Chapter Text
Shen Qingqiu’s dreams have been especially bad the past week.
Well, that’s something of a lie. They haven’t been bad. Not in the moment. It’s only that his mind has been lingering lovingly on those three years with his white lotus Luo Binghe, when they lived peacefully together in the bamboo house: the small routines that they built together; the long evenings as one or both of them worked or read poetry or practiced the qin; the quiet fondness seeping through every moment—
And then Shen Qingqiu would wake, Luo Binghe’s name on his tongue, to remember that he was gone.
Shen Qingqiu has been spending even more time at Luo Binghe’s sword mound than usual.
Last night was actually a nightmare: he dreamed of the Abyss. Not an uncommon nightmare of his, to be brutally honest. Truly, the pleasant (torturous) dreams had to end at some point. They were building the whole time toward the Endless Abyss, as if those weeks of reprieve beforehand were only to make him truly remember what it was he lost.
What he threw away to save his own skin.
It was a dream from which he managed to throw himself, sitting upright in bed with sweat-soaked sleeping robes, but not before he relived the moment where he stabbed Luo Binghe. The expression on his face—
Well. He knew he wasn’t going to fall back asleep after that, so he pulled on a warm outer robe and made his slightly unsteady way to the sword mound, the moon high overhead.
It is Ming Fan, for once, who finds him there. Ning Yingying usually takes point on this, but Ming Fan is diligent in his duties as Shen Qingqiu’s head disciple, so he’s found Shen Qingqiu at the sword mound no few times. He must have come with Shen Qingqiu’s breakfast and, finding the bamboo house empty, made his way to the clearing where he knew Shen Qingqiu would be.
“Shizun,” Ming Fan says respectfully. “Allow this disciple to assist in getting ready for the day?”
Shen Qingqiu blinks at him. Rather belatedly he realizes that, yes, he’s still in his xianxia pajamas, isn’t he? Even with an outer robe thrown on top, it’s not really appropriate. His hair is even still tied back in its braid for sleep. Not at all the lofty immortal persona Shen Qingqiu usually projects.
“No need,” Shen Qingqiu murmurs. “This master can manage on his own.” Nonetheless, he accepts the hand Ming Fan offers to help him to his feet, and doesn’t say anything about the way Ming Fan trails anxiously behind him all the way back to the bamboo house.
“Would Shizun like this disciple to send for hot water for a bath?” Ming Fan asks.
“Yes,” Shen Qingqiu says, after a brief mental debate. That will at least get Ming Fan out from underfoot for a bit. Also, he hates to admit it, but he is feeling a bit chilled. He really wasn’t clothed appropriately to be out in the frigid mountain air most of the night, especially given the way winter has arrived at the mountain, having spent the past several weeks nipping at autumn’s heels in eagerness to replace it. Shen Qingqiu hadn’t been focusing on his cultivation while at the sword mound; not enough to hold off the chill, anyway.
Ah, Shen Qingqiu supposes it makes sense he dreamed of the Immortal Alliance Conference. He was due for one, and…hasn’t it been a little over two years since it happened?
(Shouldn’t it be Luo Binghe’s birthday soon? His twentieth, and in another world, Shen Qingqiu might have gifted him his guan and—quite possibly—a courtesy name to go with it. He would be a senior disciple, free to leave Qing Jing to explore or take up duties teaching classes or even look forward to settling down with someone. A small life, not one befitting of the Protagonist, but Shen Qingqiu sometimes can’t help imagining those could-have-beens.)
“Thank you, Ming Fan,” Shen Qingqiu says belatedly, an acknowledgement and dismissal all in one. Ming Fan bows and hurries away.
Shen Qingqiu’s disciples are quick to bring him the water. After they’re gone, he sits there in the bath for a good while, slowly warming up. If it weren’t for the talismans attached to the tub, the water would have long since cooled by the time Shen Qingqiu gets around to washing himself or taking on the arduous task of washing his (truly excessive amounts of) hair. He ends up using a bit of qi to help his hair dry quicker once he gets out of the tub. That’s what he gets for washing his hair at the beginning of the day instead of waiting for the night, when he can leave it to dry while he sleeps.
