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Shang Qinghua has amber eyes.
Mobei-jun knows this because it’s the first thing he’d noticed about the man. Well, right after the fact that Shang Qinghua had been lying in his bed and apparently not smart enough to kill Mobei-jun when he’d had the chance.
His eyes had blown moon-wide when a sixteen year old Mobei-jun mercilessly yanked the rope decorating Shang Qinghua’s throat, cutting his stuttered excuses off into a wheeze, and Mobei-jun had thought, oh, that’s an unusual colour. The recognition was nestled somewhere between his fury and indignation, both of which were big enough at the time to leave it ignored.
The thought only resurfaced the next time he’d seen Shang Qinghua in Cang Qiong peak, the candlelight boosting the flecks of gold in his irises as his eyes went round with fear, and then every time he saw the little cultivator after that. Slowly, recognition became appreciation.
Shang Qinghua has amber eyes. Mobei-jun knows this like it is an absolute fact of the universe.
The sky is blue, the grass is green, Shang Qinghua’s eyes are amber.
It’s been a grueling day of court; every minor clan seems to have an “urgent” issue that could have waited at least two weeks, and demons that can’t even meet his eye whine in a particular pitch that’s categorically designed to annoy him. Mobei-jun had stopped slaughtering them after Shang Qinghua had shot him a harried look at the bloodshed. That only annoyed Mobei-jun further, since the demon he’d been aiming an ice spear at had made a distinctly cutting remark about the shade of Shang Qinghua’s “disgusting human” eyes.
Diplomatically, Mobei-jun dissolves the ice spear to appease his advisor. Petulantly, he then follows the demon after the meeting to personally remove its eyes from its head; if it finds such a beautiful shade of honeyed amber offensive, then the demon needn’t undergo such hardship ever again.
Mobei-jun can feel the evening hours dragging on his body like a heavy cape, which is even less pleasant than the tingle of warmth smarting his fingertips; Shang Qinghua likes his noodles hot, though, but Mobei-jun isn’t about to wear gloves to carry the bowl to him. He wouldn’t have to carry it at all if Shang Qinghua had come to eat in his quarters as Mobei-jun had requested, and he tries not to be offended by that.
He fails spectacularly, slamming the steaming bowl of noodles on the cultivator’s desk so hard that some of the broth splashes over Shang Qinghua’s knuckles. The Peak Lord jolts so hard that he sends a spill of papers fluttering to the ground. Mobei-jun feels a little bad seeing some of them speckled with soup, the ink already bleeding.
“My king!” Shang Qinghua yelps, blinking up at Mobei-jun with wide-- With blue eyes.
Mobei-jun stares at him. Shang Qinghua stares back, his unmistakably navy gaze flitting between Mobei-jun and the mildly splattered bowl of broth.
“My king, did you ah- Did you make me noodles?”
“What happened to your eyes?” Mobei-jun demands. It comes out unexpectedly sharp and Shang Qinghua winces, but it’s far from the full bodied cower he used to respond with. Mobei-jun bites the inside of his cheek harshly in penance.
“A-ah, my eyes?” Shang Qinghua splutters, averting his gaze in a way that draws more attention than less. “Nothing’s wrong with them, my king, they can see just fine!”
“Your eyes are the wrong colour,” Mobei-jun insists, sounding relatively more tempered this time, despite the uncomfortable wrongness that’s jabbing his gut. The sky is blue, the grass is green. Shang Qinghua’s eyes are no longer amber.
“M-my king?” Shang Qinghua stammers. The statement seems to have shocked him enough to look up, so Mobei-jun has a full view of his irises.
Navy, cut through with flecks of silver and aquamarine. The colours of the North. Somewhere (nestled between his fury and indignation), Mobei-jun thinks perhaps he should be pleased by that. Shang Qinghua in his colours never fails to sate some deep-rooted primality in his core. But it’s pleasing because Shang Qinghua’s hair is chestnut and his cheeks are pink and his eyes are amber. Peeking through the blues like springtime wrapped in winter.
“Umm, this servant’s eyes have always been this colour,” Shang Qinghua tacks on as Mobei-jun continues to glare. It’s not even remotely convincing, but Mobei-jun doesn’t need to see the way the cultivator wrings his brush between ink-stained fingers to know that.
“No.”
“No?” Shang Qinghua echoes.
“Shang Qinghua’s eyes are amber.” Mobei-jun doesn’t have to say it out loud to make it real (the sky is blue, the grass is green), but it feels stronger to hear a fact in words.
