Chapter Text
Shen Qingqiu didn’t attempt to start a conversation with Liu Qingge until the next day.
Certainly, he spoke to Liu Qingge when they were alone in the room, updating him on the responses from other peak lords when their notes came back to him, making comments about Luo Binghe being a “bossy child” (while clearly glowing with pride over the attention the boy paid to him like one of those foolish family members excited to dote over a ‘precocious’ child — only worse, as Luo Binghe actually was precocious), and eventually saying good night — things such as those.
But he didn’t ask Liu Qingge play with the tassel to reassure him he was there, listening. Either he was confident Liu Qingge was still around, or he didn’t want to know for sure otherwise.
So it wasn’t until in the morning, after the bandages were changed and Luo Binghe was sent out to sword practice, that Shen Qingqiu unrolled the spirit board and pinned it down with his paperweights.
Liu Qingge moved toward the table to take ‘his’ seat across from Shen Qingqiu, surprised to realize his body was reforming — like smoke even to himself still, but a relief to see regardless. Apparently enough of his strength had returned that whatever controlled his incorporeal form remembered what having a body was like.
As soon as Shen Qingqiu placed down the wooden arrow, Liu Qingge assertively moved it to ‘HELLO’.
Shen Qingqiu smiled, looking up to approximately where Liu Qingge’s eyes were. “Hello, Shidi. Using the weak-to-strong scale, how do you feel today?”
“STRONG” he confidently indicated, not even bothering with the dots.
In fact, after taking stock of himself Liu Qingge felt stronger than he had before the Demonic Invasion. Not quite the way he felt while still alive, of course, but the best he’d felt since he’d died. He began to suspect that fulfilling his purpose of defending Shen Qingqiu or the sect from harm was strengthening him, even if the gestures might drain him in the short term. Practice helped too, but it was apparent it worked more slowly.
“I’m glad to hear it!” Shen Qingqiu said and then smiled with a rather playful slyness. “Speaking of… I heard your voice yesterday. I suppose I really do have to take back what I said about you being an old man.”
Liu Qingge rolled his eyes. But since that was difficult to convey with the selections, he just answered with “YES”
“Can you do it again?”
‘En’ he tried to say, but nothing came out. After a brief pause of dismay he tried again, this time with, “Hello?” which he barely heard himself. He saw Shen Qingqiu lean forward eagerly, but he didn’t say anything.
“TRYING” Liu Qingge said with the arrow.
“En. I heard something, but I couldn’t make it out. Maybe try closer to my ear, like last time?”
Liu Qingge sighed a little, almost hearing himself do so, but he obligingly moved around the table (he could have walked through it, but that seemed rude not to respect the furniture — disrespecting walls and doors was just practical) and knelt down beside Shen Qingqiu. Leaning forward, he tried again.
“Shen-Shixiong,” he said, knowing his tone to be dry as a bone.
This time he could hear himself. And apparently Shen Qingqiu could hear too because he saw him shiver, as if he’d not expected him to sound so close.
“Ah! I — I heard you that time!” Shen Qingqiu said breathlessly, sitting very still and facing resolutely forward, the tips of his ears going pink. He was probably unnerved by having a ghost whisper in his ear, even though he’d suggested it himself. “You called me Shen-Shixiong…”
Liu Qingge rolled his eyes again and reached around to push the wooden arrow to “YES”
“Except you know I’m not… well, I’m not the Shen Qingqiu you knew.”
Realizing there was no way to indicate what he wanted to say with the spirit board, he could only move his lips closer to Shen Qingqiu’s ear again to say, “Yours now.”
Once again, Shen Qingqiu visibly shivered, his shoulders inching towards his ears this time.
“Scary?” Liu Qingge asked gently.
“N-no. It just… tickles, I guess. Because you’re so close. And I suppose you’re right, it is my name now.” The fairy gave a questioning glance in his direction as if waiting to be corrected on something. As there was no need to correct anything, there was an awkward pause before Shen Qingqiu faced forward again and hastily continued. “Well — ‘Shen’ always was. I was called ‘Shen Yuan’ before.”
He added the last almost tentatively, glancing in his direction again without turning, as if he might see Liu Qingge if he was sneaky about it.
“Shen Yuan,” Liu Qingge repeated obediently and watched, almost fascinated, as the fairy blushed.
“E-en. …it’s been awhile since I was called that. It feels different now,” he said quietly.
