Chapter Text
The unraveling had reached Liu Qingge’s shoulder blades by the time a slender arm darted down to grab Shen Qingqiu’s extended hand.
It was not the arm he’d expected.
Instead of Luo Binghe, it was Mingyan who’d flung herself hard on her stomach beside him on the sunset-painted ledge. Her face was pinched with alarm and she looked uncharacteristically disheveled, suggesting a heedless sprint from the house down into the stone amphitheater.
It became immediately obvious that she couldn’t see Liu Qingge, even though the startled flick of Shen Qingqiu’s eyes from Liu Qingge’s fading form to his sister’s solid one said that he still could.
Once the puff of dust cleared, his sister stared fiercely down at Shen Qingqiu, her brows drawn tightly together. Liu Qingge was horrified when he saw the split second she considered letting go. It passed just as quickly, like a predator’s shadow, but he’d felt the flex of Shen Qingqiu’s fingers as he registered it himself.
Until this he had not seriously considered that the fairies had any merit to their suspicions that she might be a danger.
“I’d… understand,” Shen Qingqiu said quietly. Mingyan flinched and her icy eyes questioned his meaning. “Letting go,” the fairy clarified, his voice so inflectionless aside from his obvious pain that it was as if he were speaking about something else entirely.
Liu Qingge hissed, but didn’t have the energy to further protest Shen Qingqiu’s words. The fairy didn’t react at all, so he wasn’t even sure if he’d heard.
Mingyan paled and shuddered, but to Liu Qingge’s intense relief, the ice finally left her eyes. She closed them, took a deep breath, and replied. “No. No, that would be murder and I would want justice. It is what my brother would want.”
She took another deep breath and tried hauling Shen Qingqiu up.
Mingyan was strong and her qi wasn’t blocked, but at her level of cultivation it was no easy task to pull the dead weight of someone who weighed more than you when you didn’t have the leverage or a safe position to create it. Keeping Shen Qingqiu from falling was easy, even without her brother assisting, but though she scrambled for purchase, she couldn’t quite find a way to manage anything more than simply that.
Though he was still weakening steadily, Liu Qingge kept hold of Shen Qingqiu, taking on the role of safety rope in the unlikely event that his sister’s grip slipped. He believed her sense of justice would not allow her to do anything less than her utmost.
Frustrated by her veil being blown into her eyes by the wind, Mingyan tore it away and shoved it into the collar of her robes.
“Arrays, arrays… Is there one that…?” she muttered to herself under her breath.
That was roughly when Liu Qingge felt the last dregs of his solidity give way. No longer could he feel Shen Qingqiu’s warmth through a thin layer of silk, the hard flex of his muscle over bone, and the distant pulse of his qi trying to break free of the blockage in his meridians. He didn’t even feel the grit of sand and rock on his skin or whatever was sending distressing needle-like shots of pain through his belly.
He couldn’t feel anything at all.
Though his vision darkened for several concerning minutes, Liu Qingge still remained behind and aware. By the dismayed sound the straining Shen Qingqiu made in the back of his throat, the fairy could no longer be certain of that.
“Shen-Shibo — wha—?” Mingyan began, but was immediately cut off by a strong, black-clad arm shooting past her.
Luo Binghe grabbed his shizun by the forearm and hauled him up effortlessly to the ledge before pulling the dazed fairy to his chest.
“Shizun!” he breathed, face paper white and anguished.
Liu Mingyan stared at Luo Binghe a moment — first surprised; then speculative — before she seemed to remember her face was unprotected. Watching the pair closely, she quietly retrieved her veil and tied it back on. Only then did she risk interrupting by gently guiding them further away from the edge of the cliff and to the stone bench.
They sat at her direction, each too wrung out to consider resisting.
In fact, neither gave her a second look — Luo Binghe didn’t appear to have even noticed she was there, simply clutching Shen Qingqiu to his chest and trying to catch his breath. Shen Qingqiu couldn’t have noticed if he’d wanted to. He buried his face against his disciple’s shoulder and let the boy’s shaking hands establish that he was there and whole. The fairy visibly trembled, his breathing coming in short and shallow gasps as he held a hand to his side.
