Chapter Text
Before, Shen Jiu always imagined that the golden and glittering world of cultivated immortals was above filth such as this.
These people are washed, perfumed, painted, and wrapped up in pretty decorations, of course, but they’re all so... obviously ordinary beneath the gilding. Laughing too loudly at their own drunken jokes. Smearing spit and wine across their own chins afterwards. Stumbling over their own feet and clutching at strangers with sweaty hands.
“Sorry, sorry,” the offending disciple slurs, giggling, patting at Shen Jiu’s stolen robes. The sweet and peppery smell clinging to this fool makes Shen Jiu’s nose itch painfully.
These are some of the most powerful people in the world! If these giddy senior disciples don’t waste all of their wealth on backroom parties, if these young masters manage to find their ascensions before a knife descends into their backs, then their undeserved fortunes and petty whims will decide the fates of all those below them for generations to come.
And they’re no different to anyone else? Stupidly drinking foul poisons in dark, crowded places that are an ever-shifting assault on the nose, then groping pathetically at each other for the temporary pleasure of pushing someone else down?
The hazy dream of heaven has fractured. Dreary reality not only remains, but has, mockingly, never left. And it never will. Even at the heart of the cultivation world, finally, Shen Jiu remains trapped in his own body, too aware of his own heartbeat, of his hair standing on end, of the hot flush of humiliation across the thin skin of his face. Always an intruding witness with some unwanted pressure breathing hot air against his neck.
Who will be sick first? This intoxicated fool or Shen Jiu as his crawling skin tries to turn inside out? He heaves the unknown, offending disciple off of himself, but before he can say anything sufficiently cutting, he sneezes. Once. Twice. And his nose is still left burning afterwards.
Shen Jiu instead cuts his losses and abandons the mumbling fool lopsided against the straining side of the pavilion tent. There are some witnesses honking and giggling at the stupid scene, of course, pausing their very important business of smelling mysterious powders off of each other’s fingers to giggle at the indignities.
Nausea is at least slightly quelled by the tiny box that Shen Jiu slips into his own pockets. Feeling over the embedded jewels and fine engraving with his fingertips, it’s like drawing energy from spiritual stones. This unconventional medicine clacks slightly against the small pile of golden pass tokens already within the storage pouch.
The scraps here in this disgusting heaven are good for a street rat.
“People were getting suspicious, so I had to leave with the loot that I had, Master Wu!” Shen Jiu rehearses in his mind. Not a heartbeat later, he adds, “No, I’ll go back! I’ll go back for more and show you just how much better the plan is this way!”
Pressing his lips together in a thin line, Shen Jiu surveys this filthy gathering again, picking out the silver hair ornaments and the jewelled pins slowly coming undone, noticing the gleaming bracelets and the fine silk scarves that might easily slip free.
The most offensive luxury here, however, may be the complete absence of fear as these disciples trade sloshing cups and smoking pipes and lingering touches.
Their indulgent teachers have turned away from this end of the legendary valley’s sprawling encampments; the masters are distracted by their own guilty pleasures. This isn’t the only early celebration happening tonight. Not at all! Peerless immortals are casually playing both gentlemen’s strategy games and gamblers’ dice games out there in the makeshift streets. If Shen Jiu steps outside again, he'll be able to follow distant music to several impromptu concerts, as these cultivators play together apparently for the joy of it, where no ordinary ears might overhear even a single note of heaven.
“-are going to find you a beauty!”
“Shidi, that’s really not necess- Oh, excuse me.”
Shen Jiu isn’t even given the opportunity to shatter the elbow that makes him stumble. The careless attackers keep pushing past him. Even as he turns to glare, the one who likely jostled him turns away, coughing into an arm, waving uselessly at the tent’s smoky haze.
“This is what makes the grinding slave labour of cultivation all worth it!” the first speaker declares smugly. “I wouldn’t put up with our dull sect without these just rewards, I swear.”
The coughing one makes a sound halfway to a chuckle. Shen Jiu’s lip curls as the careless blow to his spine seems to burn deeper. Even in the dim, dancing light, he recognizes the sigil worn so shamelessly on these young men’s uniformed backs.