Liu Qingge thought about it for a few moments before moving the wooden arrow to “HELLO”
As he’d hoped, Shen Qingqiu laughed, visibly relaxing. “En, hello.”
Since it seemed to unnerve Shen Qingqiu, Liu Qingge decided against speaking again. Instead, he moved the wooden arrow, resting the base on “TELL ME MORE ABOUT” and pointing the arrow point towards “PERSON”.
Shen Qingqiu caught on immediately with a little laugh. “You mean ‘Shen Yuan’.”
“YES”
“Well, there’s both not much to say and too much. I’m not sure what’s okay to tell you. System has reluctantly relaxed its rules regarding you, since you knowing doesn’t interrupt the story. I’d still get in trouble if I say too much. But I wasn’t really much different then than I am from what you know. I just did less, I suppose. If I wasn’t at risk of joining you as a ghost if I don’t keep track on the story, I’d say it’s better here.”
Liu Qingge thought about what the fairy said and nodded slowly to himself, figuring that it made sense that talking about the prophecy to non-fairies would be frowned upon.
As he didn’t want Shen Qingqiu to be put into an awkward position, he leaned in to ask, “Did you teach?”
“En… sort of. I mostly tutored others until… well, until I couldn’t anymore. I liked it. Being able to teach more freely here is something that makes me happy.” Shen Qingqiu trailed off a moment, lost in thought. Then he shook his head slightly and asked, “Do you like to teach?”
Liu Qingge examined his options before moving the wooden arrow up to the weak-to-strong meter and leaving the point on the middle-most dot.
“Let me guess — you like some things and not so much others?”
“YES”
Shen Qingqiu laughed. “Well, I think that’s normal. Or, at least, it’s honest. I haven’t really asked a lot of teachers. But from what I’ve observed, that’s probably true for most people who teach.”
They talked like that for awhile, with Liu Qingge conserving his strength to use one to three spoken words at most when the spirit board’s options wouldn’t do. When the Fairy System complained about them talking too much about things meant to be kept secret, they instead talked about their interests.
He had to sit close so that Shen Qingqiu could hear him — his ghostly voice wouldn’t carry far, even with an immortal’s senses — so it felt far more intimate than any conversation he remembered having before with anyone. It was nice. It was also somewhat strange, as he couldn’t imagine doing this with anyone if not for the circumstances. But he was glad he got to share it with Shen Qingqiu even if it would have felt too much while he was alive.
It was something he hoped they would now be able to do more of. And hopefully with practice the conversations could be more natural, with less use of the spirit board and more use of his voice.
And — come to think of it — if his voice got stronger, maybe he could move further away and not disturb Shen Qingqiu as much as he clearly was now. They spoke for several incense sticks of time and Shen Qingqiu obviously still hadn’t got used to hearing his voice. Nearly every word provoked a shiver or a blush. Sometimes the ‘ticklish’ sensation was too much and the fairy made a little sound or drew his shoulders up towards his ears.
“Should I stop?” Liu Qingge asked after another of those squeaks and shivers that brought visible goosebumps to the fairy’s arms.
“No!” Shen Qingqiu protested immediately. “I’ll get used to it, so… feel free anytime. …Maybe just not when I’m holding something sharp or breakable. Or, you know, any other time where a reaction like that would be a bad idea.”
“In bed,” Liu Qingge suggested teasingly.
Shen Qingqiu turned red. “Aiyah… Don’t whisper such calamitous things in my ear, Shidi.”
Something about the shy way he said it made Liu Qingge think he didn’t mean trying to talk to him while he was waking up or drifting off to sleep. But Shen Qingqiu quickly changed the topic, so he didn’t bother clarifying. He just made note that it was probably better to wait until Shen Qingqiu was fully awake to try talking to him unless it were an emergency.
When they eventually heard the sounds of gently rattling dishes as Luo Binghe carried a tray down the hall, Liu Qingge hurriedly moved the wooden arrow to “GOOD-BYE”.
Because of classes only Shen Qingqiu could teach and a few visits from other peak lords, they didn’t have an opportunity to talk properly again the rest of the day. They managed not much more than an exchange of, “Good night.” before Liu Qingge left the room so Shen Qingqiu could change for bed.
When he returned, the fairy was already asleep.
***
They fell into a routine, of sorts.
