

The pressure builds fast and unbearable. Liu Qingge’s stomach tightens, cock twitching against the sheets with every thrust.

Yue Qingyuan leans forward, chest to his back, breath hot against his ear.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his words rough with hunger, “You— you have no idea— fuck, you drive me crazy.”

His thrusts don’t falter, as though he is determined to brand himself into him with every stroke.

Liu Qingge’s face grinds into the pillow, strangled sounds dissolving into the linen when Yue Qingyuan’s hand fists in his hair, dragging him up without mercy, forcing his spine into a perfect bow. His throat is bared, his chest trembling with the effort of holding himself upright as Yue Qingyuan’s cock drives into him again and again.

“Don’t hide from me,” Yue Qingyuan murmurs, voice curling like smoke at the edge of his ear. His hips snap forward with brutal precision, his cock hitting so deep that Liu Qingge’s vision flares white. “Don’t bury that pretty face of yours when we are like this, baobei.”

His words send heat crawling under Liu Qingge’s skin, shame and hunger tangling until he can’t tell one from the other. His mouth falls open on a cry he can’t bite back, and Yue Qingyuan huffs, satisfied, tugging his head back further until he’s bent nearly in half, body open and straining.

Every nerve feels stretched raw. The tug at his scalp burns, but the drag of Yue Qingyuan’s cock inside him burns hotter, each push forcing sounds from his throat he never knew he could make. His hands flail around uselessly until Yue Qingyuan gathers both wrists in one hand and wrenches them behind his back, pinning him effortlessly.

Liu Qingge gasps, his body bucking when Yue Qingyuan’s hand slides down from his scalp and circles his throat. The light press there makes his pulse thunder, makes him shiver as if every ounce of strength is being wrung out of him, fed into the sharp, overwhelming pleasure that keeps cresting through his body.

“Qingge,” Yue Qingyuan pants, almost tender despite the ruthless way he drives into him. “So fierce outside, but here… look at you.”

His teeth scrape over the slope of his shoulder, and then he kisses the spot before biting down again.

Liu Qingge chokes, twisting in his grip, wanting more, wanting deeper. His breath burns, the air in his lungs shallow and not nearly enough, but it sends waves of pleasure coursing through his veins.

“So very greedy,” Yue Qingyuan breathes against his ear. “Clenching around me like you never want me to stop. Is this what you wanted, hm? To be taken apart like this? To lose yourself on my cock?”

The words spear through Liu Qingge as surely as the thrusts, stripping away what little composure he has left. He shakes his head, but his body betrays him, his hips rolling back desperately to meet every brutal push, his thighs quaking with the effort to take it all.

“Liar.” Yue Qingyuan’s voice is a low growl, but there’s warmth in it, affection coiled tight with the filth. His grip on Liu Qingge’s throat tightens just a fraction, making him gasp, his eyes fluttering shut at the intensity. “I know you like it the best this way.”

Then, he sits back on his knees without letting go, dragging Liu Qingge into his lap, his hands still keeping Liu Qingge locked in place. He squeezes his throat again, light but firm, just enough to make him swallow on a broken groan.

“Don’t hold back from me,” he whispers, lips brushing his skin. “I want to hear every sound you make.”

Liu Qingge is already too far gone, too consumed by the relentless drag and press. Pleasure swallows him whole, leaving him trembling and open, body and voice no longer his to control. His hair is plastered to his temples with sweat, throat gone hoarse with the sounds he can’t swallow down.

Then, with a low groan, Yue Qingyuan pulls out, slow and deliberate, as if savouring the sight of Liu Qingge collapsing forward against the mattress.

But he doesn’t give him long. A tug at his hair drags him upright again. Yue Qingyuan settles back against the headboard, guiding him with sure hands until Liu Qingge is straddling his lap.

“I want to see you, baobei,” Yue Qingyuan murmurs, his thumbs pressing into the sharp cut of Liu Qingge’s hips. He doesn’t wait before sliding back inside, the sudden and dizzying stretch forcing Liu Qingge down until he’s full again. “Especially when you come.”

Liu Qingge’s head tips back, his neck bobbing as a bitten-off gasp escapes him. Yue Qingyuan fucks up into him with ruthless rhythm. His thighs quake with the effort to keep balance, his hands braced against Yue Qingyuan’s chest, nails dragging faint crescents across slick skin.

“Ge—” He sounds hoarse and desperate, and folds forward, forehead against Yue Qingyuan’s shoulder as the force of it racks through him. “Don’t— don’t stop—”

“I won’t,” Yue Qingyuan promises, the words hot against his ear before he drags Liu Qingge into a messy, consuming kiss. It’s all tongue and teeth, his hand at the back of Liu Qingge’s head to hold him in place as he swallows every sound, every shaky breath.