These two are from Cang Qiong Mountain Sect, the famous twelve-headed monster, one of the great sects, perhaps soon to become the greatest of them all, rising even higher still with its newest generation. Not only that! The robes are white, black, and silver, for Qiong Ding Peak, the summit above all others. These clumsy idiots are princes among gods.
Even a rat hasn’t been able to miss the surrounding envy. Cang Qiong’s greatness trickles down into the real world through sour compliments and whining awe... and, in the case of Shen Jiu’s master, through a mysterious but unsubtle, rotting hatred.
With a theatrical, oblivious sweep of his hand, the smug disciple continues, “Why even become a sect leader if not to enjoy these privileges?” He slaps his coughing companion on the back. “Shixiong, come on, we’re here to embrace the sweet fruits of your hard work!”
In response to such disgusting shamelessness, the people around the tent only titter and tweet. Heads are titled together. Fingers are pointing. Hands are tugging hair and belts back into place. The bodies churn and part, as several young women seem to melt out of the shadows to greet these young pigs.
“Good evening, sweet fruit,” the smug disciple croons to one young woman.
Undeservedly, he’s gifted a glowing smile. “You sound like you might have already had your fill of wine,” the female disciple says, even as she presses a new cup into his hand.
“Oh, never.”
These women are powerful, lovely, much too good for any man in this world. Yet, this female disciple leans in for boastful, hasty promises about strings of golden beads from the upcoming grand hunt... and a truly outrageous, loudly whispered comment about how good such prizes would look against her pale skin. Her smiling admonishment that she’ll be competing herself is all but brushed aside, and yet she only smiles wider, presses closer.
Female cultivators are permitted to live freer than other women. Sometimes. So, some spend wealth and take pleasure for themselves from the unworthy with all the greed of men. But for many people, favour from a powerful man is just too much to pass up! Who wouldn’t lower themselves to climb higher in this world?
The second Qiong Ding disciple, no longer coughing, is even more undeservedly surrounded by admirers than his smug friend. A small harem of moon-eyed young women, and some young men, vie for his attention. They’re laughing at everything he says despite the absence of wit. Two beautiful admirers are apparently even trying to take a piece of this Qiong Ding disciple by clinging to his arms.
“Head Disciple Yue,” the admirers say breathlessly. “Young Master Yue,” they call him. “Da-Shixiong,” a Cang Qiong disciple from another peak says. “Yue Qingyuan,” whispers someone behind Shen Jiu, clearly hoping to join the throng. “It’s the Xuan Su Sword.”
Even a rat knows this name. Not so long ago, Shen Jiu’s master was unnervingly angry to learn that the sect leader of Cang Qiong had finally taken on a personal student.
“Ah, yes, thank you,” says the head disciple of Cang Qiong, smoothly, as someone eagerly presses a full, dark drink into his hand. “I don’t- Thank you.”
Like many others, the drink has likely already been dusted with some pale powder, some syrupy pill, to temporarily penetrate the privileges of a golden core and immortal body. Even a sip, even a pinch from a back alley apothecary, costs more than Shen Jiu was worth once.
But the future sect leader doesn’t even bother to drink his gift! Apparently too busy listening to people ask him by how much he thinks he’ll win the conference’s central contest.
“I wouldn’t dare to cast aside my peers,” Yue Qingyuan insists.
“He’s being modest again!” his smug friend crows. “Don’t listen! This may be his debut, but our teachers brought extra talisman charms and spirit stones just to put down on his name!”
Whatever answer Yue Qingyuan gives about the wasteful betting games of rich immortals doesn’t matter. Just the low sound of his voice, too smooth, too satisfied with his lot in this unjust life, is enough to make all of Shen Jiu’s hair stand on end again.
He imagines sinking a knife into this spoiled young master’s back. Again and again and again. Would Wu Yanzi be furious or finally, ecstatically proud of him? Pride demands that any insult must be repaid tenfold, after all, and everything about this person’s blissfully lucky existence at the top of the world is insult after insult after insult-
One of the admirers laughs about how the drink obviously isn’t to Yue Qingyuan’s expensive tastes. They then gracelessly ask how else someone here might help him relax tonight. The head disciple of Cang Qiong turns his head to face them.
All of the breath in Shen Jiu’s chest turns heavy and cold. Even in the dim lantern light, jostled by the movement of the pavilion tent and its bodies, that face is too much like...