In the mornings, after breakfast and the bandage changing (both officiated by Luo Binghe), Shen Qingqiu and Liu Qingge would sit together at the table in his bedroom, the spirit board unrolled in front of them and Liu Qingge speaking almost directly next to Shen Qingqiu’s ear when the options provided by the spirit board weren’t sufficient.
It never seemed to be a priority for either of them that they ever need revise the board, especially as practice meant Liu Qingge could manage more and more words at a time.
Well — actually, there were some additions made: both had made little drawings in the margins and biggest open spaces between words to indicate expressions or body language that Liu Qingge could use to express himself more.
Shen Qingqiu’s drawings were, unsurprisingly, much better than his own, which he could still only really manage to create by dipping his finger into ink and quickly scrawling them on the parchment. But the fairy’s pictures were also the ones least used, since Shen Qingqiu amused himself by drawing fanciful imaginings of what Liu Qingge looked like in poses he surely must know were out of character even before Liu Qingge growled at him over them.
If it wouldn’t have made him feel like a monster for it, Liu Qingge would destroy the one that had a ridiculously pretty-looking man blushing like a concubine and striking an embarrassingly bashful pose. Shen Qingqiu had even broken out his watercolors to give the figure a deep pink flush across his cheeks. Liu Qingge preferred the ridiculous strong-man pose drawing, even if the man’s face was still excessively pretty and he couldn’t think of any reason Shen Qingqiu pretended to think he’d want to use the picture to illustrate his mood. The drawings made the fairy giggle, and that made Liu Qingge happy… even if he wished it weren’t at his expense.
In the afternoons, Shen Qingqiu taught a few classes. Liu Qingge really had nothing to say about most of them, so he kept his mouth shut and gathered his energy while he watched over the fairy or tested how far he could move away from Shen Qingqiu without issue.
It turned out that if he couldn’t see or hear Shen Qingqiu, he started to feel uncomfortable. It helped a little if he were following one of the disciples — Luo Binghe appeared to be best for that, perhaps because of his familiarity with the boy — but once they left whichever peak Shen Qingqiu was currently at, it became like trying to push his way through snow. The further away he got, the deeper the snow became and the more anxiety started to gnaw at him.
Eventually Liu Qingge could only conclude that he would only see his own peak if Shen Qingqiu visited it, and his sister if their paths intersected. In the abstract, he was fine with both of these things, but when he thought about it he felt as if he were being neglectful of two of the most important things to him in life.
This was made no better by Shang Qinghua’s visits. Before the other fairy left, he always made a particular point of warning that Liu Mingyan would blame Shen Qingqiu for her brother’s death and to be wary of her.
Apparently the prophecy indicated that she would unite with several other women to denounce Shen Qingqiu, which would lead to Shen Qingqiu’s death. Shen Qingqiu always cut off this discussion as soon as it was brought up and never mentioned it to Liu Qingge, so Liu Qingge let the topic rest as well.
He began to consider whether he could contact his sister, either by practicing writing until he could send her a letter or, more practically, by speaking to her the way he did Shen Qingqiu. He didn’t know if he could do that yet, though, and it never seemed to be the right time to mention it to Shen Qingqiu.
Shang Qinghua would be the obvious person to talk to about this, but even though Shen Qingqiu had apparently told him about his ghostly companion, Shang Qinghua didn’t seem to take it into account that he was around to listen to them speak. Either he’d forgotten or he’d assumed Liu Qingge hadn’t returned yet because he’d never once mentioned it and neither had Shen Qingqiu. At least not aloud. If he’d written it down in a letter, Liu Qingge wouldn’t know any differently. He generally gave the fairy his privacy when he wrote letters unless invited to read it over before he sent it.
Luo Binghe would have been another good candidate to be let in on the secret. The boy was now as loyal as they came and would likely hide a much darker secret without a second thought. Luo Binghe already shamelessly used his cleverness to chase away those he felt wasted his shizun’s precious time or spoiled his mood, to requisition supplies that Qing Jing was not technically due, and swindle shady merchants out of the huge profit margins they seemed to think they could get away with because of Shen Qingqiu’s more easy-going attitude (and the bookish fairy’s lack of knowledge of appropriate prices).
Of the two, Liu Qingge thought Luo Binghe was the better option. But he was willing to admit that his thoughts were guided by a fondness he’d developed for the boy of his own.