He combs his hair, lavender-infused oil helping to smooth down some of the frizz inherent in using qi to dry hair. He puts on real clothes, ones appropriate for an immortal master, does up his hair properly, and walks through the main room of his home, ignoring the tray Ming Fan left out on the low table for him. He isn’t hungry.
Shen Qingqiu hesitates outside the bamboo house. He half-turns toward the path that would lead him toward the main halls of Qing Jing and all his disciples. In the end, though, he can’t make himself take a step in that direction. He heads instead back to the sword mound.
The clearing is bright with sun now, cutting through the early winter’s chill, though the breeze rustling through the bamboo fights playfully with the sun’s efforts to warm it. Ah, well, Shen Qingqiu will finish unpacking his winter cloaks soon; already he’s unearthed several of his heavier daytime robes, though not the cloaks needed in the depths of winter.
He should have done that earlier, but time slips away from him so easily now, and he no longer has a pair of eager, helping hands to take care of such tasks for him. For today, it’s enough to circulate his qi, maintaining his body temperature. It doesn’t take much effort, nor even conscious thought, to cycle his qi in such a way, so long as he remembers to start the process.
Barring a distraction, his thoughts turn to dark paths.
The Abyss…
The dream—the nightmare—from last night had so perfectly, awfully captured the details: Luo Binghe’s desperate begging. Shen Qingqiu’s horrified dismay, as Luo Binghe let himself be stabbed. The betrayal and, yes, the heartbreak splashed so clearly across Luo Binghe’s face as Shen Qingqiu pushed him.
Everything happened so fast during the Conference that Shen Qingqiu hadn’t managed to parse many emotions on Luo Binghe’s face beyond the obvious betrayal. Now, distanced from it, with the System’s oh-so-helpful inclusion of fucking Heartbreak Points, Shen Qingqiu was able to see it in the nightmare for what it truly was. It was that, as much as anything else, that dragged Shen Qingqiu out of his sleep. It was that which sent him directly to the sword mound, without a thought for anything else.
To have dreamed for so many days of those peaceful times, and then for his dreams to carry through to the Immortal Alliance Conference—isn’t it too cruel? He already knows what he did. He does. He remembers it every time he wakes up, every time he calls for Luo Binghe, every moment he spends here at the sword mound.
He knows.
And he knows what Luo Binghe will do to him on his return.
Under three years left, now. Time is steadily trickling out of his personal hourglass. The mushroom bodies should be ready by then, assuming nothing goes wrong. Even with the few false starts he and Shang Qinghua had with planting the Sun and Moon Dew Mushrooms when neither of them were gardeners, the bodies look to be growing well. They don’t even need to be checked on that often; Shang Qinghua is often the one who ends up doing so, as he has better excuses to be out near the Borderlands than Shen Qingqiu, even with the night hunts Shen Qingqiu takes.
Three years and then it will all be over. In the meantime…
Well, he keeps Zheng Yang company. That’s something, he supposes.
Shen Qingqiu holds back a sigh as he hears quiet footsteps make their way up the path toward him. Too quiet to be Ning Yingying, bless her, so it must be Ming Fan, back again. That child…
“Didn’t I say there was no need, Ming Fan?” Shen Qingqiu says, not turning around. Look, see? He’s perfectly put together now! No need for this concern. Leave him be.
“Shizun,” a deep voice purrs from behind him. A voice that is most certainly not Ming Fan.
Shen Qingqiu leaps to his feet, thankful that it’s habitual for cultivators—including himself—to take their swords with them wherever they go, even on their peaks. His hand flies for Xiu Ya’s hilt as he turns, but it’s far too late for that. It was too late as soon as this unexpected intruder spoke.