Liu Qingge was only able to drift and watch hazily over them, though his attention was barely able to encompass his sister and Luo Binghe — too much of him was focused on Shen Qingqiu.
Dispassionately, he recognized that he was too weak to do anything else; it may have been lucky that he hadn’t instantly fallen into the darkness again. He absently felt that if he weren’t bound to the fairy, the wind that gusted over the cliffs would have carried him away, perhaps far away to the desert at the distant end of the mountain range.
He could no longer see himself at all.
Once again, he struggled to remember what ‘Liu Qingge’ was.
If he imagined himself as looking like anything, it was a small cloud, no bigger than a kitten, that occasionally tried to form limbs. It was as if his soul knew he should have them, but couldn’t decide whether he was a white tiger, had the feathers and wings of a luan, or was a scaled and tufted dragon.
It was frustrating to note that at no point did his cloud-self consider he might be human.
While Liu Qingge had a crisis of form, the others used their time more fruitfully. It took a few minutes for Luo Binghe to calm down enough to allow for conversation and for Shen Qingqiu to have recovered enough to listen. By then, the sun had decidedly set and the moon had yet to rise enough to bathe them in its silvery glow. The shadow-draped sitting area had an almost ominous atmosphere now, like the lull before a storm or the moment where the wildlife went still and quiet.
“Perhaps we should go into the house,” Liu Mingyan suggested.
Luo Binghe turned his head and gave her a cold, suspicious stare.
“Why?” he asked bluntly. Now that he was recovering from his shock, it appeared that the boy’s hackles were rising.
Mingyan didn’t flinch or falter and knew better than to lower her eyes from the challenge in Luo Binghe’s. “I feel like we’re being watched,” she said, very, very quietly.
The two from Qing Jing went still, almost holding their breath.
Liu Qingge could feel it too. That ominous atmosphere he’d registered hadn’t just been Luo Binghe’s impending response to what had happened, then. He could see Luo Binghe do quick calculations in his head, his dark eyes questing for a source of the tension everyone was now aware of.
“Where?” he asked in a low tone that carried underneath the sounds of the wind and the rustling greenery to those by the bench, and no further.
“I cannot tell,” she said, finally reassured that taking her eyes away from Luo Binghe wouldn’t result in him launching a surprise attack against her. His sister’s instincts were good. “Perhaps by magic. I cannot sense a presence just… the watching.”
The two young disciples looked at each other for a long moment before Luo Binghe nodded and helped his master to his feet, apparently deciding that Mingyan was not currently a threat.
She lead the way, a dagger subtly held in the palm of each hand and a second pair tucked snugly in their sheaths at her wrists, their presence disguised by her fluttering layers of diaphanous silk.
Shen Qingqiu was silent and visibly drained, simply allowing Luo Binghe to half-carry him up the stairs as he curled his fist in his sleeve and held it against his lower ribs.
Liu Qingge followed behind, pulled in Shen Qingqiu’s wake as if tied to him by a string.
His sister brought them into the house, which was clearly still being tended to in his absence, and activated the luminous pearls she passed after she’d neatly stowed her daggers away.
“I come here some nights to sit and think,” she said quietly once they were all inside and she’d shut the door behind them. “No one will think it’s unusual that I’m here. They know better than to pry. Anyone who comes should be regarded as suspicious.”
“How do we know that you’re not suspicious?” Luo Binghe asked with a cool tone and cold black eyes.
Mingyan looked thoughtful for a few moments before bowing her head slightly in acknowledgment. “By all rights I should be. I would be wary of myself. I mean you no harm, but it is safer to not take my word for it. Especially after what’s happened.”
“And what’s happened, Liu-Shizhi?” Shen Qingqiu asked in a soft rasp, a hand still subtly pressed against his ribs. He was looking at her almost as if seeing through her, which seemed to unnerve Mingyan.