It can’t be.
But the voice-! And the name-?!
“It’s enough to be surrounded by the good people here,” answers Yue Qingyuan. “Enjoying the present moment and the achievement of attendance.”
It’s not the same. It’s been too long for everything to be the same. The boy whom Shen Jiu knew on the streets spoke carefully even then, always trying to make everyone happy and making no one happy in the end, but his speech wasn’t so polished. So easy.
But the shapes of this face are too similar to the one that Shen Jiu once knew better than any other face. It’s too familiar, the way that the smile pulls more to one side, naturally crooked, and that dark spot next to the nose, a freckle. The way that this person tilts his head to listen, the concerned furrow to the eyebrows... it’s Qi-Ge.
If Qi-Ge had grown up.
If he’d lived.
If he’d been alive and well all this time at Cang Qiong Mountain.
“I don’t intend to stay long,” Yue Qingyuan is saying now, apologetically. “I hope to be in a fit state tomorrow to, ah, make an honourable showing at the banquets and at some of the skills events for Cang Qiong and Qiong Ding’s sakes. It’s a privilege, I’m told.”
That hint of dry amusement makes his eager-to-please audience honk and tweet desperately again, as though they would all escape this famous event if only they could. The luxuries of legitimacy, of recognition, of participation, are a laughable burden to them... while Shen Jiu has spent years dreaming of finding forgotten bones and digging a grave with his bare hands for such precious remains.
Someone else asks another clinging question and Yue Qingyuan’s impossible face turns a little more in Shen Jiu’s direction. If Yue Qingyuan lifted his eyes, he might see an intruder... It’s unbelievable that this great disciple can’t hear the cornered rabbit heart beating for survival in Shen Jiu’s chest.
But maybe it’s not so unbelievable, since this person has apparently rid themselves of all memories of childhood companions and any promises made to them. Why shouldn’t that disposal have also made him deaf and blind towards Shen Jiu?
These admiring disciples all around them are going to inherit the world, yet they’re turned towards Yue Qingyuan, the Xuan Su Sword, like flowers seeking the sun. If a person could look at such beauty every day, why ever look at anything ugly ever again?
If Shen Jiu is struggling to breathe, it’s only because of the coloured smoke, the rotting perfume, the spilled wine, the glowing sweat of these twisting bodies. His stolen uniform is clinging against his skin, likely reeking of these careless, secondhand pleasures by now.
Meanwhile, Yue Qingyuan is tall and straight-backed, draped in finely tailored robes, crowned in silver. Unburdened. Ascendant. A true phoenix that has flown to the summit and never looked down. A carp that has leapt over the dragon’s gate and clearly never looked back. Because who would dare to leave heaven one they’d reached it? With their prospects and future boundless, who would risk losing them? With a world of endless pleasures laid out at his feet, what man could deny himself?
It should be harder to break through this gathering of juvenile immortals, but it’s even easier than walking into the Immortal Alliance Conference was. Shen Jiu glides forward without having to think about belonging, about his place in the universe, seeing nothing but the clean cut between himself and the impossible. Some of the crowded admirers glance towards him and step out of his way.
“Don’t leave and spend the night lonely, Shixiong,” someone is saying to Yue Qingyuan. It’s said almost like a joke. It’s also said like every beckoning prostitute Shen Jiu has ever heard, despite coming from the lips of a beautiful disciple.
“Don’t be so shameless!” someone else scoffs, which makes others laugh.
“Don’t make assumptions!” the first disciple sneers back. “Why did your mind go there?”
And then Yue Qingyuan is turning again, glancing towards the newcomer breaking apart his admirers, and they’re finally face to face. The last doubt in Shen Jiu’s mind burns up. It would have become ash and smoke even without the widening of Qi-Ge’s eyes, without the soundless opening of his mouth, without the incriminating recognition.
Shen Jiu displays his teeth. “Don’t tell me that you’re going to be abandoning us all so quickly, Head Disciple Yue.”
This statement brings all eyes to him, sharp and hazy alike, exactly against all of Shen Jiu’s original plans for this Immortal Alliance Conference. The disciples squint. They frown. They’re perhaps memorizing his face for later.