Luo Binghe’s hand lands on his own in a crushing grip, keeping Shen Qingqiu from drawing his sword as his former disciple gets right up in Shen Qingqiu’s face. Luo Binghe is using his right hand to hold Xiu Ya in its sheath, which means that Xin Mo is in his left hand, and Shen Qingqiu can feel the rush of it slashing at his back—
No. No, Luo Binghe wasn’t aiming to hit Shen Qingqiu at all. He was creating a portal.
Shen Qingqiu has a bare moment of dismayed comprehension before Luo Binghe is moving again, releasing his hold on Xiu Ya only so that he can swirl around Shen Qingqiu in a blindingly fast movement, getting behind Shen Qingqiu and using his now-free right arm to pin Shen Qingqiu against him, Shen Qingqiu’s back to his chest.
“Caught you, Shizun,” Luo Binghe says in Shen Qingqiu’s ear, and then he tips them backward through the portal.
(art by Nelleion)
Luo Binghe lands perfectly, because of course he does. Shen Qingqiu, on the other hand, nearly falls—not only because of the way Luo Binghe is holding him captive, but because of the sheer disorientation of the portal. For all that it was a clean slice between locations, Shen Qingqiu felt a truly nauseating sense of vertigo upon passing through it. A detail Airplane had left out of the novel, when it was one’s first time through? Or perhaps an artifact of going directly from a mountain to—fuck, is this the Demon Realm?
Shen Qingqiu claws at Luo Binghe’s arm, desperate to get back through the portal before it closes. He can still see Qing Jing on the other side of it: the clear blue sky, the waving bamboo, Zheng Yang standing proudly before the plaque bearing Luo Binghe’s name.
It’s no use. Luo Binghe’s sleeves are tucked into metal vambraces, keeping his forearm protected from Shen Qingqiu’s attack; his fingers are clenched so hard against Shen Qingqiu’s arm that Shen Qingqiu wouldn’t be able to bend them back if he tried, even without the claws he can feel snagging in the silk of his sleeve and pricking against his skin. Shen Qingqiu doesn’t have the space or positioning to draw Xiu Ya, not with the way Luo Binghe is holding him, nor does he have any other weapons.
The portal closes with a snap.
Even with his escape route cut off, Shen Qingqiu doesn’t stop his struggling. It’s too early! It’s way too early, three years too early, and Luo Binghe has deviated wildly from the script he’s supposed to follow. He was never supposed to return directly to Qing Jing and kidnap Shen Qingqiu; he was supposed to go to Huan Hua and turn the world against Shen Qingqiu from there. Shen Qingqiu can’t predict him now, except for all the ways that he can—human stick, human stick, human stick!—and panic courses through him because the mushroom bodies aren’t ready!
Shen Qingqiu needs to run.
“Shizun,” Luo Binghe says, nuzzling against the side of Shen Qingqiu’s head in a parody of affection. “That’s enough, don’t you think?”
Shen Qingqiu stomps on the instep of his foot.
Luo Binghe laughs, a low, dark thing. “Fine, fine, if Shizun insists…” His hold loosens.
Shen Qingqiu rips himself from Luo Binghe’s grasp, crossing the room in several qi-fueled strides until he has a wall safely to his back. Better would be a window to throw himself through, but there are none that he can see with a quick scan. Fighting it is, then. This time, at least, Luo Binghe doesn’t stop Shen Qingqiu from drawing Xiu Ya as he faces him.
Indeed, Luo Binghe stays peacefully on his side of the room, right where they arrived. He sheathes Xin Mo, holding his hands up in a mocking gesture of peace, crimson eyes glinting to match the smirk growing across his face.
“Luo Binghe,” Shen Qingqiu says, sword leveled between them. “What do you think you’re doing?” His voice does not shake, and neither does his sword hand. Shen Qingqiu is terrified out of his mind, but he refuses to give Luo Binghe the satisfaction of showing it.
"Is it so unexpected, for this disciple to want to see his shizun again?" Luo Binghe asks.
"There is a difference between seeing and—and kidnapping! Luo Binghe can't expect to get away with this!"