Shang Qinghua’s terribly wrong eyes widen again, the brush going slack in his hands. Mobei-jun takes the opening to shove the bowl of noodles into the space between them.
“Eat,” he orders, and then turns on his heel and marches all the way to the private gardens in the inner sanctum.
When he arrives, Mobei-jun kicks a hole through the layer of snow dusting the ground. The grass that pokes through is dull from the cold, but it’s still green. Mobei-jun sighs out a tight breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.
⬷ ❆ ⤐
Things have been… Off since they returned from the stormaline mission.
Shang Qinghua is twitchier than usual, his hammering heart audible in a way it hasn’t been for years. Mobei-jun is annoyed by this, in a way he also hasn’t been for years, so at least he now has the capacity to understand it’s really misery camouflaging as annoyance. He suspects it has something to do with what happened on the mission, but it’s difficult to confirm when he himself is not sure of what occurred.
Whenever Mobei-jun thinks back on it, a dull ache builds behind his eyes until he stops. Still, he’s able to call forth two sets of memories, which only furthers his confusion. The memory of reaching out to Shang Qinghua before a strike unlike anything he’d felt before splitting Mobei-jun’s body, next to the memory of the thunder plain, blanketed in snow and pierced by the towering shot of stormaline.
These two recollections layer over each other, like sheets of paper held up to the light. Both feel true; both feel false. Mobei-jun is frustrated at the failing of his mind and briefly considers that he’s going mad before deciding that that would be the weakest way to be dismissed from his throne and abandons the notion entirely.
With memory thoroughly flawed, he searches for other evidence, but standing shirtless in front of the mirror doesn’t help as much as he wants it to. The skin of his waist is smooth and unmarred, the muscles don’t pinch, his bones don’t ache. It’s even more frustrating than the watery strength of his memories.
Mobei-jun flattens a hand against his side and sinks deeper into his thoughts. He remembers the indescribable pain puncturing his side, but it feels like a phantom limb, his mind reminding him of the fatality whilst his body persuades him otherwise. Running to Shang Qinghua’s aid, however-- His body doesn’t need to convince him of that; it had moved before he’d formed the thought.
One thing he cannot forget, however, is the way Shang Qinghua had done the same; layering his warm palm over the stretch below Mobei-jun’s ribs, pale as a ghost. His fingers had been trembling. That more than anything is enough evidence of this half-imagined brush with death.
Mobei-jun isn’t a fool. He knows that whatever happened on the mission is the source of Shang Qinghua’s increased jumpiness. But every attempt to bring it up to the cultivator has proved fruitless - Shang Qinghua has barricaded himself away with work, and the mounting closeness between them has made him savvy in navigating Mobei-jun’s moods. The familiarity would be pleasant if it wasn’t so wholly disarming.
“I would like to speak with you,” Mobei-jun informs him one evening, and then frowns at his own phrasing. Since when did he become someone who made requests?
Shang Qinghua peeks up at him over his wall of scrolls, navy eyes wide and framed by his fraying topknot, and Mobei-jun thinks oh, that’s when. It doesn’t make him any less grumpy.
“Ah, of course, my king! It’s just, I need to write up the notes from the last court meeting, as well as direct the necessary aid to our allies. The- uh- situation with the Snake Tooth delegate has led to a request for parlay with the head of their clan, so we’ll have to arrange another meeting at a time that doesn’t extend into their hibernation season. And of course after that there’s-”
Shang Qinghua’s babbling descends into thoughtful mumbling as the chatter directs itself inwards, and Mobei-jun knows he’s lost this battle. The relatively feeble attempt at communication is concluded when a stout demon totters into the room, beady eyes barely visible around the armful of scrolls he carries.
“Same shelf as usual, please, Gold Fang!” Shang Qinghua calls without even looking up.
The lesser demon makes a grunt of acknowledgement and bustles over to the bookshelf in the corner. Mobei-jun is only familiar with this particular assistant by sight, meaning that he’s watched the lesser demon struggle to lift scrolls onto this shelf enough times to wonder why he doesn’t simply get a stool.
Gold Fang succeeds in depositing the scrolls before sweeping into a low bow at Mobei-jun’s presence, and then scuttles back out of the study. The entire interaction is so perfunctory and underwhelming that it only highlights just how poorly the effort of trying to get answers had gone. Of course, Mobei-jun could simply order Shang Qinghua to speak to him, but he’s hesitant to risk the sweet equilibrium they’ve been cultivating; his actions have made Shang Qinghua leave before, and the thought of a repeat event pinches in a place Mobei-jun can’t name.