“Have we been introduced?” one of them says. “I don’t think I recognize you...”
“A-Jiu,” Yue Qingyuan interrupts, as though he’s lost nearly all of his breath. “Is it really you...? You’re...” He seems to remember their surroundings just in time to save himself, glancing around, finishing pathetically, “It’s... good to see you again.”
“It’s been so long. You’ve done so well for yourself, haven’t you?”
Yue Qingyuan doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t do anything. There’s an unnatural stillness to his expression, to his body, an unmistakable absence of pride and joy after such a compliment.
“I barely recognized you,” Shen Jiu adds with relish.
A couple of the watching disciples are scowling now, jealous, dismissive, thoughtless protective of the beautiful new life that Shen Jiu is here to ruin. One still has a delicate hand resting on Yue Qingyuan’s elbow.
Before Shen Jiu can speak again, Yue Qingyuan shakes off the claim and says, “It’s- it’s been too long. Too long. Please excuse me, everyone, I need to speak with an old friend.”
“Oh, don’t go!”
“Without introducing us?”
Others among these disciples are looking the intruder up and down appreciatively. Repeatedly. Shamelessly. This is tolerable from the women; Shen Jiu put great effort into this costume; but there’s a smirking young man whose eyes ought to be burned out of his skull and a serviceable talisman in one of Shen Jiu’s deep pockets.
“Oh, don’t abandon your friends so easily!” Shen Jiu says, keeping his gaze fixed on his target, ignoring the itching in his hand. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your premature celebrations.”
Someone laughs. “Ah, ouch.”
“...Was that an insult?” someone else whispers.
“It must be exhausting being the head disciple of such a great sect, Head Disciple Yue. Surely no one deserves to relinquish all responsibilities and promises, and enjoy themselves for but one night, more than you.”
Yue Qingyuan’s blank expression tightens, a hairline crack in his perfect face. “I don’t... I don’t typically indulge in such things.”
“No?” Shen Jiu slowly looks around the watchful tent, noting an expensive glass pipe still smoking blue, a pile of dead slugs rotting in a bowl of their own slime, some spilled melon seeds beneath his own boots. “What a shame! Such a shame! Ah, come now, Head Disciple Yue, why deny yourself a little indulgence? What’s a few scandalous memories made and shared between close friends?”
People laugh. Someone cheers in agreement. “Hear! Hear!” Wine cups tip back over lips, relief going down long throats. It doesn’t get rid of all of the suspicious eyes.
“Nothing important, surely,” Shen Jiu cajoles. “Nothing at all worth making any trouble over, hm? Just passing time! This present moment is full of such good, worthy people!”
A delicate hand lands on Yue Qingyuan’s arm again, trying to pull him back into such immortal pleasures, but he shakes the grip off again. He doesn’t even seem to notice the offended expression twisting up the disciple’s beautiful face.
“Please, excuse us,” Yue Qingyuan says again. “If I could just speak-”
“But it’s such a privilege to be here! Among these fine, honourable people!” Shen Jiu replies. His stretched lips hurt. His cheeks ache. His chest is burning. “Or so I hear.”
This last cut must go too deep, because Yue Qingyuan surges forward. “Please, excuse us,” he says again, so polite, forcibly passing off his cup. “Please enjoy yourselves. A-Jiu, I didn’t know- I didn’t know that you were here. Excuse us. I really must speak with my friend.”
With one of Yue Qingyuan’s strong hands wrapped around his upper arm, Shen Jiu’s feet move hastily along with the changing tides. He could rip himself out of the grip and tear Yue Qingyuan to pieces. He could stumble and go limp. He could even scream, but surprise has wrapped itself around his throat, and his mind goes blank beyond the certainty that he can’t give their audience of hooting scavengers the satisfaction of reaction.
Yue Qingyuan pushes his way through heavy bodies, through the hanging smoke, and the entire world shifts around them.
Shen Jiu is a child again. A-Jiu. They’re stumbling through the filthy streets, desperately fleeing the latest threat. Qi-Ge is taking him to some dark corner, behind crates, through a crack in the wall, where they’ll be safe for a little while... skinny bodies pressed together, chest to chest, sharing warm breaths and frantic heartbeats... struggling to choke down anger at the entire, useless world. They’re going towards some unknown corner where it might feel, for a moment, like Qi-Ge can really protect him.