The pace doesn’t falter. Every thrust drives deep, his grip on Liu Qingge guiding him down again and again until Liu Qingge feels stretched past endurance, every nerve alight. He kisses him harder, like he can drink down his unravelling, and Liu Qingge clings tighter.

Then Yue Qingyuan’s hand slides between them, wrapping around him with deliberate slowness before stroking in time with the relentless thrusts.

Liu Qingge nearly sobs at the sudden rush of sensation, his hips jerking helplessly into the touch.

“Ge—ah, ge—” The word falls from his lips like a prayer, like surrender, broken again and again as he bucks in Yue Qingyuan’s lap.

“That’s it,” Yue Qingyuan breathes, his lips brushing over the mole under Liu Qingge’s eye, then the corner of his mouth. His voice is low, ragged but coaxing, as if pulling him over the edge with nothing but words and want. “Come for me. Let me see you.”

The pleasure crashes down sharp and unstoppable, tearing through him until Liu Qingge can’t hold himself up, until he’s gasping into Yue Qingyuan’s mouth as he comes, shuddering, spilling over Yue Qingyuan’s hand while still speared deep on his cock.

Yue Qingyuan kisses him through it, steady and consuming, his hips never faltering, as if the sight of Liu Qingge being undone like this is enough to drive him even further.

“You’re gorgeous like this,” Yue Qingyuan groans against his mouth, his voice frayed at the edges, breaking in a way Liu Qingge never hears. “I love you, I love you.”

Liu Qingge tries to speak but can’t, too wrung out, the aftershocks of his orgasm making him almost blackout, and he clings to Yue Qingyuan’s shoulders, letting himself be held, be taken.

Yue Qingyuan braces him, rutting up into him with desperate force now. Every thrust draws him closer to his own climax, his hips stuttering with too much— too much—

“Ge—” Liu Qingge moans.

That’s what undoes him.

Yue Qingyuan groans, low and guttural, his rhythm turning erratic, chasing the end. His whole body shudders, holding Liu Qingge tight against him as he spills inside, buried deep.

For a long moment, the only sound is their harsh, mingled breathing and the tremor of Liu Qingge’s body still caught between Yue Qingyuan’s arms.

Yue Qingyuan finally eases, pressing his lips to Liu Qingge’s temple softly, though his voice is still rough when he murmurs, “You drive me mad, Qingge. Every time.”

His hand lingers at Liu Qingge’s back, tracing soothing circles as the tremors finally start to ebb, again pressing a kiss to the damp hair at his temple, lips curling in a low laugh.

“I don’t think your bath has any use now, my dear,” he murmurs, amused, voice still husky.

Liu Qingge gives the smallest huff, barely more than a breath, and nods against his shoulder, too spent to argue. It takes him a long moment before he finally pushes himself upright on unsteady legs, swaying as he tries to stand. Yue Qingyuan lets him go, though his eyes track every movement.

The sight makes his breath catch. His release slick and dripping down between Liu Qingge’s thighs, the faint flush staining his chest and face, the way he stumbles and straightens with sheer stubbornness makes Yue Qingyuan’s mouth curve in something helplessly fond, helplessly hungry.

“Baobei,” he drawls, voice still edged with a want he doesn’t think will ever be satiated as long as he is married to Liu Qingge, “if you keep standing there looking like that, I’ll throw you back on the bed and make love to you all over again.”

Liu Qingge flushes hard, snapping his head away, shoulders stiff as if that alone could hide the heat crawling up his neck. He manages, gruff and low, “...Just shut up and come wash.”

But Yue Qingyuan doesn’t move right away. Instead, he steps forward and wraps his arms around him from behind, pressing a slow kiss to his shoulder.

“I love you,” he says simply, no teasing in his tone this time, just quiet conviction.

Liu Qingge freezes, warmth flooding his chest in a rush that feels even more overwhelming than everything that came before. His throat works as he tries to answer, the words catching, until he finally breathes, soft and rough, “...I love you too.”

Yue Qingyuan smiles against his skin, holding him just a moment longer, before loosening his embrace. “Then come,” he says, gentle, brushing a kiss to his cheek. “Let me take care of you.”

Liu Qingge nods, still flushed to the tips of his ears, and mutters again, “Just… wash up.”

Yue Qingyuan laughs, soft and indulgent, and laces their fingers together before following him toward the bath.