This unraveling train of thought drives his feet to one of the quieter palace gardens where he stomps around until he’s marginally less restless. He’s so distracted that he doesn’t even have space to ponder when he became a person who paces, but if anyone could elicit such franticness, naturally it would be Shang Qinghua. He stands in the garden feeling frustrated and petty and it’s only then that he notices the wealthy splash of flora decorating the space.
It’s uncommon for flowers to bloom in the North, since the climate is harsh and unforgiving, and so are the gardeners, come to think. Anything that does manage to sprout is often hardened and ugly for it, but as Mobei-jun turns, he’s met with soft, shimmering blooms in every shade of pale. Even the diamond-wood blossoms are out early.
“My king?” His head jerks up at the voice, and he sees Shang Qinghua a few yards away, staring at him worriedly. His arms are full of heavy, official-looking scrolls and there’s ink smudged on his cheek. “You- Are you alright? You don’t often come out here”
It’s a moment before Mobei-jun replies, “This king is well.” It lacks any of what he wants to say, and he watches as Shang Qinghua visibly hesitates before starting towards him.
It stings less knowing it’s out of caution for the situation and not the fear of violence, but Mobei-jun can’t help but hope there will come a day when Shang Qinghua approaches him without fear. The cultivator steps close enough that Mobei-jun could reach out and wrap an arm around him. It’s far deeper into his personal space than many would dare to go, but Mobei-jun just waits and watches, eyes tracing his advisor’s-- no. His friend’s expression.
Shang Qinghua’s cheeks are flushed rosy from the cold air, and his shoulders are spiking towards his ears since he’s not wearing a suitable cloak to stop the chill. He’s clearly fighting a shiver, but he doesn’t leave to return indoors, eyes searching Mobei-jun’s face. How many people would willingly step into freezing weather for Mobei-jun? He can probably count them on one hand. But Shang Qinghua stands there, gritting his teeth through the cold just to ask Mobei-jun if he’s alright.
“Is there anything I can do for you, my king?” Shang Qinghua presses. It’s a testament to how well he knows Mobei-jun, that he won’t settle for a dull response.
“The flowers,” Mobei-jun says by way of explanation.
Shang Qinghua shuffles his missives just enough to obscure his face. “Oh! Do you like them, my king? It’s not often we get to see them bloom.” It’s not ever, as far as Mobei-jun can remember, but Shang Qinghua is staring at the flora with a curious smile, like he’s genuinely pleased by them. “Do you have a favourite?”
Mobei-jun has never cared for such things - it is Shang Qinghua who makes him care, so easily charmed by simple things. “The diamond-wood blossoms. Though they only flower for less than half a moon.”
“Hm? That makes sense! My king has good taste, they are the rarest after all,” Shang Qinghua muses, and he’s not entirely wrong. Diamond-wood is aptly named; it’s exceedingly difficult to cut, and the petals of its flowers are crystalline and translucent, like they truly are made of diamond. But that’s not exactly the reason.
“They remind me of my mother,” Mobei-jun confesses quietly.
It surprises Shang Qinghua enough for him to emerge from behind the scrolls, lips parted like he wants to say something. He doesn’t.
“My father made her a crown from diamond-wood. He had the flowers added for the detailing.”
“Oh,” is all Shang Qinghua says, looking up with a smile so soft that it flushes Mobei-jun’s chest with warmth. “That sounds beautiful, my king.”
Mobei-jun is tempted to ask right then; a shade of openness has returned to Shang Qinghua’s expression, the same kind that Mobei-jun sees him wear in the quiet of their shared evenings, and he wonders if it would last through the questioning. Instead, Mobei-jun stills, staring at Shang Qinghua intently as something thumps through his chest. Without hesitating, he reaches out, capturing the human’s chin between his thumb and forefinger.
“M-my king!” Shang Qinghua squeaks with his entire body, jolting in an aborted effort to shrink away.
Mobei-jun holds him in place, watching carefully how Shang Qinghua’s eyes blow wide when he leans forward. Shang Qinghua’s amber eyes, reverted to their natural colour without a trace of the navy they’d been stained with a day ago. From this distance, Mobei-jun can pick out the glimmering threads of gold woven through the honey dark shades of his iris.
“Mn,” Mobei-jun comments. Satisfaction makes a heavy seat in his gut the longer he looks.