The first time Liu Qingge had commented during one of his classes was because of Luo Binghe, in fact. It was during a lesson on sword forms and he’d noticed the young disciple leave himself open. He didn’t blame Shen Qingqiu for missing it — the boy recovered so devilishly quickly that it was difficult to notice even for him. But it was a flaw that someone else might see too, so it needed to be corrected. Shen Qingqiu had startled at the whispered observation, but had acted on the suggestion without a second thought. The boy had been able to correct the flaw and his satisfaction with the smoother result had pleased all three of them.
Shen Qingqiu had been very enthusiastic about welcoming tips during the lessons in the future, though Liu Qingge tried to restrain himself to correcting flaws rather than offering unasked for opinions on techniques.
It made him miss his own peak a little less… or a little more, depending on how he thought of it.
“Do you mind?” he’d asked once when the subject of his commentary came up. In spite of the fairy’s immediate approval before, when he’d got into a habit of it, he thought it better to verify he wasn’t overstepping.
“Mind? Do I mind having the Undefeatable War God of Bai Zhan whispering tips in my ear?” Shen Qingqiu asked, his voice rising incredulously.
Liu Qingge elected not to answer as he was sure whatever he said would probably receive a very over-dramatic response, regardless if he were correct or not. The fairy hadn’t seemed to actually been expecting a response because he threw his hands wildly into the air, making gestures that presumably were meant to convey a lot more than they actually did.
“Of course I don’t mind! It’s like having the Konami Code tenderly delivered by an angel. My students think I have eyes on the back of my head now.”
Liu Qingge was intrigued. “Konami Code?”
“Ah! Right. Hmm. How to explain…” Shen Qingqiu gnawed at his bottom lip in a distracting way before he shrugged. “I suppose it’s something like literature from my world.”
“…something like…” Liu Qingge repeated, wondering what that could possibly mean.
“Oh — well, there’s also the physical aspect. So I guess maybe it’s like… Martial training manuals?”
“…training manuals.” …what on earth was like a combination of literature and martial training manuals? Very tentatively he asked, “Like theatre?”
“Not… really. I guess a little? It’s hard to explain because System won’t let me go into detail but — OH!” Shen Qingqiu slammed his palms down on the table, making his tea dishes rattle. His eyes lit up in a way that had Liu Qingge’s danger sense screaming. “I wonder if I could translate the Konami Code into a real thing here?”
Apparently from the one-sided conversation between the fairy and his System, the answer was a very firm and (presumably) threatening ‘no’ even after Shen Qingqiu protested that of course he would not blow up the mountain.
The fairy then proceeded to ask, “What about the Kamehameha then?” and after hearing his disquieting response of, “Well, if it would kill me, then never mind. I’ll save experiments if it’s dire, I guess.” Liu Qingge decided to never discuss the fairy world’s frightening arts ever again.
The afternoons that Shen Qingqiu didn’t teach or had free hours were usually taken up by visits from peak lords, including Mu Qingfang, who showed up every few days (generally with one or two of his disciples in tow, which had deeply frustrated Liu Qingge — he would have advised a peak lord’s weakness be kept secret, even if they were only temporary) and always ended his examination of the Without-A-Cure stains with a confident, “Just another few days will do it.”
Liu Qingge was likely not the only one to notice that the poultice mixture’s composition changed at least once a week. But he also noted that the color and size of the stain had been reduced, so he tried not to scoff every time the doctor said his usual line. The Qian Cao disciples always nodded as if it were the first time.
Evenings together varied too much to have a true routine.
Sometimes a peak lord stayed over to be hosted for dinner.
Sometimes Shen Qingqiu had letters to write or texts to study.
Sometimes there were peak lord meetings that ranged anywhere from tedious, to amusing, to frustrating, to oddly social (perhaps all during the same meeting).
Sometimes the disciples got up to mischief — both within Qing Jing Peak and also between peaks.
The most recent issue was over how to handle a Qian Cao disciple who regularly lingered on the peak after Mu Qingfang came for treatments. Some of the male disciples had noticed and were determined to chase him off for getting ideas about one of their shimei. No one seemed to treat Shen Qingqiu’s suggestion at all seriously, even if it seemed only logical that the girl in question be allowed the choice. Since no one seemed to know which girl he was interested in, her opinion could not be sought privately.
Occasionally Shen Qingqiu sorted out issues himself, but as the disciples were getting older (and, as evidenced, more opinionated), he was trying to train his three favorites to become leaders on his peak, which should lessen the amount of time he spent on such things in the future. So it was his job to listen to the thoughts of one or more of the trio as they worked their way through the issue, each in their own way.