Chapter Text

By the time the sun slides low and turns the edges of the sky to copper, Shen Yuan is tucked near a bonfire.

The fire was his idea. Not even an idea, if he is being honest. It had been a throwaway comment to a disciple braiding his hair about how a fire might make everyone less miserable. Lo and behold— the disciples took it as holy writ. They scattered like startled hens, returned with armfuls of kindling, and now the flames snap cheerfully as if they’d all been waiting for his royal decree.

He sits close, small legs folded under him, a bowl of rice warming his hands. The firelight paints his cheeks pink, his eyes bright with gold.

Disciples orbit him like planets. One drops a roasted chestnut into his bowl; another crouches to coax him into a clapping game.

“A-Yuan, do you want Jiejie to feed you?”

“A-Yuan, do you want Li Ge to make something nicer?”

“A-Yuan, shall I tell you a story?”

All honey voices and indulgent smiles. Well, who wouldn’t pamper him? In the middle of a demon-ravaged village, a round-cheeked toddler is practically morale incarnate.

Even Shen Yuan has to admit he makes an adorable baby.

And maybe, just maybe, being treated like everyone’s beloved pet isn’t the worst thing. He was dropped into hell, after all, so if the universe wants to hand him snacks and entertainment as compensation, who is he to argue?

Perhaps the disciples had all been expecting a fussy, traumatised four-year-old whom they’d have to tiptoe around and were delighted to find that this was not the case. Perhaps they were simply bored. Whatever the case, Shen Yuan has been extremely agreeable so far, curious to learn more about the world he is in, despite his initial horror, and the disciples all gladly bend themselves over to chat with him. 

It has been like this all week, things happening in a strange little rhythm.

By day, the camp is nearly empty, most disciples and the Peak Lords are off doing whatever the hell they are doing in this ruined village. The few left cook food, tend to the wounded villagers, maintain weapons and babysit him. It is mostly boring during the day, but they all greet Shen Yuan with warm, fond smiles and carry him on their hips as they go about their business.

Shen Yuan does not mind it either. He watches with great delight and curiosity as the disciples show him the armoury and resources, tell him about the herbs they’ve been using on the wounded people from his village and teach him little tricks.

By the time he goes to bed at night, the System always gives him several notifications of his affection points increasing rapidly. He doesn’t really understand what he is doing to earn them, but he isn’t about to argue with the stupid System about that. So every night, he looks forward to his scoreboard.

Nightfall not only brings system notifications but also brings back Yue Qingyuan and Liu Qingge.

Yue Qingyuan, smelling faintly of steel and smoke, but smiling like it is nothing. Liu Qingge trails behind, silent and solid, his beautiful face expressionless, but his eyes softening just a fraction when he is with Yue Qingyuan and Shen Yuan. 

They always find him at the end of the day, halting everything to spend time with him. They always carry questions about his day, affectionate head pats, and sometimes even something mildly interesting they found. Shen Yuan doesn’t understand why they care so much about him, but it is nice. 

Weird, but nice.

It is not quite so strange now that he’s gotten over the initial shock of discovering the two of them are married. 

Married. 

He still isn’t sure what to make of this strange storyline, but compared to the tragic, doomed, disastrous deaths that Great Master Airplane had given them, this version is… almost comforting. 

At least here they have a happy ending, or something close to it. He is not even sure how it ended up happening in this universe, but he knows that plot consistency is not something he can expect from a Proud Immortal Demon Way fan. 

Whatever. At least they are alive and whole for now.

He isn’t naive, though. 

This is still Proud Immortal Demon Way, even if the System has transported him into an alternate universe of it. Things go wrong here. They always do. And Shen Yuan has no idea when the protagonist might come swaggering in someday with chaos at his heels, and how he is supposed to assist him, but well, he can’t exactly just wait around for Luo Binghe to kill them all either, can he? 

Shen Yuan’s lips press together faintly, deep in thought. He can’t exactly protect Yue Qingyuan and Liu Qingge like this, not yet. But he can hope. He can… try, when the time comes.

For now, though, he can soak in the night, the crackling fire, and this strange new life. 

He is immersed in his plans when a voice comes out of the dim night, warm and familiar.

“A-Yuan!”

Shen Yuan startles, clutching his bowl a little tighter as Yue Qingyuan steps into the light. His robes are dusty, his hair slightly mussed, but his face softens the moment he looks at Shen Yuan.

Behind him, Liu Qingge’s scowl stretches into something that is technically not a scowl. 

“Hello.” Shen Yuan answers cautiously. 