Shang Qinghua squirms, clearly uncomfortable with the scrutiny, though it’s controlled like he can’t decide if he should fight or not. His voice has turned terribly breathy. “My king? What-”
“Good,” Mobei-jun interrupts, releasing the human’s fine chin. “Shang Qinghua’s eyes are amber.”
And his hair is chestnut, and his cheeks are berry red as Shang Qinghua scuttles from the garden with an armful of papers and a mouthful of incoherent mumbling. Mobei-jun just watches him, feeling like the universe has set itself back on the correct axis.
⬷ ❆ ⤐
After that day, Shang Qinghua somehow manages to make himself even more scarce. Mobei-jun had naively thought that cornering him once would re-mould the man to his presence, but Shang Qinghua has gone and bent his schedule into an entirely new shape.
He has not slept in the same bed with Mobei-jun since the night before the mission and the absence leaves Mobei-jun horribly understanding what coldness feels like.
When he’d madly tried to sweep through Shang Qinghua’s study and drag him to the royal chambers, Mobei-jun had found the cultivator passed out over his desk, the image draining the wildness out of him. The brush Shang Qinghua was holding has smeared a dark stroke across the page mid character, some of the ink painting the tip of his nose. He’s softer in sleep, frayed edges smoothed out into the picture of peace. It’s one of the reasons Mobei-jun likes to share a bed; he gets to hoard these worry-free moments to himself. He’s selfish, when it comes to this.
Shang Qinghua weighs hardly anything when Mobei-jun picks him up, carrying him through the hallways instead of opting for the icy lurch of a portal, and settles them into his bed. Mobei-jun steals a few more moments of merely watching his face, before he circles his arms around Shang Qinghua’s sleeping form and eases him against his chest.
Shang Qinghua is gone by the time Mobei-jun wakes up. He usually is, but missing him never gets easier. It’s not such a private part of Mobei-jun that fantasizes about a time when he wakes up to those amber eyes watching him instead, where they can just look at each other in the stillness of the morning.
Mobei-jun isn’t blind to the cultivator’s attraction, nor to the reflexive deference Shang Qinghua exhibits to Mobei-jun’s wants. It’s one of the only reasons he hasn’t pushed for more; the power imbalance means that any progression of their relationship has to come from Shang Qinghua. The bed sharing had been a fit of frustration on Mobei-jun’s part, but he has yet to hear a complaint. Still, Shang Qinghua hardly dares to make a move, and Mobei-jun struggles with how else to show him that the closeness is welcome.
He’d thought that the settling of their friendship would organically progress to more, and it has in many ways. Even so, there’s a niggling cord of dissatisfaction tightening in Mobei-jun’s heart every time Shang Qinghua ducks from a room at the sight of him, or runs his mouth faster than his feet before burying himself in paperwork and excuses. Mobei-jun lasts two weeks before materialising directly into Shang Qinghua’s study and pulling him through a portal before the cultivator can draw breath.
“My king!” Shang Qinghua squawks, legs kicking wildly in the air where Mobei-jun hoists him from the back of his robes. “What are you- Put me down!! Please! I have important letters to our Western Generals to complete as well as stock take for the kitchens and do you know how many-”
“Enough,” Mobei-jun growls with all the frustration he’s been feeling for the past fortnight.
It may be a tad too much because Shang Qinghua goes completely still in his grip, eyes glued to the floor. Mobei-jun holds him for a lingering second more and then gently settles Shang Qinghua back on his feet. Guilt pierces through him when the cultivator immediately shrinks in on himself, looking anywhere but at Mobei-jun.
“Is there something you have to say to me?” Mobei-jun asks out of pure impatience.
Immediately, he can tell it’s the wrong thing to say. Shang Qinghua ducks so far into the collar of his robes that he’s in danger of never coming out again, and his usually animated hands are clutching together so tightly that his knuckles are turning white. It’s the exact opposite of what Mobei-jun wanted.
“Aha, hah- My king, what is it you would like me to say? Just tell this servant, and I’ll say it!”
He’s shrinking by the second and Mobei-jun has to resist the urge to reach out and pluck him out of the huddle he’s hiding in.
“The truth,” Mobei-jun decides, and Shang Qinghua’s head snaps up so fast it’s dizzying. “You are avoiding me. Why?”
The cultivator looks distinctly queasy. He visibly lags before breaking out into a shaky grin that looks borderline painful. “Avoiding? What avoiding, ah? This servant has really just been very busy! It takes a lot to run a whole castle, you know? Not that I’m complaining! That’s not- ah, no, I wouldn’t! Never haha! It’s an honour to serve you, my king, and I-”
Mobei-jun patience abruptly runs thin.