“We should sit. I have the feeling the discussion may take awhile.” She paused for a moment before adding, “I would offer tea, but I imagine you would not trust anything here.”
“Point it out to me and I will make it. I trust my eyes and my nose,” Luo Binghe said, tone just shy of warning.
His dark gaze was still as wary as his voice, but he no longer looked ready to bite anything that moved too quickly for his liking. Luo Binghe’s judgment of character was too sharp for him to maintain aggression against someone clearly making great pains to show herself to be an honest ally, but his suspicious nature would not allow him to fully relax either. Not without more proof of what his instincts told him.
After Shen Qingqiu was carefully settled at the low table, the two disciples moved on to the kitchen. They could be heard in the distance, their words muffled but were very clearly the back and forth of two teenagers cautiously feeling each other out from underneath a layer of polite words and a careful distance.
His attention was drawn from monitoring them by a soft intake of breath closer by.
“Liu Qingge…” Shen Qingqiu whispered, fingers of the other hand slipping along the edge of the table before moving to pull a folded paper crane from where it rested against a book on sword forms. Mingyan had folded it for him the last time they’d had a meal together. Shen Qingqiu moved it towards himself and stared at it intently, hands slipping into his lap to clench one over the other under the cover of his sleeves.
It was clear what he hoped for. It wouldn’t even take much to move the paper crane — perhaps less than disturbing the red tassel that hung in Shen Qingqiu’s room. But Liu Qingge couldn’t so much as control where he floated. He tried, though, formlessly writhing with the attempt to grasp the air and pull himself closer.
After a few minutes of silence punctuated by the rise and fall of the teenagers’ voices and Shen Qingqiu’s shallow breaths, he’d managed to drift close enough — likely through sheer coincidence — to Shen Qingqiu’s shoulder that he thought he could try reaching towards him.
One thing that all of Liu Qingge’s cloud-forms agreed upon was that they had claws or talons, so he tried to reach out with one to hook onto the waiting fairy and let him know he was there. But without being able to see or feel any limbs, he had no idea how far his reach was or if they were even obeying his instructions.
He thought for a moment that he’d managed to grasp onto strands of Shen Qingqiu’s hair, but it was only that it slid forward when the fairy finally slumped in defeat after waiting too long without results.
Liu Qingge helplessly watched as Shen Qingqiu tried to pack away his fears and prepare himself to focus on the matter at hand. There were a few minutes of agony as he watched the fairy’s shoulders shake and heard his breath hitch as he resisted the urge to show any signs of upset or even express his evident physical pain.
That he could do nothing to comfort him made somewhere within Liu Qingge itch and burn, like splinters let to fester. He churned uselessly around that fire-hot sensation — it was the only part of him he could feel.
When Shen Qingqiu raised his head again, it was with the same look he’d had when he’d seemed to stare through Mingyan earlier — almost a gaze that looked to another world. To Liu Qingge’s relief, there was a bit more awareness to it when the teenagers reentered the room a short time later and took their seats at the table.
Luo Binghe had evidently tested everything he was serving thoroughly, because he handed his shizun a cup of tea without hesitation, even if he still cast his shimei a wary side-eye every so often.
Tea served and a first sip taken by everyone, Mingyan finally broke the silence.
“Shen-Shibo, may I ask… what happened to you?”
“You didn’t see?” Shen Qingqiu asked calmly, taking another sip of his tea and watching her through the veil of the steam.
“No. I came out onto the porch and, hearing a voice, walked over to see who was there. When I noticed it was you, I turned to leave, but I heard a shout moments later. I saw you go over the edge, but I didn’t see what caused you to fall. I ran to help you.”
“If you were on the porch, why didn’t you leap down from there?” Luo Binghe cut in, his voice hard under the polite layer he’d pulled over it.
“It wouldn’t be safe,” she said, shaking her head. “The winds that blow against this side of the mountain are powerful. Even on the back of a spirit sword, it is difficult not to be knocked around by the wind. My brother could do it, but I could not dare risk it.”