“Did you have a good day today, A-Yuan?” Yue Qingyuan asks, lowering himself so he’s level with him. His robes fold neatly against the floor, his kind grey eyes searching Shen Yuan’s small face for any sign of weariness. “Were you very bored?”

Shen Yuan shakes his head. “No. Li Ge showed me swords today, and then Jiejie taught me a new trick with a coin. Do you want to see it?”

“Is that right?” Yue Qingyuan’s whole expression brightens, as if Shen Yuan has handed him a gift. “Yes, yes. Show me, Yuan-er.”

How silly!

Shen Yuan can’t help the way his mouth tugs up as he sets his bowl aside. He has no real reason to perform these things for Yue Qingyuan, but he has long since realised that the man’s affection points are absurdly easy to collect. Too easy, in fact. A waste not to cash them in.

“So, here is a pebble in my palm,” he declares, plucking a small, dirt-smudged stone from beside his knee and holding it aloft between grubby fingers. “And now I will make it disappear.”

“Yes, yes, go on.” Yue Qingyuan leans forward, eyes bright with indulgent anticipation. Behind him, Liu Qingge watches from his place, quiet and still, like a sword left resting in its sheath.

Shen Yuan claps his hands together, exaggerating every motion for dramatic effect. He gives the pebble a showy shake between his palms before slipping it into the sleeve of his robe as quickly as he can. 

Not quick enough, of course. 

Yue Qingyuan’s gaze catches the fumbling sleight of hand, and heat prickles up Shen Yuan’s ears. 

How mortifying to fail at such a basic trick!

Still, pride will not allow him to abandon the act. He straightens, lifts his empty palm with a flourish, and announces, “Tada! It’s gone!”

Yue Qingyuan laughs, clapping as though Shen Yuan has just performed a grand feat of sorcery. 

“How lovely! A-Yuan is so talented, is he not, my dear?” he says, glancing back toward Liu Qingge.

Liu Qingge, who has not moved throughout the entire spectacle, gives the barest nod. His dark eyes rest on Shen Yuan with that same unreadable calm. “Mn. Very good.”

Shen Yuan swallows, strangely dissatisfied. He has no idea whether Liu Qingge is mocking him or is genuinely impressed. That is, until he sees Liu Qingge moving toward him.

A measured step, then another, until Liu Qingge settles beside him. The closeness is startling all the same. Shen Yuan blinks at the clean line of his sleeve brushing the edge of his own grubby cuff.

Liu Qingge’s posture is as rigid as always, but there’s a faint tightness around his mouth, a betraying pause before he speaks. 

“Teach me too,” he says, his voice even though his eyes don’t quite meet Shen Yuan’s.

Shen Yuan stares. 

Surely he misheard. But no. Liu Qingge’s gaze lingers, unwavering, on the small fists in his lap. The tips of his ears are pink.

“The trick,” he adds, lower this time. “Show me how you made it disappear.”

Something loosens in Shen Yuan’s chest, unexpected and unearned. His grin comes slower now, softer, because he understands that Liu Qingge is not humouring him the way Yue Qingyuan does. He is asking in earnest.

Yue Qingyuan’s hand comes to rest lightly on his head, his smile almost private. 

“Yes, Yuan-er,” he smiles, as if coaxing both of them at once. “Teach him well.”

Shen Yuan looks down at the new pebble in his palm, then back up at the warrior beside him. 

So strong, so fearsome, and yet waiting patiently for a child’s lesson. His voice turns solemn to match. “Alright. But you have to watch carefully.”

Liu Qingge inclines his head, and as the firelight slides across his profile, Shen Yuan realises he is close enough to feel the faint warmth rolling off his shoulder. He sees the man clearly, as if for the very first time.

【Congratulations User! +100 Affection Points earned!】

—  ✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦  —

Yue Qingyuan folds himself into the long, familiar hollow of his bed and stretches his arms above his head; a slow, satisfied lengthening that catches the last of the day’s weariness and tucks it into the blankets. 

The bath has left the skin of his forearms warm and faintly scented of pine; the heat of the water lingers still, like a promise. Beside him, Liu Qingge is already lying flat, breathing even, and the planes of his face are softened by steam and night.

In the room next door, A-Yuan’s sleeping. He was put to bed rather easily after a long day of travel, too weary to say or do anything much. Yue Qingyuan watches the ceiling for a long time, letting the dark settle around him. 

The journey back to Cang Qiong still hums in his limbs, and the sight of the ruined village, the faces of the dead villagers will not be undone by a wash and a long day travelling back. They live in him in the same way embers live in ash. His work might be done there, but bitterness still floods his senses when he thinks of the devastation they were unable to prevent. 