The girl, Ning Yingying, fretted over the lack of harmony or common sense.
When she’d resolved how to deal with whatever had brought her to consult with her shizun, she would generally approach with a soft opener and then go for sudden sharp strikes if the soft approach wasn’t working. Her approach was very feminine, taking advantage of playing any number of roles to get the results she wanted: the little sister, the elder sister, the mother, even on occasion The Girl You Wanted To Impress. She was really the most effective of the three at diffusing situations and mending fences between people.
Ming Fan, the head disciple, tried to play little peak lord and figure out how to resolve issues mostly on his own.
Though he never said so in words, the slow way he thought things through showed he was none-too-subtly stressing over whether he could possibly measure up to Shen Qingqiu’s expectations and over the dismaying comparisons to Luo Binghe. Liu Qingge preferred his occasional (surprisingly) brutal verdicts that the disciples in question were idiots. His approach, when he finally went to the disciples in question, attempted for mediation first, doing his best to hear out each side before meeting them in the middle. It had more mixed results than his shimei’s, either completely resolving the conflict or giving them a new grudge on top of the old one. His most effective results came from when he told them bluntly they were being idiots, though he only ever used it when they’d completely exhausted his limited supply of patience. Shockingly, it never earned him ire, so Liu Qingge wondered why he didn’t just try the blunt route from the start. …Though perhaps it was more effective that he didn’t.
And Luo Binghe was an entirely different matter from the other two.
He didn’t usually talk things out with Shen Qingqiu at all. Their time alone was spent with him amusing or doting on his master instead. With the troublemakers, he used every trick in the book if he was the one dealing with it. Since he was clearly attempting to have a certain white as snow; pure as jade image in the eyes of his shizun, his first approaches were generally soft or reasonable, meant to coax the disciples into better behavior. Every form of manipulation came next, tailored to each person like he kept a running list in his head of everyone’s weak points and how to get what he wanted out of them. Occasionally there was a fight — which he always, always won — usually so handily it was humiliating for those who found themselves at the wrong end of it. He smoothly charmed his way into Shen Qingqiu’s good graces if he heard about it, guiding him into looking at him as his Little White Sheep and staying blind to the smug wolf beneath the woolly coat.
It was honestly a little terrifying to see beneath the mask and realize he might be the only one in the position to truly see the full scope of Luo Binghe’s power and skills. Perhaps even better than Luo Binghe himself did.
The fairies were in agreement that according to the prophecy Luo Binghe ought to have learned about his demonic heritage by now, but as the only outward sign (that they’d noticed) was his rapid skill advancement, they weren’t sure. Liu Qingge was sure the boy knew, but he also didn’t think he should let on about it to Shen Qingqiu. Luo Binghe adored his shizun and the reverse was just as true. Outing him might spoil the balance, so he’d keep an eye on it. For now it wasn’t a concern.
He was far more focused on taking advantage of those few nights where Shen Qingqiu was free.
On nights the weather was poor or Shen Qingqiu was tired, they stayed in and chatted until Shen Qingqiu started to get sleepy and Liu Qingge sent him to bed.
On the good nights, they took walks together. Sometimes they just wandered around the peak, discovering hidden grottos and stone gardens next to ancient pavilions lost and forgotten by most. Other times, Liu Qingge suggested taking Shen Qingqiu’s spirit sword and flying to a place on the mountain he knew that he thought Shen Qingqiu might enjoy. Sometimes Shen Qingqiu would make a request of some location he’d heard of from the prophecy. If Liu Qingge knew of it, he’d direct him there. If he didn’t, they hunted for it together based on what clues the fairy remembered and Liu Qingge was able to conclude from what he knew of the mountain.
It was quite possibly the most alive Liu Qingge had ever felt off of the battlefield.
The irony of that was not lost on him.
***
“Shidi? What do you think about a sunset walk at Bai Zhan?” Shen Qingqiu asked one autumn afternoon as he read the letter that had arrived sometime earlier.
The too-casual tone of his voice and the way he tried to subtly angle the letter away from the side Liu Qingge favored sitting at suggested he was hiding something, so Liu Qingge moved to pluck the letter from his hand. He was getting better at being able to manipulate objects, but unfortunately for him, being a person made of solid material still gave Shen Qingqiu the advantage. He was also expecting this trick, so he managed to hold firm.
They squabbled over the letter for a bit before Shen Qingqiu finally sighed and spread it out over the table. “You could have just said ‘yes’, Shidi!” he complained half-heartedly.