This was perfectly true, though the hazardous nature of the winds of Bai Zhan might not be common knowledge among the other peaks. It was one of the effects of a great protection array that shielded the mountain from open invasion. Every peak probably had it manifest in its own way. It was not something people spoke of much, even between peak lords, perhaps to obfuscate potential points of attack — you would need to know Cang Qiong Mountain very well to learn enough of its secrets to be a serious threat.
“And why were you here, Binghe?” Shen Qingqiu asked, his soft voice brushing aside Liu Qingge’s musings.
Luo Binghe widened his eyes with an innocence that almost convinced Liu Qingge, who knew perfectly well the boy wasn’t. “This one apologizes, Shizun.” He bowed with a display of great humility and hunched slightly with contrition. “After you left on your walk, I was cleaning away the dishes when the open window let in a breeze that scattered the papers on your table. I found the letter when I was picking them up. I was concerned, so I hurried after you.”
If anything, Liu Qingge bet that the boy had been curious about the letter since it was delivered and his shizun’s suspicious behavior only provoked him to investigate. In fact, it was him who had opened the window at the start of the meal to let the fresh air in. He must have known exactly which paper to look for and was clever enough to set up a plausible way he could explain seeing its contents in advance. It was good that he did.
“En, I see…” Shen Qingqiu replied softly, lowering his eyes to his tea. Almost to himself he added, “It seems I should have brought you with me to begin with.”
He sounded so lost that it wasn’t just Liu Qingge and Luo Binghe whose hearts bled for him. Even Mingyan leaned forward, hand twitching on her lap as if she wanted to console her shibo.
Liu Qingge managed to drift close enough to the fairy now that he couldn’t miss his chance. He vividly imagined four clawed limbs and pictured using them all to anchor himself to Shen Qingqiu’s shoulder. Amazingly, he stopped drifting, though he could tell the fairy had no idea he had an invisible passenger. Still, this progress was enough for Liu Qingge to relax. Even if Shen Qingqiu couldn’t detect him yet, he could now gather his energy and focus on his presence again rather than fretting over not being able to reach Shen Qingqiu.
“Shen-Shibo… I received a letter too,” Mingyan said, pulling a folded paper out of her robes and presenting it to the man with a bow.
Shen Qingqiu set his cup of tea aside to take the piece of paper. He carefully unfolded it and read it aloud in that faint rasp he’d developed after falling over the cliff.
The letter read:
Beautiful One,
I have noticed that you visit your brother’s home often now.
I can only presume this is to reflect on your loss.
How it must burden you!
How unjust that its cause shares none of this burden!
You are not alone in finding this unbearable.
They say that watching sunsets can begin to heal the soul.
Tonight, as is only correct, the sun will set.
Perhaps you will be unburdened as well.
I hope to see your heart set free once more.
Ever devoted.
Like the other letter, it was written in the plainest of styles, on the plainest of papers, and left unsigned.
“Suspicious,” Liu Mingyan said with a bone-dry snideness, and was immediately horrified when Shen Qingqiu visibly flinched and turned away to hide his expression, dropping the letter on the table almost in his cup of tea. “M-my apologies, Shen-Shibo…” she whispered, though she couldn’t possibly know what she was apologizing for.
Whether it was purely to comfort his shizun or if he was prompted by some fledgling sympathy for Mingyan’s awkward position, Luo Binghe moved over to tug his shizun down into a hug.
“I’m fine!” Shen Qingqiu said breathlessly, though he didn’t lift his head from his disciple’s shoulder and used his curled position to mask the clutch at his ribs.
“En,” Luo Binghe agreed gently. “Please indulge this disciple. He is still trembling from realizing his shizun was nearly taken from him.” Shen Qingqiu made a strange not-laugh, but submitted, relaxing at the comforting rub Luo Binghe gave his back.
While Liu Mingyan tried to show her silent support by pretending to be invisible so as not to make things more embarrassing for her shibo, her actually-invisible brother had the baffling need to move like an annoyed and stubborn kitten trying to stake its claim on Shen Qingqiu’s shoulders, lifting limbs to avoid the hand that occasionally passed where he was ‘sitting’.