So many lives lost, so many hopes crushed.

And yet, selfishly and not without a twinge of guilt, he thinks it all made him find A-Yuan. 

It’s frightening how quickly he has become fond of the child. He looks forward to seeing his round little face every day, his eyes bright and big, and his little hands holding objects that are ridiculously large for his frame, trying his best to adjust to a new life so bravely.

Yue Qingyuan sighs, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips before he turns his head just a fraction, and his eyes fix on Liu Qingge’s profile.

And, because the quiet has weight, he reaches without thinking. His fingertips find the broad expanse of Liu Qingge’s shoulder and press, a touch intended to be almost nothing, a map of reassurance.

Liu Qingge’s breath stutters, the only outward sign. He does not jolt awake but only shifts the fraction that makes their knees brush beneath the covers. His eyes are not open, but his face moves as if to lean toward the touch. When he answers, his voice is a low hum, half-sleep and half-attention, like a string plucked gently. “Hm?”

Yue Qingyuan lets out a small, tired sound that might be a laugh. Fondness swells in his chest, unannounced and sweetly heavy.

“I thought you were asleep, my dear.” He murmurs, his fingers carding through Liu Qingge’s loose hair.

“I’m not.” Liu Qingge answers, though his voice is scratchy. “At least now I am not.”

Your Qingyuan huffs out a laugh, his fingers still ceaseless, his other hand entwining with Liu Qingge’s. “I’m sorry for waking you up.”

“Don’t be. What are you thinking about?”

“Not much, not really.”

At this, Liu Qingge finally cracks one eye open, staring down at Yue Qingyuan with an unamused expression. He doesn’t even need to utter a word because the next moment, Yue Qingyuan sighs, burying his face in his husband’s neck.

“I’m worried about A-Yuan,” Yue Qingyuan says, his words muffled against skin and linen and voice careful, made small so it will not disturb the quiet that pervades their room.

It is strange to name worry aloud. Worry becomes less monstrous when it has words. 

“He’s only a child.” He continues, sighing when he feels Liu Qingge’s hand coming up to rub his back. “He lost his whole family to demons. His village is gone. We brought him back to the sect. Sooner or later, he must know that he can never return to his old life and that— that we intend to raise him as our own son. How do we tell him? How will he accept it?”

Liu Qingge turns in the bed, his movement slow and deliberate, until he is leaning back, peering at Yue Qingyuan, their bodies intertwined in the scant space. When he speaks, it is plain, unsentimental. He clasps their hands once over his chest, fingers laced in the way that makes nothing look decorative but only functional and true. 

“This is not going to be easy,” he says, “It will be quite tumultuous for him.”

There is no flourish to the sentence. No trying to soften it. It is an observation, a promise, and a plan bundled in one.

Yue Qingyuan smiles, crooked and tired. “I know.” 

“But it won’t break him. He is resilient. I can see that.”

Yue Qingyuan nods, then reaches up and rubs a thumb over Liu Qingge’s face without thinking, the motion almost childlike. “I just worry. He is so young. What if we fail him? What if we don’t do a good enough job, and—”

“Anything is better than having him perish at the hands of demons.” Liu Qingge’s answer is immediate, blunt as a blade. His eyes bore into Yue Qingyuan’s, dark and level, and there is an odd softness in them that makes Yue Qingyuan’s throat tighten. “We will do it badly, at times. We will do it poorly. We will fumble. But he will be fine.”

Yue Qingyuan’s breath catches, and he suddenly thinks about how dull his life would have been without this man by his side. The weight of it presses behind his ribs until he feels he must laugh, quiet and disbelieving. 

“I know I have said this many times before, my dear, but I’m very grateful you’re mine,” he says, the words spilling out with the intimacy of confessions made in the dark.

Liu Qingge’s ears colour faintly in an almost invisible bloom, and for a beat, his hands fumble in the air, awkward, as if he is still unused to being thanked for the ordinary things he does. He is not a man who accepts soft praise readily. Embarrassment cramps his jaw, and he clears his throat. 

“You don’t have to be,” he blurts, then falters, shifting closer until his forehead nearly bumps Yue Qingyuan’s shoulder. “With you, I… there’s no one else’s I’d rather be.”

Yue Qingyuan stares at him, warm and steady and entirely unashamed. The small, greedy affection in his eyes is not meant for anyone but him. Liu Qingge, always the stoic one, is flustered to be the object of such unbridled adoration. It is ridiculous and disarming. It makes the room smaller and kinder.