“And you could have just read it to me,” he replied softly against his ear. Even after months of practice he still hadn’t managed to significantly increase the volume he spoke with, only the number of words.
The letter read:
I have something I must discuss with you.
Could you come to Master Liu Qingge’s house at sunset?
Wait by the stone bench.
The disciples should be busy with evening practice,
so we may speak privately.
It could be life or death.
It was written in a painfully plain style, on even plainer paper, and left unsigned.
“Suspicious,” Liu Qingge said.
“Well… yes. But I think I should go regardless.”
“Anyone who wished to speak with you could do so privately on your own peak. There are a million ways to approach you without attracting attention,” Liu Qingge persisted. “This person is clearly up to no good.”
“En. But ignoring the issue does not make it go away,” Shen Qingqiu replied in that gentle but stubborn way he had sometimes. “At least this way, we are prepared.”
Liu Qingge sighed — he’d finally learned the trick to doing it as a ghost about a month ago and, really, nothing else could quite express his long-suffering attitude. Eye rolls weren’t enough and it wasn’t like Shen Qingqiu could see those anyway.
Expressing himself might make the fairy slightly less likely to do foolish things.
Being a ghost and thus apparently made entirely of qi himself, Liu Qingge had been able to attune himself to the fluctuations in Shen Qingqiu’s qi. He began to notice when one of Shen Qingqiu’s meridians became blocked by the traces of Without-A-Cure, first by watching those subtle shimmers in his skin and then just by feel alone. He’d learned to warn him in advance since Shen Qingqiu wasn’t able to feel it coming on himself. Often as not, Shen Qingqiu would be busy at the time and seemed to think that with the forewarning, he would manage to time it so he stopped relying on his qi before it was cut off.
Shen Qingqiu had not learned to do such a thing.
At all.
Several times this had lead to him plummeting to the ground while out flying on his sword. Thankfully for his ego, these had all happened while they were out exploring at night and no one but Liu Qingge knew. And thankfully for his bones, he’d always managed to crash into a tree or fall into a pond.
The last time he’d crashed he’d had to take a detour to Qian Cao Peak and be treated for a wrist sprain. Since Mu Qingfang was out, one of the senior disciples assisted, asking all of the nosy questions about what “Shen-Shibo” had been doing at this hour to be injured that his master would have probably asked if he’d been there. Lately the doctor always seemed to be hard to find whenever he wasn’t treating Shen Qingqiu’s Without-A-Cure.
After spraining his wrist Shen Qingqiu heard him out when Liu Qingge voiced his warnings. This did not mean he immediately disengaged from whatever he was doing, but at least if he were on his sword he’d fly closer to the ground and was able to land more gracefully when his qi cut off.
It was progress.
Sort of.
“Tell Luo Binghe,” Liu Qingge said, infusing as much firmness into his whisper as he thought he could get away with. Maybe Shen Qingqiu would think of what happened when he didn’t listen to him, and agree.
Thankfully, he didn’t put any hope into the thought.
Shen Qingqiu smiled, but shook his head. “If I do, the sticky child will want to come with me. Then whoever wants to talk to me won’t.”
Though the gesture was pointless, Liu Qingge rolled his eyes. “I’m coming.”
“Yes, of course! Good! They won’t know that, so it’ll be safe. And I’ll be perfectly safe with you.” There was a coaxing tone in Shen Qingqiu’s voice, as if attempting to mollify Liu Qingge.
“Fine,” Liu Qingge conceded, and then in retaliation for not being listened to, he pettishly tugged at a dangling lock of Shen Qingqiu’s hair, which just made the fairy laugh.
It was annoying how much of his ire the laugh instantly soothed.
***
Shen Qingqiu asked Luo Binghe to serve him dinner early.
“I’d like to take a walk and see the sunset from another peak,” he said by way of explanation, as if it were just a poet’s fancy. As if he were a fanciful poet and it should be expected. Just one of his regular artist’s whimsies.
Luo Binghe’s attention was immediately caught by this, but he agreed easily and began dinner at once.
The disciple knew very well that his shizun was no fanciful poet. It would have been far less suspicious if he’d just asked for the early dinner and left without comment. But Liu Qingge wasn’t going to give lessons to Shen Qingqiu, of all people, on being sly. The fairy that had replaced the original was slippery in his own right, but Luo Binghe was proving to be even better at it.