“Speak clearly,” he snaps, less like a threat and more like a plea.
It goes right over Shang Qinghua's head; he shuts up so fast that the resulting silence smarts.
“I truly do have tasks to complete,” he says to the floor, and the tone of his voice is heartbreakingly quiet. The watery smile he turns on Mobei-jun hurts like a knife. “The truth is, my king, I really have nothing to say. This servant is merely performing his duties.”
Mobei-jun had been prepared to burgeon through a slew of chatter, but he hadn’t been prepared for this. Shang Qinghua’s words are so plainly evasive that he finds himself disarmed, and he panics.
“Eat with me,” he says without thinking, falling back on a familiar tactic. “I’ll cook for you.”
Shang Qinghua’s gaze drops again, and for a second Mobei-jun thinks he’s lost another round in this unsettling dance they’ve been doing. But then Shang Qinghua says, “Ah, how could I refuse my king? This servant is honoured to receive his king’s cooking.”
He doesn’t quite meet Mobei-jun’s eyes as he says it, nor does he manage the entire time they eat their noodles in stunted silence. It’s nothing like how it used to be, and Mobei-jun watches Shang Qinghua retreat to his own quarters with a bubble of misery thickening in his throat.
All avenues exhausted, Mobei-jun decides to ask the one person he can count on to be frank with him; Luo Binghe.
Of all the receptions Mobei-jun has had in the underground palace, he’d never have described them as frosty. Luo Binghe is sitting on his throne when he arrives in the main hall, staring balefully down at Mobei-jun, red gaze calculating. It’s a display of power he rarely performs between the two of them, and only serves to confirm that something happened on the mission that Mobei-jun is unaware of.
“Junshang,” he greets with a bow. It’s more formal than he would usually be, but if Luo Binghe is going to play the part of the Heavenly Emperor, then Mobei-jun will play his part as the right hand. He’d learned that grace from Shang Qinghua.
“Mobei,” Luo Binghe replies, his tone sliding towards lazy. “To what do I owe this visit?”
Mobei-jun hesitates; he hadn’t really thought about how to phrase I think I died but I’m alive and I need to understand how that’s possible, and that’s starting to feel like a huge oversight. He usually has Shang Qinghua here to spin silver words for him.
Thankfully, Luo Binghe seems to be of the same mind; Mobei-jun’s silence appears to answer his question.
“Ah,” he hums, picking idly at one claw. They’re retractable, so having them out in friendly company is another misfit piece of the puzzle. “You’re here about the recent mission.”
Mobei-jun nods, struggling to put the question into words. “I have not been able to procure a report of the operation.”
“You want to know what happened.” Luo Binghe is mimicking him, answering Mobei-jun’s statement style of questioning with his own. It’s mildly infuriating.
“My recollection of the event is… Vague,” Mobei-jun admits. “I hoped that Junshang could provide clarity on the matter.”
“Yes, I think there are a number of things that need clarifying,” Luo Binghe says coldly, rising from his throne. A wave of killing intent rolls off him, and Mobei-jun is momentarily stunned; he hasn’t felt it directed towards him in a long time. “Such as how long Mobei-jun has been harbouring a God in his house.”
Luo Binghe is many things; humorous is not one of them. Mobei-jun frowns habitually, but he’s blindsided by the question.
“I don’t understand what you mean,” he replies honestly.
It’s apparently not what Luo Binghe wants to hear. “Have you been laughing at me all these years, Mobei? Letting the Emperor sit on his throne whilst the real power comes from elsewhere?” Luo Binghe’s eyes flash a deadly red. “Did you throw our fight?”
A growl slips out of Mobei-jun’s mouth at the stab to his honour. To throw a fight would be an insult to the Mo clan and its legacy alike. It is not the demon way to pull punches in battle.
“No,” he snarls, irritation nipping at him. The feeling of being one step behind everyone else is beginning to drive the nail.
“Really?” Luo Binghe scoffs, unconvinced, and it only makes Mobei-jun’s fury swell. “Or have you been biding your time for another opportunity to challenge me?”
“I pledged my loyalty to Junshang.” Mobei-jun knows better than to bare his teeth but he does it anyway. He’d only conceded defeat then because the other option was death, and though he’s long accepted the dent to his pride, it smarts to have Luo Binghe throw it back in his face like a mockery. “With respect, what is Junshang talking about?”
“Are you pretending to be ignorant? When your actions give you away so easily? I wondered why you kept your Shang Qinghua around as long as you did, but it seems clear now.”