Kidnapping a Peak Lord directly away from Cang Qiong? Luo Binghe may be the Protagonist, but there was always a method to whatever he did. When he held the trial against Shen Qingqiu in Proud Immortal Demon Way, he ensured that no one would come for Shen Qingqiu—no one but Yue Qingyuan, anyway. Shen Qingqiu's reputation in the wider jianghu was completely ruined; it was viewed as his just deserts to be locked away in the Water Prison for the rest of his life, however long or short that may be when at the mercy of those he wronged.
This, though? Liu Qingge and Yue Qingyuan will be coming after him. Hell, they may be able to rally support from the other sects, if it becomes known that a demon infiltrated their sect and stole away a cultivator. Cang Qiong wouldn’t care about the implied weaknesses of their defenses, if it meant they could get one of their Peak Lords back.
It's not as though Cang Qiong’s defenses could have ever held against the unexpected abilities of Xin Mo, but no one else knows that. All they will see is a demon, one with obvious malicious intent, who stole away a human. An event, to Shen Qingqiu’s understanding, that is far too similar to another incident in the recent past, which led to the attack on and eventual subjugation of Tianlang-Jun. Luo Binghe will be in danger from the whole Human Realm, he will face threats from all sides, he will—he—
He looks quite unconcerned, actually.
"When does Shizun think this lord returned to Qing Jing Peak?" Luo Binghe asks idly.
Shen Qingqiu feels the blood draining from his face. He had assumed it was only today, a snatch and grab using Xin Mo, but what Luo Binghe is implying...
"Even if this lord weren't so good at disguising his demonic energies," Luo Binghe says, taking a step forward, "he had plenty of time to set up an array around the sword mound." Another step. "An array to assist in the quick dissolution of any demonic qi." Another step. "Shizun's other disciples were so busy today with all their tasks, alongside a few manufactured minor emergencies." Another step. "It's going to take a long while before any of them have a chance to check on Shizun. A long while before they realize he's missing." Yet another step. "By the time they begin investigating, any remaining traces will have dissipated completely, the array itself destroyed after it activated.” One final step, so that Luo Binghe is within Xiu Ya's range now.
"They won't have any idea where Shizun's gone," Luo Binghe explains kindly. "They won't even know where to start. Even if they did stumble upon some clue, how could they possibly follow this lord?"
He raises one hand, resting it on Xiu Ya's naked blade, and gently pushes it down. Sharp as Shen Qingqiu's sword is, that is enough to split open the meat of Luo Binghe's palm, blood streaking down the blade. Shen Qingqiu drops Xiu Ya the rest of the way without prompting. He can't bear to hurt Luo Binghe any more than he already has.
"Face it, Shizun: no one is coming after you," Luo Binghe concludes. He smiles again. "It's just the two of us. No interruptions. Not by Cang Qiong, nor any...other annoyances."
Shen Qingqiu's throat clicks dryly as he swallows. "What...what do you want?" He can barely get his voice above a whisper.
"Shizun," Luo Binghe says.
"Don't play games," Shen Qingqiu says. Better to have it all said outright, isn't it? Let Luo Binghe tell him what he wants, so then at least Shen Qingqiu can be prepared. He knows there's a deep well of rage hiding beneath the calmness of Luo Binghe's countenance.
"Shizun misunderstands," Luo Binghe says. He leans forward, deep into Shen Qingqiu's space. He's taller than Shen Qingqiu now, he realizes abruptly. Back then, their eyes were level. Now, Luo Binghe has to bend slightly to accomplish the same thing. "I. Want. Shizun."
Shen Qingqiu presses himself as flat against the wall as he can. He really doesn't like the sound of that. He especially doesn't like the look in Luo Binghe's eyes, nor how far he remains in Shen Qingqiu's space, nor the way his bloodied hand raises. Shen Qingqiu flinches away from it before he can stop himself, sure that it's going to grab something and tear.