“Which peak?” Luo Binghe asked as he served dinner later.
“Mmn? Oh — the sunset? I haven’t decided,” Shen Qingqiu said breezily and quickly took up his chopsticks to snag a bite of food before drowning his beloved disciple in (apparently) well-deserved praise.
Luo Binghe lapped it up, happily accepting the compliments and sweetly urging his shizun to try this or that. The boy smiled and teased and let himself be distracted from the topic. But his dark eyes were sharp and he wasn’t the least bit fooled. He happily joined his shizun at the table for dinner when invited and lulled him into complacency.
Liu Qingge didn’t warn Shen Qingqiu during the meal that his Little White Sheep was on to his tricks. Nor did he mention he’d gained a second shadow on his way out of the house.
At least this way they’d both get their way: Shen Qingqiu would have someone watching over him who could actually do something if the letter’s writer were up to no good (which of course they must be) and Shen Qingqiu wouldn’t have to worry about his disciple’s presence frightening them away.
Luo Binghe was far too clever to let himself be detected.
***
They took a rather meandering route to Bai Zhan, presumably in case someone from Qing Jing took notice of their shizun’s earlier than usual walk.
Shen Qingqiu was quiet, hands tucked at the small of his back as if having a casual stroll. He was cautious enough not to speak much, saying only what anyone might say aloud when by themselves. That meant it was one of the few walks they’d taken together where they weren’t having some form of conversation. Instead, they both were more focused on trying to detect anyone else. Liu Qingge knew roughly where Luo Binghe was, but that was mostly because he’d been painstakingly tracking the boy’s movements as he made his way from cover to cover. Shen Qingqiu didn’t seem aware there was anyone around at all.
They arrived on Bai Zhan shortly after its disciples would have gone to evening practice and proceeded, unchallenged, to his wooden house on the cliffside. The house had been built specifically to have the best views of the sunset any time of the year, which must have been why it was selected as the time and location for the conversation.
The first time Liu Qingge spoke was to direct Shen Qingqiu to the stone bench mentioned in the letter.
Saying that it was ‘by’ the house was a little misleading. It could certainly be seen from one side of the house’s porch, but it was a tucked away little place, almost completely hidden from anywhere else. There was an amphitheater-shaped rock shelf likely left behind by some long-fallen boulder; the open valley below its stage. The stairs down into it could only be found if you made your way behind mossy rock formations and fern-covered mounds on what looked like a game trail between them.
You had to know it was there to easily find it.
The area was almost never used. Though it was private, the one place its visitors could be seen was the peak lord’s own porch, which made it unpopular for courting couples. To have a good view of the sunsets over the valley, there were easily a dozen better places on the peak, but without a peak lord in residence, it was one of the more secluded.
It was almost fitting that Shen Qingqiu loved it on sight, descending into the crescent-shaped space and exclaiming over the beauty of the valley.
“What a wonderful place to watch the sunset!” he said breathlessly, turning in place to admire the way the ivy draped in heavy curtains over the sides of the space and continued along the edges of it to climb more carefully down the cliff face itself.
The wind picked up, blowing its way up the cliff to playfully tug at Shen Qingqiu’s hair and robes. He laughed and just turned to face the wind. Liu Qingge was distracted from his attempt to figure out how Luo Binghe was going to keep an eye on his shizun without being detected — he was too busy watching Shen Qingqiu laugh at the wind making his hair into ribbons and clothes into banners. The sunset blazed in front of him, adding an extra flush to his skin.
Liu Qingge imagined the fairy had no idea how beautiful he was to mere humans.
There was the faint clatter of stone on stone that pulled the mesmerized Liu Qingge’s attention away from the fairy and towards the stairs, assuming it was most likely the letter writer arriving that direction. Then he felt the sympathetic pull at his qi that told him Without-A-Cure was about to cut off Shen Qingqiu’s qi.
“The poison!” he hissed in Shen Qingqiu’s ear before trying to get a read on where he’d heard the rocks. Anyone coming openly would have been visible by now had they come via the stairs. But no one was in sight.
His instincts were screaming danger, but he didn’t have access to the kind of senses he did while alive.
Liu Qingge heard a soft sound from above them and turned to see purple robes and a pale veil flutter from the porch of his house before the slender figure retreated from view.
Behind him, Shen Qingqiu staggered as his qi was blocked completely. Liu Qingge looked away from the house to catch Shen Qingqiu’s arm and steady him.