After a long swallow, Liu Qingge’s voice changes as if he has set a new task before himself to pull himself out of his malady. “If we want Yuan-er to be our own,” he says, slow and careful with each syllable, “we must also try that he addresses us as such, no?”

“Such as?”

“He should call us… his fathers.”

“Ah.” Yue Qingyuan nods, imagining the small face looking up at them, the first hesitant syllables and his face breaks into a helpless smile. “We will get to that,” he promises, and it comes out as solemn as a vow.

They lie in silence for a while, the kind of quiet that talks without words: the scrape of linen, the distant murmur of the watch, the low embers breathing outside. It is the kind of silence that stitches two lives together with small, invisible threads.

Then Yue Qingyuan exhales a breath that folds itself into play to thin the heaviness. “Xiao Jiu is going to kill me.”

Liu Qingge lets out a dry puff of a laugh that contains exactly the amount of affection and exasperation the name deserves. 

“You’re laughing,” Yue Qingyuan complains with mock seriousness, “Your husband is going to get killed by his didi and you’re laughing.”

“I can’t help it.”

“Ah, whatever shall I do? He and Binghe still haven’t quite forgiven me for eloping with you. Now we go on a mission and suddenly return with a child.”

“It was your idea, much as the elopement was.”

“I never said it wasn’t. I would not do anything differently.”

“Then bear the consequences,” Liu Qingge says, amusement threaded through the words. “I know Qingqi will be kinder.”

Yue Qingyuan’s shoulders shift with a contented little huff. Liu Qingge’s hand finds his again, this time, sure and firm at the hollow of his waist, and Yue Qingyuan relaxes into the grip as if it were the most natural anchor in the world. He closes his eyes, listening to the even rise and fall of Liu Qingge’s breath, and for the first time that night, the worry feels like just another thing they will carry together.

—  ✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦  —

The next morning, Shen Yuan pads out of bed with his hair mussed and his eyelids still heavy from sleep. It takes him several moments to collect his bearings until the System obnoxiously chimes up to remind him that he is currently in Cang Qiong Mountain and living at the sect leader’s residence, to be precise.

It still baffles him that he ended up here, in a cosy room set up just for him, at Yue Qingyuan’s home. When he’d been brought back to Cang Qiong Mountain, he’d been expecting to get stashed away with the disciples or whatever these people did to strays such as him they picked off the streets, but this treatment was very surprising, but welcome nonetheless.

Ah, the sect leader is kind, what can he say? He really is too kind!

The following breakfast is a careful, coaxed affair in which Sect Leader Yue, once again, displays his exemplary magnanimity. He and Liu Qingge treat him to a delicious meal and wait until he has swallowed every last bite before nudging the cup of milk closer.

They are both such good people, Shen Yuan thinks to himself. I must not let them die. The mission of assisting the protagonist can wait till I meet him. I must think of ways to save them from whatever horrible fates await them.

“Are you still hungry?” Yue Qingyuan asks once Shen Yuan sets down his empty cup of milk.

Sect Leader, I am four! Are you planning to feed an army over here?

Outwardly, Shen Yuan only shakes his head hurriedly. 

“What will he do today?” Liu Qingge asks Yue Qingyuan as he gets up and puts on his sword. “Should I take him to Bai Zhan with me?”

“Whatever for?”

“It is much better if he starts training early.” Liu Qingge says seriously. “Children toughen up the best when you put them in battles.”

Liu Ge, I am four! Four! What battles are you talking about?!

“He is much too small, my dear.” Yue Qingyuan objects before Liu Qingge can simply throw Shen Yuan over his shoulder and march away. “It would be too dangerous.”

“I started training when I was three.” Liu Qingge huffs.

“And that shows how strong and talented you are, my love. But this child comes from a normal family, not from a distinguished line of cultivators such as yours. We must be patient with him.”

Liu Qingge humphs before he finally nods, looking vaguely disgruntled. Yue Qingyuan watches him with fond exasperation.

“I am afraid your fate is set in stone, little one.” He says, turning back to Shen Yuan and smiling. “This one will make sure you are feared as a warrior.”

Shen Yuan blinks slowly before he asks, “Will I stay here for a very long time with you?”

At this, both Liu Qingge and Yue Qingyuan freeze. They exchange a nervous glance, unsure about how to proceed. So far, Shen Yuan has never asked them about his future with them, and now that he has, they do not know how to tell him the truth.

Shen Yuan himself knows he has walked into an awkward topic. He simply hadn’t meant it in the wrong way; he only wanted to ensure that the two men would not grow bored with him and chuck him away to the disciples’ quarters. He is enjoying life with these two way too much, thank you!