Instead, it traces softly along his jaw, tilting his head up just slightly. On anyone else, Shen Qingqiu would assume it was to angle better for a kiss. As it is, the angle leaves his throat exposed; he's glad for his high collar, or it would be even more embarrassingly obvious how fast his heart is racing. Between the combination of his demonic and elevated cultivator senses, Luo Binghe can likely hear it anyway, even if he can’t see it.
Luo Binghe's fingers skate higher, fluttering along the swell of his cheek, leaving a streak of blood as they dance down toward—
Shen Qingqiu turns his head roughly away. He's keeping Luo Binghe's parasites out of his body for as long as possible, thank you!
"So cautious," Luo Binghe says. "Of course, Shizun is a learned scholar. He knows all about the powers of a Heavenly Demon's blood." He sounds deeply amused. "Shizun needn't worry. This lord has no intention of forcing you to consume his blood parasites right now." His fingers tap lightly against Shen Qingqiu's cheek, a little drumroll of a movement that surely leaves several more splatters of blood behind, before he finally drops his hand and steps back a pace. "There's no need for it."
The bright, body-wide burst of agony is enough to drive Shen Qingqiu to the ground. His legs fold out from beneath him. He’s fortunate he was already leaning so much of his weight against the wall, so that he slides down it instead of crumpling completely.
As soon as the pain arrived, it disappears again. Shen Qingqiu is left in an awkward heap at Luo Binghe’s feet, panting. He doesn't think he screamed, but he's breathless nonetheless. He's also excruciatingly aware of the wriggling inside of him. It doesn't hurt, not anymore, but it feels strange, akin to the pinpricks of a sleeping limb coming back to life.
It's a message as much as the pain was: Luo Binghe has already threaded himself through Shen Qingqiu's body.
When does Shizun think this lord returned to Qing Jing Peak?
"It was in my tea, wasn't it?" Shen Qingqiu asks, staring at the stone floor.
"Mn," Luo Binghe confirms. "Over the course of several days. It was in your food, too, for all the good that did. Shizun really doesn't eat enough."
"...And the dreams?"
"So sure that they weren't your own guilty conscience, Shizun?" Luo Binghe crouches down in front of Shen Qingqiu. Slowly, Shen Qingqiu raises his gaze to meet Luo Binghe's own.
In point of fact, Shen Qingqiu had assumed it was because of—well, maybe not a guilty conscience as such. He knows what he did, yes. He didn't have any other choice, so why should guilt come into the equation?
"What's your goal here, Binghe?" Shen Qingqiu asks. It's only another way of phrasing the same question he's been asking this whole time, yet for some reason, this time gets through to his former disciple. Luo Binghe's lips part slightly with his indrawn breath, the weight of his attention sharpening even further. "Why all this production?"
Production, ha! In comparison to Proud Immortal Demon Way, this is one hand-held sparkler beneath an entire fireworks display. But if Luo Binghe was too impatient to wait and get his revenge through a layered, multi-step plan—instead resorting to a kidnapping shortly after he escaped the Abyss, when he can barely have established himself in the Demon Realm—then why hasn't he gone for the throat already? Even his use of the blood parasites was brief, a demonstration of what he could do rather than actual punishment.
Is he drawing it out? Aiming for psychological torture, before beginning the physical kind? Joke's on him, Shen Qingqiu has been living with this particular Sword of Damocles hanging over his head for five years now! He can't get much more terrified than he already is.
"Would you believe me, if I said I wanted what was?" Luo Binghe asks. "Shizun and that disciple...can't I have that, too?"
'That disciple,' ah? So clearly delineating who he was then from who he is now. Shen Qingqiu's heart aches, even before beginning to consider the first part of that question.
Does he believe that?
No. How can he? Shen Qingqiu—for all Luo Binghe knows—tried to kill him, there at the edge of the Abyss. He threw Luo Binghe into hell. Luo Binghe is not a man who forgives or forgets. This has to be trick. A trap of some kind.
If so, it’s a good one. It's quite busy breaking his heart.
Luo Binghe reads an answer in his silence. His face closes off. He stands.