Liu Qingge thought this was a good sign as it implied he had something to displace and that he might perhaps be recovering more quickly than last time this happened. On the other hand, it also implied that his cloud-form might be how he re-entered the part of reality that could communicate with Shen Qingqiu.
He’d take it over nothingness, though. Without hesitation. Even if it meant he now eyed Luo Binghe’s hand and considered batting at it with his clawed paw or whatever a cloud-tiger-luan-dragon used to protect its territory.
How ridiculous.
After a few minutes, Shen Qingqiu sat up with a faint laugh and resettled his hair and clothes, a pleasant mask now settled in place. “My apologies. Liu-Shizhi… I wonder if you realize how much you resembled your brother just then. He said the same thing in much the same way to me before. It startled me.”
It wasn’t just Mingyan whose eyes widened as she straightened with surprise — Luo Binghe did as well.
“Shen-Shibo… you… remember such a thing?” she asked, her voice a little strangled as mistrust and gratification fought in her eyes.
“En.”
“But you lost your memories…” Luo Binghe breathed, apparently unaware he’d spoken. He surely wouldn’t have said such a thing if he had been. Shen Qingqiu’s ‘memory loss’ was supposed to be a secret, after all. Not that those who paid attention wouldn’t have noticed that he didn’t seem to be aware of everything he should be, but everyone was still trying to pretend they didn’t know.
Shen Qingqiu chuckled, lowering his eyes as he spoke. “I remember some things. I remembered that just now. I wonder when I will be able to apologize to him?” he asked faintly, his mask slipping.
The teenagers stared at Shen Qingqiu, not in disbelief, but with something closer to wonder. And no question, if he did not know what he did about Shen Qingqiu, Liu Qingge would have stared the same way. Perhaps he would have even suspected the truth: that the man’s soul had been replaced by another. Surely the original had never thought of doing such a thing, must less would he be likely to admit to to consider doing it to young disciples.
He wondered if Luo Binghe might have ever entertained the idea that this was a different Shen Qingqiu. It would not surprise him.
“I suppose this means that there is no question that it was an attempted murder,” Shen Qingqiu said pleasantly, raising his eyes as he slipped back into the guise of someone faintly amused by the world. “I must be the burden they mentioned.”
“They certainly thought so,” Mingyan murmured, her flower-colored gaze troubled over the top of her veil. “I am no longer certain. If Shibo allows it, I will make inquiries into the identity of the writer.”
“It seems as if you have your suspicions already,” Shen Qingqiu pointed out, his eyes shrewd.
“I’m not sure. I apologize, but I don’t want to accuse someone without cause. There are a few people who…” she paused, searching for more precise words as her brows drew together and her expression took on a look of contempt, “…have absurd ideas of how I would like to be treated. Or, perhaps more specifically, are mistaken that they have any right to make decisions for me.” This time she sounded cold and flat, a simmering anger underneath her response.
For the first time, Luo Binghe actually seemed curious about Mingyan. Not necessarily in the finding-her-attractive way (which was a relief as he was more and more certain that Luo Binghe was meant to be his sister’s prophesied husband and Liu Qingge still didn’t know that he’d approve of such a thing if she would be just one of an implied multitude), but more that she might be worth paying attention to for reasons other than being a potential threat or source of information.
As if they were thinking similar things, Shen Qingqiu brushed his eyes over his disciple, almost as if in passing, but turned a mild gaze to Mingyan. “How long do you need to investigate?”
She hesitated, perhaps biting at her bottom lip as she did when pensive. “It depends on how subtly you wish for it to be done, Shen-Shibo. And whether you wished to keep your survival a secret to see if that flushed out the guilty party.”
“I thought I overheard you discussing a spell to watch us? Wouldn’t they already know?” Shen Qingqiu asked, his brow furrowing.
“Not necessarily, Shizun. I was attempting to hide my presence using magic. That would have interfered with most scrying spells,” Luo Binghe said with the slightly evasive air of someone who hoped no one would inquire too deeply into precisely what spells he was using.