The open air of the night hits like a slap across the face. It’s shockingly cool against the sweat of Shen Jiu’s brow. He’s a young man again, being dragged along by stranger.
There are people out here are well, talking near the tent entrances, sprawled out together underneath the trees. One disciple looks to have fallen into a drunken sleep. A couple of shamelessly pawing at each other in the darkness. All of these so-called contenders are too lazy, too satisfied, to pay Shen Jiu and Yue Qingyuan any attention.
Music is indeed still playing in the distance, most notable a gentle flute and guqin pairing is carrying on the breeze, somewhere out in this temporary settlement for the Immortal Alliance Conference. Several people have informally referred to this place in Jue Di Gorge as “Cultivator City.” A sanctuary away from the mortal world.
Yue Qingyuan pulls Shen Jiu into the shadowy curve of some old trees, behind the curtain and then behind the trunk of a half-dead willow. Spilled light from the tent still flickers between the leaves. Privacy is only truly theirs if they are distantly mistaken for any other pair of careless disciples tonight, up to no good without supervision.
“A-Jiu, you’re alive, I’m so-”
Even in the poor light, Shen Jiu sees the way that Yue Qingyuan’s head turns towards the knife now pressed warningly against his stomach. Nothing is immediately said that can be heard over the thunder in Shen Jiu’s ears.
Shaking fingers are taken slowly away from Shen Jiu’s arm completely. Yue Qingyuan’s head turns up again. He takes a slow step backwards. As does Shen Jiu.
“...A-Jiu.”
“Don’t sound so sad!” Shen Jiu snaps, before he can help himself.
He does manage to bite down on the following statement: “I should put this in your guts right now out of principle!” but the damage is already done. Is this the moment when the offended head disciple of the great Cang Qiong calls down a mountain on the intruder among them?
But Yue Qingyuan’s face only twists into blankness again, rather than undeserved misery. He doesn’t protest. He waits.
With painful effort, Shen Jiu points the knife towards the sky instead and smiles. “Ha ha, it’s only a little joke.”
“A... joke?”
Shen Jiu flips the knife over in his hand a few times, flashy street tricks, because he can’t bring himself to put it away. Not yet.
Nor to drive it into Yue Qingyuan’s heart. Not yet.
“Mmhmm. How am I supposed to know why the honourable Head Disicple Yue wants to suddenly grab me and whisk me off to a dark, secluded place?” Shen Jiu drawls, making his own chest burn hotter with every word. “What could he possibly want to do to me?”
He can’t name the face that Yue Qingyuan is making, but it’s unattractive. And when all these beautiful women certainly weren’t fawning over this unworthy person for his charm and wit.
“...I’m sorry.”
“What could he possibly have to say to me that no one else could hear?”
“I’m sorry.”
Shen Jiu learned in, holding the knife back, for now. “Are you?” he asks airily. “Are you really sorry, Qi-Ge? Or are you only sorry that you finally got caught?”
“I’m- C-caught?”
“Oh, weren’t you enjoying yourself back there? A little sweetness goes to the head very quickly, it seems, and makes one forget and abandon all previous concerns in life-”
Pathetically, Yue Qingyuan sputters, and Shen Jiu can feel the wasted air against his burning face. The jitter in Yue Qingyuan’s wide eyes is satisfying enough to bear it. This great young master lets Shen Jiu back him into the old willow tree. It smells like rot.
“I c- I came back for you, A-Jiu, I swear.”
“Did you?”
“As soon as I was able,” Yue Qingyuan says breathlessly. “I never forgot!”
“When?”
“T-too late. You were already gone. By the time that I was finally... By the time that I could do anything to get away...” Yue Qingyuan slumps backwards against the tree, like his knees can’t support him any longer. “It’s- it’s no excuse for failing you.”
Shen Jiu can feel his face twisting again, bitter and ugly, at such an obvious, desperate lie. Such a poorly crafted excuse! This fancy, false version of his friend is so flustered over having left someone else for dead! Shen Jiu’s knuckles hurt, holding back his knife.
“Ohhh, did you get distracted, Qi-Ge? Did you enjoy your time at Cang Qiong too much to come away any sooner and look for old friends?”