A moment later, a burst of qi-flavored wind hit them from behind, shoving the already off-balance Shen Qingqiu over the edge of the cliff with a sharp sound of pain. Liu Qingge was pulled along with him, towards the falling sun.
There was a brief moment where he thought they’d have to rely on Shen Qingqiu’s extraordinary luck and hope that Shen Qingqiu would fall into the branches of one of the trees that clung to the cliffside and stay there until Luo Binghe could find a way to stage his rescue. Then in a flash of horror he remembered that this part of the cliff didn’t have trees.
Liu Qingge poured every ounce of his strength into his ghostly form, gripping hard at Shen Qingqiu’s arm with one hand and digging his fingers into a crevice in the ground with the other.
It was enough.
He hit the ground hard, the impact throwing dust and gravel, and then felt Shen Qingqiu’s weight jar them both as the fairy’s fall abruptly halted. Shen Qingqiu uttered a faint whimper, the muscles in his arm spasming in reaction to a thousand stimuli before he turned his wrist so he could grip Liu Qingge’s arm in return.
Liu Qingge could feel his own sword-calloused hand gripping at flesh and bone covered by skin-warmed silk, and long, elegant fingers wrapping in turn around his own arm, nails lightly scratching at the edges of his wrist-guards. He could feel the thrum of a heartbeat that could have been either of theirs, or perhaps their combined pulse, unified by their heightened emotions.
His body lay over the edge of the cliff, almost bending at the waist as he watched Shen Qingqiu swing below him by one arm, buffeted by the wind. The shape of the cliff’s face didn’t allow Shen Qingqiu to brace his feet on it and use it to climb, and his blocked qi meant he wasn’t strong enough to use Liu Qingge like a ladder. He could only dangle, his free hand lifting to shield himself from the dust and debris that rained down on him; his robes and hair disturbed by the churning air.
Almost the entire height of the peak separated Shen Qingqiu from the ground — which he couldn’t even see now for the clouds obscuring the bottom of the valley. If Shen Qingqiu fell, even if his qi returned in time, there was little hope of him being able to survive the fall unless the clouds were actually Flying Nimbuses, and he refused to bet on that sort of improbable coincidence.
Liu Qingge was staring down at him, furiously trying to think of how to get out of this without having to wait for Luo Binghe’s assistance, when Shen Qingqiu looked up.
He was able to see the precise moment Shen Qingqiu’s eyes widened in shock and recognition.
It took him another heartbeat to realize the fairy could see him as well as feel him.
In fact, Liu Qingge could see a difference in himself as well. His hair was moving in the air that rushed up the side of the peak as if it were real too, rather than hanging untouched by the material world as it should have been. Strands of it were whipping around his face and getting into his eyes.
It was the only reason he knew he wasn’t imagining it.
“Shidi,” Shen Qingqiu said quietly, pained and wonder-struck eyes fixed on his face and meeting his eyes properly for the first time.
“En,” he responded automatically. Apparently this more solid form meant Shen Qingqiu could hear him, even if he wasn’t speaking directly next to his ear, because he saw a sort of teary fondness in the fairy’s expression.
“Shidi, you can’t—” His words strained to escape his lips. “—Can’t hold me like this.”
“It’s fine,” Liu Qingge said through gritted teeth. But he could already feel his qi being recklessly expended and a burning in his stomach as if he’d been stabbed by stone splinters.
Shen Qingqiu shook his head. “You’ll… wear yourself out… again.”
The fairy’s warning wasn’t wrong. He could already not sense his ghostly body’s legs. There was an unsettling feeling of being unraveled like a knitted sock — he could feel each loop of the threads of his power being pulled one by one, creeping up his body. He didn’t think he had to worry about body weight and leverage being thrown off by this, but he knew that once the unraveling reached his hands, he’d no longer be able to hold Shen Qingqiu.
Liu Qingge understood two things at almost the same moment that he wished he’d allowed himself to acknowledge sooner: First, that he’d fallen irrevocably in love with the bookish fairy. Second, that someone was definitely trying to kill Shen Qingqiu.
“What if you can’t… come back this time, Shidi?” the fairy asked tightly, his eyes showing both pain and fear as his free hand inched up to try to cover Liu Qingge’s.
He could feel the soft, trembling touch of Shen Qingqiu’s hand.
“…if that’s what it takes,” Liu Qingge said grimly.
All he had to do was hold on long enough for Luo Binghe to arrive.