"Shizun should rest," he says. "He's had a long day. This lord will fetch food." He stalks toward the door. Pauses, and says, "Shizun has free rein of these rooms, to do with as he wishes, but he shouldn't attempt to leave them." He glances over his shoulder, taking one last look at Shen Qingqiu, before he departs.
There’s a flare of qi after the door closes. It’s strong, fading quickly—but not disappearing entirely. Wards have been set, if Shen Qingqiu had to guess. Wards to enforce the half-spoken threat Luo Binghe voiced.
Shen Qingqiu is truly a prisoner here.
True to his word, Luo Binghe returns after half a shichen with food. Shen Qingqiu spends the time in between exploring his glorified prison cell; he’s far too shaken and flush with adrenaline to consider resting, and that’s before considering how extremely unsafe he feels in this environment.
They’re surprisingly well-appointed rooms, actually. Luo Binghe transported them to an open room at the front of the suite, featuring a low table, a scattered few divans, multiple bookshelves, and a qin tucked into one corner. There are hangings on the wall, lavish tapestries depicting a wide variety of scenes, from sprawling battles to forests and high mountain peaks to menageries of beasts, strangely featuring phoenixes prominently throughout.
Set to one side, through another doorway, is what appears to be a small study. There is another desk here, already laid with paper, ink, and brushes for Shen Qingqiu’s use. Sifting through the available items, he notes that there are also various art supplies—paints, charcoal sticks, small canvases—alongside several lovely boards for weiqi and xiangqi. This room, too, has bookshelves, ones stuffed even fuller than the shelves in the front room. Shen Qingqiu is itching to go through them, though he forces himself to leave them be. For now.
It’s the last room that truly shocks him. The first two rooms were designed to appeal to him, yes, filled with objects that he enjoys, but the bedroom—well. He can’t call it a copy of his bedroom in the bamboo house, though an effort was made for at least superficial similarities. They don’t hold up beyond the first glance, even as Luo Binghe has taken Shen Qingqiu’s sartorial preferences into account, though with obviously richer materials than Shen Qingqiu usually has.
The bed is very similar to Shen Qingqiu’s own, gauzy white curtains hanging down from the roof of it, though missing the bamboo motifs woven into them. The color scheme of the bedding is different, too: green, yes, but a richer shade, and set against a deep slate rather than Shen Qingqiu’s preferred creams. These, too, are missing the bamboo motif, though golden threads picking out the Four Gentlemen across the surface of the uppermost blankets, so bamboo isn’t entirely absent. The pillows are his favored goose-down; Shen Qingqiu got rid of that porcelain nonsense as soon as he took over for the Original Goods, and Luo Binghe has obviously remembered his preferences. A wide oak chest at the foot of the bed almost certainly holds extra linens, while a sword stand is near the head of it for Xiu Ya to rest, next to a bedside table.
The largest difference is perhaps the most literal: this bed is bigger than his. Shen Qingqiu’s bed in the bamboo house is large enough for him to sprawl out on, but clearly meant for one person. This one is…not.
Shen Qingqiu turns away before he has to examine that troubling thought. It’s probably, ah, courtesy. Right? Giving Shen Qingqiu more than he could ever demand, to display Luo Binghe’s own power. Though, again, he doesn’t understand why Luo Binghe should give him anything at all. These rooms are too tailored to Shen Qingqiu’s tastes—if pointedly ignoring more than a surface-level connection to Qing Jing—for them to be general guest rooms.
He explores the rest of the bedroom. There are more wall hangings in this room, depicting similar scenes as in the front room. Plush, sumptuous rugs break up the stone floor of the bedroom; Shen Qingqiu’s boots sink into them as he walks across them, and he can only imagine how nice they would feel against his bare feet.
There’s a privacy screen set up on one side of the room, behind which is a cabinet full of all the bathing supplies—soaps, oils, towels—Shen Qingqiu could ask for, along with a small washbasin; Shen Qingqiu takes advantage of the last to quickly rinse off his face, Luo Binghe’s blood by now gone dry. It flakes uncomfortably on his skin.