Mingyan nodded. “The, er, ‘candidates’ in question… None of them have ever shown much interest in magic. They would not be practiced at scrying spells. And what we sensed seemed to be fighting to get stronger, as if they couldn’t see. There is a good chance they aren’t sure what happened tonight.”
Shen Qingqiu hummed softly, clearly thinking over everything he knew. Animation was back in his eyes and some color had returned to his face. He was still not happy and was likely still in pain from whatever damage he’d taken from the fall, but he no longer looked lost and frail.
“Let us go with that,” he said after a few minutes. “I’ll write a letter to explain things to Zhangmen-Shixiong and stay here. It’s the last place most people would think to look for me, even if it was the last place they knew me to be. No one but you, Liu-Shizhi, has reason to come here. I should be fine on my own for a few days, but you should rely on Luo Binghe for assistance in your investigations. However they might profess their regard for you, they attempted to kill a peak lord, which shows they feel they have the ability to get away with anything. I don’t want you meeting with anyone without very talented back-up.”
Mingyan agreed without hesitation, but Luo Binghe looked immediately mutinous.
“Shizun!” the boy said almost sharply. “You cannot live here on your own! If they did think to check here, you might be vulnerable. What is more, it is unsuitable for you to tend to your own bandages and meals for days! You do not even have the poultice here!”
“I have taken care of myself for years. There is no need to be concerned. It would be worse if people noticed someone coming here other than Liu Mingyan, and asking her to look after me would be very inappropriate. If she would be kind enough to deliver the poultice, that would be enough.”
Shen Qingqiu waved a negligent hand, but Liu Qingge was on Luo Binghe’s side in this. Even with his disciples looking after his needs, they sometimes had to bully Shen Qingqiu into taking the time for even food and sleep if he were distracted. Mingyan also seemed to have her misgivings, even if they were probably based heavily on the apparent needs of the original Shen Qingqiu. Wisely, she said nothing. She clearly recognized it as a family issue.
“Then I just need to make sure no one sees me, Shizun. And as I’ve already managed that, there should be no issue,” Luo Binghe said firmly, his black eyes glinting with rebellion.
“Aiyah…” Shen Qingqiu sighed and let his lips lift in a small, indulgent smile. “When did I let you get so spoiled?” he asked with rhetorical absurdity, reaching out to give the boy’s fluffy hair a pat. “I will get along alone just fine. I have almost never made myself anything to eat that was capable of killing anyone.”
He said this with the air of someone joking, but Liu Qingge had the disconcerting feeling it wasn’t far enough from the truth based on the look in his eyes. Luo Binghe blanched, so he must have noticed the same thing.
“Y-you don’t even have anything to read!” the boy said desperately. “How will you pass time?”
Mingyan immediately averted her eyes, flushing slightly. The claim there was nothing in the house to read was far from the truth, actually. But she knew that volunteering the information was unlikely to endear her to either party. Well, any of the three parties, if she but knew her brother was monitoring the conversation too.
“Surely Liu-Shidi left behind more like this, at least!” Shen Qingqiu protested, tapping the cover of the sword forms book. “And I seem to remember your brother mentioning you write fiction, Liu-Shizhi? Perhaps you have left something here.” He shot his disciple a ‘so there’ glance, nearly smug.
Liu Qingge did not have the energy (or ability) to sigh, but he still felt the sense of impending dread and wished he could.
His sister sat up so straight she nearly began rising to her feet. “My brother told you that?” Her eyes were so wide over her veil that he thought she would look less shocked if Shen Qingqiu had explained that he was a fairy from another world.
In his innocence, Shen Qingqiu blinked at her with confusion. “Ah? Yes? Should he not have? I’m sorry if that was a secret. He didn’t tell me much, if that makes you feel better…”
Her lashes fluttered as if she were completely re-ordering her preconceptions. Then there was a gleam in her eyes that reminded Liu Qingge of the daggers she had hidden on her person.