“Ah, and would that not be agreeable for you, little one?” Yue Qingyuan asks at length. “Would you not like to stay with us?”

“I would!” Shen Yuan answers hurriedly, nodding quickly. “I like it here! I want to stay with you forever!”

It’s almost comical, the way the two men deflate in relief. 

“Yes? Well, you can stay with us forever. We would like that.”

That was too easy! Sect Leader Yue, you are too kind for your own good. People will take advantage of your good nature like this!

Shaking his head to himself, Shen Yuan misses the way Yue Qingyuan and Liu Qingge exchange happy, knowing glances.

【Congratulations! Congratulations! Congratulations! Important things must be said three times! User has now unlocked the trope: Found Family! +200 B Points】

…Huh?

—  ✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦  —

Days on Qiong Ding pass uneventfully, thereafter. At least, the first three do. On the fourth day, Shen Yuan, eager to stretch his legs, slips free of Sect Leader Yue’s watchful grasp and begins wandering the mountain on his own.

He hasn’t thought much about the so-called found family notification since it chimed. This universe is absurd, after all. The two most powerful cultivators besides the protagonist are cutsleeves. What else can Shen Yuan expect from the writer except more nonsense lobbed squarely into his face?

He decides, begrudgingly, that he will simply have to make his peace with it. Survival first, existential questioning later.

What else can he even do?

Deciding so, he spends his morning exploring the sect. Cang Qiong Mountain sprawls before him in unashamed beauty. The air is sharp with pine and high altitude, sunlight caught in strands of cloud drifting across sheer cliffs and endless stairways. Pavilions perch on impossible ledges, their eaves bright against the sweep of blue sky. Waterfalls thread silver down the peaks, scattering fine mist that beads cool on skin. 

Shen Yuan had always dismissed this sect as Great Master Airplane’s indulgent playground of clichés, but seeing the sheer scale, the impossible serenity, the majestic cliffs and constructions, he has to admit it: damn it, the place is breathtaking!

Not that he’ll ever say it aloud.

So he wanders, head tipped back, trying to drink it all in. He does not notice the path beneath his feet, nor the figure approaching from the other side, until the inevitable happens. Shen Yuan collides head-first into someone and goes sprawling flat on his ass.

The stone is merciless against his butt. His breath leaves him in an undignified grunt.

And above him, a shadow falls.

“Ah!” comes a startled voice from above, urgent and distressed. “Child, are you alright?”

Shen Yuan blinks up through the sting in his eyes, palms throbbing where gravel has bitten skin, and promptly forgets how to breathe.

The man looming over him is broad-shouldered, tall enough to blot out the sun, hair spilling loose in long dark waves caught back by a simple cloth tie. His white robes, edged with pale green, fall neatly and elegantly against the warm tan of his skin. A scar traces from his lower lip to his chin, softening rather than marring the easy line of his mouth. And those dark brown eyes, wide with worry, fix on him as if no injury in the world could be more urgent than the scrape of a child’s hands.

Proud Immortal Demon Way is meant to be crawling with handsome men, but this one… this one stands apart.

Shen Yuan gawks, jaw gone slack. 

Who in the hell is he?

The man crouches swiftly, bringing himself level, big hands hovering uselessly as though afraid to cause further harm. 

“I am so sorry, little one,” he says, voice low and coaxing. “Did I hurt you? What are you doing here all alone? Ah, don’t cry— please don’t cry!”

“I’m not—” Shen Yuan begins hotly, only to betray himself with a fat, traitorous tear slipping down his cheek.

…Horrifying. 

Utterly, completely horrifying.

“There, there,” the man says, panic melting into gentleness. He dusts off Shen Yuan’s robes, fingers deft but careful, then cups his elbow to steady him upright. “Come. We will find some salve for those hands.”

Shen Yuan sniffles, mumbling before he can think better of it, “I want to go home. To Sect Leader Yue.”

The man stills, then brightens in sudden understanding. “Ah, so you are the child Qi Ge brought back. I was coming over to see you only.”

Before Shen Yuan can say another word, the stranger scoops him up in his arms as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Shen Yuan goes rigid, eyes darting anywhere but that broad chest under his cheek. Who the hell is this guy?

The man remains blissfully unaware of Shen Yuan’s internal crisis, carrying him as if he were light as a feather and chatting all the while.

“I have brought candy for you,” he says, tone conspiratorial, as though sharing some grand secret. “I made it myself, my husband loves it. But first, medicine for your hands. Then candy. Yes?”

Shen Yuan, still clinging awkwardly to the folds of his sleeve, can only nod.

