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.