“N-no, I- I should have- I should have kept looking, I know-”
“Should I apologize now for interrupting you busily drowning your sorrows and shame in wine and succubus venom?” Shen Jiu uses his free hand to brush some of the spicy powder off the front of his stolen robes, mostly sure of the substance now. “Sorry.”
What else would explain the rising heat between them? The stirring in Shen Jiu’s gut? The tightness in his thighs? The itching that goes down to his toes? This is beyond any anger that Shen Jiu can ever felt before.
Yue Qingyuan’s entire body jolts at the sarcastic apology. “No! No, of course not! A-Jiu, you have- you have nothing to apologize for. You can interrupt me anytime and- always, for any reason! I’m so glad that you did! I’m so happy that you’re alive!”
It sounds as though this oathbreaker really means it, his voice crackling like a man on the wretched edge of tears. But Shen Jiu doesn’t see any of those tears! His body is trembling with the urge to bury his knife in this... easily led beast. Maybe Qi-Ge was always this stupid, this greedy, this soft, and no one offered him anything good enough to sway him before, and Shen Jiu was too young and too hopeful to notice how useless his friend really was.
How did Yue Qi even become the head disciple of Cang Qiong Mountain Sect like this? What kind of future sect leader lets some worthless street rat push him up against a tree like this? If Yue Qingyuan is half as decent as a cultivator as the Xuan Su Sword is supposed to be, it should be child’s play for him to disarm Shen Jiu right now.
Instead, Yue Qingyuan raises a trembling hand to Shen Jiu’s face, not quite touching it. Shen Jiu thinks about cutting off every single one of those fingers, so much longer and broader than he remembers, so much cleaner, as Yue Qingyuan gently brushes a stray hair out of Shen Jiu’s face. Still not quite touching Shen Jiu’s burning skin.
“...Shen Jiu...”
“...What?”
“Even without me, you grew up so well,” Yue Qingyuan’s voice crackles again. “You’re here. You found me anyway... I’m... This feels like a dream...”
They were separated when they were still children, but they’re young men now, and Shen Jiu is much worldlier than he used to be. He can make something of this overwhelmed breathiness, these weak knees, these darkened eyes, which he never saw on Yue Qi when they both wanted nothing more than a sturdy roof and their next meal. Yue Qingyuan is clearly a man who likes his pleasures... a man weak to his own desires.
And what this spoiled Yue Qingyuan desires is, apparently, not beautiful women at all. Shen Jiu can feel something shifting in him, something clicking into place, at the revelation that his feckless childhood friend has become one of those men.
“You dreamed of me?” Shen Jiu says.
He’s still too shocked to do anything more with the statement. He can’t even make his words into the sneer that they deserve to be.
“All the time,” Yue Qingyuan confesses immediately, like he can’t hold it in. “There was... I was in seclusion... for a time...” He swallows roughly, exhales rougher, closing his eyes like the shame of his want is too much to bear. “I thought of you, A-Jiu, only you, day and night and every time between, for a year...”
Shen Jiu can feel those warm puffs of shame against his skin, his face, and that... Those spilled powders must be stronger than he thought. The fire in his chest is spreading to his gut. It’s burning through his mind too, destroying every last useful thought. He’s...
It isn’t as though he hasn’t thought about putting some disgusting man in his place before. Or what some pretty boy would look like in women’s clothing, every now and then. But of course, Shen Jiu has never acted on such ridiculous fantasies. Not when there Have always been women around, in such weak moments, infinitely preferable.
His thigh is pressed between Yue Qingyuan’s legs. Through the cloth of their robes, he can feel the bark under his knee, feel the heat of one of Yue Qingyuan’s thick, muscled legs as the other shifts slightly. Shen Jiu’s free hand is over Yue Qingyuan’s shoulder, but he could... he could bring it down. He could put his hand around this person’s throat and squeeze until Yue Qingyuan was really gasping for air.
Instead, Shen Jiu only traces Yue Qingyuan’s jaw, his throat, his collarbone, before letting it rest against this broad, heaving chest. And this much-admired young cultivator who flies with phoenixes and dragons just... lets him do it.
Yue Qingyuan opens his mouth. Closes it. He licks his lips. Waits.