“Very good.” The man’s smile deepens, all easy fondness. “Now, what is your name, little one?”

Shen Yuan hesitates a beat too long, then blurts, “A-Yuan.”

“A-Yuan,” the man repeats, testing it on his tongue carefully. “That’s a lovely name.” His eyes crinkle with approval. “And what were you doing wandering around all alone, A-Yuan?”

Shen Yuan presses his lips tight. How exactly is he supposed to answer that? 

Oh, you know, I was just out here exploring the sect on my own, seeing the world that Great Master Airplane carved out.

The man takes his silence for what it is not, sighing in reproach. “Not good. Sect Leader must be worried sick about you. Let’s get you to him quickly, hm? You must not explore like this unsupervised, hm?”

Another nod.

“Hm,” the man chuckles, low in his throat, “not very chatty, are you? I suppose you are angry at me for making you fall down and get hurt.”

Shen Yuan jolts, shaking his head so fast his hair flops into his eyes.

The man only laughs again, relief written in every line of his face, as though the worst disaster has been narrowly avoided before he shifts him higher in his arms, and tilts his head with a gentle curiosity. “Does A-Yuan like the sect?”

For once, Shen Yuan doesn’t hesitate. “Yes, I do. It’s beautiful.”

The man lets out a long breath, almost wistful. “It is, isn’t it? I’ve lived here for the better part of my life. It is my home and I am glad you like it, too.”

Shen Yuan blinks up at him, curiosity buzzing louder than his cuts sting. 

“Oh, look,” the man says suddenly, his smile warming. “You must have worried the Sect Leader to death. See who is coming down the path?”

Shen Yuan turns his head and nearly curls into himself from secondhand embarrassment. 

Because, sure enough, Yue Qingyuan is running toward them, face flushed, robes flying behind him in a way that is distinctly un-sect-leaderly.

The next moment, Shen Yuan is plucked straight from the man’s hold and gathered tight against Yue Qingyuan’s chest.

“Oh, thank heavens,” Yue Qingyuan breathes, the relief in his voice raw. “I was so worried! Yuan-er! Why did you leave without telling anyone?”

Heat rises in Shen Yuan’s ears. He squirms, mumbling nothing at all.

Yue Qingyuan glances up then, meeting the stranger’s gaze, and his expression eases into a grateful smile. “I’m so happy it was you who found him.”

The man shakes his head with an easy smile, shifting his hands in a placating gesture. “Ah, don’t be. I’m the one at fault. I bumped into him, and he fell down. He’s got a few cuts on his palms. Best to get some salve on them quickly.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Yue Qingyuan’s worry sharpens again; he presses a kiss into Shen Yuan’s mussed hair before turning, already moving back toward Qiong Ding. “Come on over with me, Binghe.”

“Mn,” the man— Luo Binghe— laughs softly, falling into step beside them with a familiarity that speaks of years. “That was the plan, Qi Ge.”

Neither notices how Shen Yuan has frozen up in Yue Qingyuan’s arms.

…Eh?

…Eh?!

HUH?

Did he just— did he just say— Binghe?

BINGHE?!

System, Shen Yuan thinks wildly, throat going dry, I need to talk to the author right now because I know my ears aren’t betraying me, but also— what the actual fuck is happening?!

【Character Unlocked: Luo Binghe】

What is— how is he— how are sect leader Yue and the protagonist friends? You said— what the fuck is happening???

SYSTEM? 

HELLO??

【Correction: This version of Luo Binghe is not the protagonist.】

EXCUSE ME???

【This Alternate Universe contains two different versions of Luo Binghe. The protagonist has not arrived yet. Worry not, User. The system will notify you when he does! ദ്ദി(｡•̀ ,<)~✩‧₊】

WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY TWO VERSIONS? WHAT CLOWN SHOW IS THIS?

SYSTEM?????

【We apologise, but to unlock the lore of this universe, the User needs to complete a beginner-level quest with the currently locked character, Shen Qingqiu.】

Shen Yuan almost vomits blood at that.

Shen Qingqiu?! 

Absolutely not! Shen Yuan is not subjecting himself to that man, that is certain! 

【Delaying the beginner-level quest will result in penalties. We urge the User to complete the quest as soon as prompted.】

Ugh, fine! 

But one thing is for certain. If Shen Yuan had thought that Yue Qingyuan and Liu Qingge being cut sleeves was the worst of this universe, then he’d been sorely mistaken.

Who knows what awaits him? 

With a chill and dawning sense of dread, Shen Yuan knows it cannot be anything good.

He is so fucked.