“No. Not a ‘secret’, exactly, just… I had not realized you were so close. It’s not so much that my brother disapproves of my writing, but… He would not tell anyone about my stories unless he at least considered you close friends. Please stay. I’m sure my dear brother would insist on it.”
Liu Qingge had not seen his sister move, but suddenly she seemed much closer to Shen Qingqiu, who was starting to lean away as if his danger sense had finally told him to be wary.
But Liu Qingge was already aware that the fairy’s sense of danger was worryingly faulty. He should have had this reaction from the gleam in her eyes alone.
“I- E-en,” Shen Qingqiu agreed uncertainly.
Luo Binghe looked like he wanted to protest, but couldn’t come up with any reason beyond, ‘Strange girl, please stop being strange and scaring my shizun.’ Mingyan didn’t look like she was wishing any harm on him, after all — she was just being aggressively welcoming now, like the mother of a hopeless daughter she thought she’d never get rid of scenting a potential suitor.
Which… was nearly exactly what was on his sister’s mind.
“…Shizun,” Luo Binghe tried, tone tentative.
“All right!” Shen Qingqiu said quickly. “You can visit if you are careful not to be seen, Binghe!” The flustered fairy now couldn’t agree fast enough to the idea of someone other than Liu Mingyan being allowed to drop by. “Just make sure than Zhangmen-Shixiong does not attempt to follow your example and sneak over here to check on me. I don’t recall if he even knows how to sneak. Aiyah…” he clutched at the side of his head in dismay, muttering under his breath. “Shang-Shidi should probably be told something too, or else he might freak ou— er, be distressed… ah…”
The teenagers watched him stress for a moment before giving him eerily identical looks of endearment. Liu Qingge didn’t know whether to be pleased or embarrassed that all it took to win his sister over was the idea that he might have a soft spot for Shen Qingqiu.
It was mortifying to know that she was right and she’d known much quicker than he did off of such a small clue, when he’d had months and… well, no, he’d absolutely been in denial over it for awhile now. He’d had plenty of time to come to terms with it if he hadn’t kept putting off acknowledging his feelings until now.
This was intolerable.
The two disciples took over before Shen Qingqiu was able to over-think everything and tie himself in knots.
While Luo Binghe sorted out the bedroom situation, Mingyan plied Shen Qingqiu with tea and books she’d squirreled around her brother’s house, stacking them into two different piles. Once Shen Qingqiu saw the plot teasers written on their covers, he shed his stress response and started to get as excited as he did when browsing bookstores.
His sister’s veil hid her wicked smile and Liu Qingge wondered just how many books it would take before the fairy caught on to the ‘hidden themes’ in these novels she was plying him with. They had likely been highly curated by his sister to test the waters before risking scaring him off of others based on the sweet way she’d advised him, “Start with these first.”
Moreover, he wondered what her purpose was in enlightening him to begin with. She could hardly matchmake for the dead, after all.
Then again, he knew well her preference for Master/Disciple romances… That would probably be it. It would certainly mean he didn’t have to worry as much about his sister becoming Luo Binghe’s bride, but the alternative made his gut burn with the same helpless itch from earlier.
And… he wondered just what assumptions Shen Qingqiu would make about him based on the fact that the books were tucked away out of sight in his own house and in such quantity that they must outnumber his books on martial arts and battle strategy.
He curled up on Shen Qingqiu’s shoulder and speculated over whether it were possible to die of mortification when one was already a ghost.
***
The last thing Shen Qingqiu did before he climbed into Liu Qingge’s bed was to hang two calligraphy scrolls he’d found. The first went into the common room and the second in the bedroom. Each, of course, had tassels hanging from them. The hopefulness of the act helped soothe Liu Qingge’s unhappy feelings.
Shen Qingqiu was not ready to sleep, and with no Luo Binghe or Liu Qingge to act as his minders, he stayed up reading long into the night.
Liu Qingge settled his cloud-like form on Shen Qingqiu’s chest, silently (and invisibly) disapproving as he waited for sleep to catch up with the fairy.
Sleep did catch up, but for the first time since his death it came for Liu Qingge.