Right next to the cabinet is another door. He pokes his head through long enough only to confirm his suspicions. For whatever reason, Shen Qingqiu has been placed in quarters in the part of the palace—the Underground Palace, it has to be, he should have guessed from all the stone walls, not to mention the lack of windows—that have one of the deep-set bathing pools featured in more than a few papapa scenes.
As Peerless Cucumber, he had rolled his eyes at them. The pools were fed by hot springs, they had arrays inscribed into them which helped to clear any impurities that made their way into the water, and they were designed such that there were low stone benches running along the inside of the pools, perfect to sit down on when one wished to…indulge oneself.
God, some of the stupid orgies in Luo Binghe’s personal bathing pool, he swears.
Shen Qingqiu closes that door again, off to examine the rest of the bedroom. Back toward the bed again is a vanity. At a glance, Shen Qingqiu notes several bottles of hair oil, combs, and a few hair crowns out on display. He’s a little nervous to go through the many drawers to see what all else is there.
That’s a feeling which is not assuaged when he opens the wardrobe near the vanity to see it full of the kind of elegant robes he habitually wears as Peak Lord, though these edge his Peak Lord robes out in terms of embroidery and material. In addition to that are the robes toward the back, which seem more sumptuous than even the most formal and decorative robes he ever wore to a high function.
Those are robes to wear to court, he thinks.
He shuts the wardrobe. He goes back to the main room. He sits on the divan that gives him the best view of the door—obviously meant as the place for him to take meals, since there is another divan opposite him and a table between the two—and he very quietly does not panic.
These aren’t the kinds of rooms you offer to a prisoner. His quarters lack windows, that’s true, and he’s locked into them with threat of an unspecified punishment even should he manage to circumvent the wards keeping him here—but aside from that, these rooms could well be for an honored guest.
No, no, not even an honored guest would have rooms as carefully tailored for them as these rooms are for Shen Qingqiu. These are for—for—a beloved friend, a companion, someone for whom the giver would only wish the best. That is not Shen Qingqiu. Not when it comes to Luo Binghe.
He doesn’t understand.
Would you believe me, if I said I wanted what was?
I. Want. Shizun .
Luo Binghe can’t actually be trying to recreate his disciples days. It’s impossible. It’s—
A minor flex of qi flits against his senses. Luo Binghe’s qi, undoing the locking array.
The door opens.
Shen Qingqiu hastily folds his hands in his lap, straightening his posture. He is excellent at putting on the facade of a composed, unaffected immortal. The act may have slipped in the direct aftermath of Luo Binghe kidnapping him, but he’s had enough time now to pull it (mostly) back together.
Luo Binghe strolls in, tray balanced in his hands and jam-packed with dishes. Shen Qingqiu firmly sits on the impulse to help him; not only does well-earned caution keep him from doing so, but old habit. As a disciple, Luo Binghe had often gently but firmly ushered Shen Qingqiu away when he tried to offer any assistance. In his own way, that white lotus Luo Binghe had been imperious as any lord when it came to running the bamboo house and particularly when it came to food.
So Shen Qingqiu watches as Luo Binghe sets a spread of dishes onto the table, laying everything out to be in easy reach from either side. Necessary, since he’s laying out two bowls and cups for tea.
“Won’t Shizun join this lord?” Luo Binghe asks, already having settled himself neatly on the divan opposite Shen Qingqiu.
Shen Qingqiu weighs the merits of trying to claim he isn’t hungry versus how willing he is to offend Luo Binghe versus how very much he wants to eat Luo Binghe’s food again. He’s already been infected with Luo Binghe’s blood parasites, so really, what else could Luo Binghe do to him?
…Well, poison him, obviously. But it seems like too much effort to disguise it in food when he could paralyze Shen Qingqiu using his parasites and force poison down his throat. Plus, it’s not really Luo Binghe’s style. He tends to prefer more personal retribution.
Poison lacks that.
Shen Qingqiu joins Luo Binghe.
His former disciple is the picture of courtesy, filling Shen Qingqiu’s bowl with his favorites, pouring the tea for the both of them, all around being the perfect and gracious host. He doesn’t wait for Shen Qingqiu before he begins eating, though. Perks of being a demon lord and soon-to-be (if he isn’t already) emperor, Shen Qingqiu supposes.
Which, actually, brings to mind a question he probably should have asked sooner.
“Luo Binghe has made a name for himself in such a short time,” Shen Qingqiu observes. He had very much noted the changed pronoun usage! Not to mention: “He has found himself a lovely home.” Shen Qingqiu assumes it’s lovely, anyway, or whatever it means to call the Underground Palace ‘lovely.’ He can’t imagine they’re anywhere other than that, not with all the details he has already observed in this place.
Besides. What location other than the Underground Palace could Luo Binghe so self-assuredly claim as beyond the reach of his martial family?
“It’s amazing what one can accomplish when one has the proper motivation,” Luo Binghe says. “Of course I had to find my way back to Shizun, and make sure that his stay here would be comfortable.” A distinctly wolfish glint lights his redwood eyes, but it passes quickly. Luo Binghe says, “Shizun should eat. He hasn’t been taking care of himself.”
Great. Luo Binghe may not currently be trying to kill him, but he is doing his level best to emulate Mu Qingfang.
Shen Qingqiu can’t maintain his annoyance at the first bite that he takes. His eyes flutter briefly closed. He’s dearly missed Luo Binghe’s food, and Luo Binghe still remembers his favorites, having taken great care to serve them to him now. It’s yet another indication of how thoroughly Luo Binghe prepared for his arrival: Shen Qingqiu knows for a fact that some of these dishes can’t have been cooked in the half-shichen Luo Binghe was gone, requiring at least several shichen of prep work. As a disciple, there were some days where Luo Binghe was in and out of the kitchen all afternoon in order to prepare dinner.
Silly boy. Far too willing to try and please his master instead of focusing on his studies.
Shen Qingqiu opens his eyes to find Luo Binghe watching him intently. Shen Qingqiu swallows his mouthful. Takes a sip of his tea.
“Is it to Shizun’s liking?” Luo Binghe asks.
“…Mn.”
Fishing for compliments, is how Shen Qingqiu used to tease Luo Binghe when he asked such things. It’s not in question now either, years removed from that time; Luo Binghe’s cooking is sheer perfection. Shen Qingqiu takes another few bites, Luo Binghe still watching with that intense expression on his face, before it finally relaxes into a smile, one that Shen Qingqiu doesn’t trust at all.
“Good,” Luo Binghe says lightly. “This disciple will keep up his promise to Shizun from back then: I’ll give it to him every day, with variations.”
Shen Qingqiu chokes on his current bite. Luo Binghe! To say that to your master again, after you’ve been through the Abyss and presumably papapa’d at least a few maidens! This master knows you’re aware of double entendres! Choose your words more carefully!
“More tea?” Luo Binghe asks innocently.
Glaring at his decidedly guilty disciple, Shen Qingqiu offers his cup. The rest of their dinner is largely quiet, filled only with the small click of chopsticks hitting the edges or bottoms of the bowls. Shen Qingqiu is exhausted by the end of the meal, fighting to keep his eyes open. He reaches for his teacup, and accidentally knocks it over instead.
Oh, Shen Qingqiu thinks fuzzily. He poisoned me after all.
“Shh, Shizun, it’s all right,” Luo Binghe says, coming around to Shen Qingqiu’s side of the table. He catches Shen Qingqiu around the shoulders as he lists to the side.
“What’d you…do to me?” Shen Qingqiu manages to get out.
“It’s only something to help you sleep,” Luo Binghe soothes. “It wouldn’t hit so hard if Shizun weren’t already so exhausted.”
“Luo Binghe…you…”
“Mn,” Luo Binghe hums, and then he’s scooping Shen Qingqiu up into his arms. Fortunately, Shen Qingqiu slips down into sleep before the full rush of humiliation at being princess carried by the Protagonist can hit him.