Mobei-jun frowns harder, the words folding over and into one another, failing to make any sense. Shang Qinghua? A God in his house? Mobei-jun’s frustration hits a peak and he can’t control the ice that slips outwards from his feet. He’s struggling to marry the image of the Shang Qinghua he knows, intelligent, quick-witted, babbling, with the Shang Qinghua that Luo Binghe is describing, powerful, omniscient, a God. It’s like-- like holding two sheets of paper up to the light.
Luo Binghe is watching him with an assessing gaze. He quirks a brow at Mobei-jun’s stony silence. “You didn’t know.”
He sounds surprised, if not apologetic, considering he’s just tilted Mobei-jun’s life on its head.
“I came to seek clarity,” Mobei-jun repeats solemnly. Thankfully none of the helplessness he feels makes it into his voice. The information clicks a wealth of things into places but dislodges just as many.
A God in his house.
Shang Qinghua.
Luo Binghe has retracted his claws. He’s watching Mobei-jun with an aggressively neutral expression; it’s probably the closest he can get to looking regretful at anyone other than Shen Qingqiu, but Mobei-jun can think a little more clearly without the cloying buzz of killing intent surrounding him.
“What do you remember of the mission?” he asks, and he already sounds two steps ahead of the answer. Mobei-jun’s side twinges, just below his ribs. He thinks about Shang Qinghua’s warm, trembling hand pressed there.
“The array…” Mobei-jun starts the sentence and finds he doesn’t know where it ends. How do you recount something when you’re not sure if it happened.
“The array,” Luo Binghe repeats, as if that confirms it, and strangely it helps the not-memory feel more sure.
Shang Qinghua was bleeding from his mouth, his nose, his ears. Mobei-jun moving on pure instinct; a pain in his side.
“I died.” The realisation isn’t as shocking as Mobei-jun thought it would be. He always knew he might die in some bloody, glorious way, but the thought is inferior to Luo Binghe calling Shang Qinghua a God.
“Yes,” Luo Binghe confirms, utterly bland like they’re talking about the weather, except his lips curl back to reveal sharp canines. “And Shang Qinghua brought you back.”
“How?”
The word crackles on his tongue with importance. It’s essential t hat Mobei-jun knows, suddenly. He can’t remember because he’d been too dead to see it happen, and he lacks the imagination to envision that kind of power. It’s hard to press the shape of Shang Qinghua into the idea of a God, but it might help if it was described to him.
Luo Binghe doesn’t reply, which means that he doesn’t know either, and he looks far less than pleased about it.
His claws stay in, though, which is miraculous since the next thing he says is, “You should talk to Shizun.”
It’s strange how those words mark the gravity of the situation; Luo Binghe doesn’t share his husband if he can help it. It’s an impulse Mobei-jun can sympathise with, even if he’s not as saccharine about it-- Shang Qinghua makes him selfish like that.
Predictably, Shen Qingqiu is lounging in one of the gardens. He’s gently wafting himself with a hand-painted fan, even though it’s mid-Autumn and he can’t possibly be warm. It’s sort of a frivolity that Shang Qinghua never coveted, which is good because it wouldn’t suit him anyway. For a second, Mobei-jun thinks about a God fanning himself and decides it’s a ridiculous image.
“Mobei-jun,” Shen Qingqiu rises to greet him with a short bow, which is more deference than he usually displays, so this whole affair is reaching a new depth of worrisome. “It’s good to see you looking well.”
The sentiment is strange until Mobei-jun realises that Shen Qingqiu had likely seen him die. He bows in return, since that seems like the appropriate thing to do before broaching topics like a God they share. Shen Qingqiu gives Luo Binghe a gentle nod, and the half-demon recedes back into the palace
“Junshang suggested that I speak with you,” Mobei-jun starts, hating that he still feels out of the loop.
Shen Qingqiu wanders a few steps, fanning himself. It’s a graceful way to look contemplative, but Mobei-jun suspects it’s a cover for him trying to decide what to say; Shang Qinghua does the same thing with more babbling and gesticulating, and Mobei-jun prefers it that way.
“Did you know about him?” Mobei-jun forges ahead, already impatient. “That he’s-”
It’s hard to say the word out loud. Moreso because Shen Qingqiu is looking at him with a blank expression, which wouldn’t be noteworthy, except he’s hiding half his face with his fan, which means there’s something sequestering in his careful façade.
“I’ve known Shang Qinghua for a very long time,” Shen Qingqiu says eventually, clearly measuring every single word. “We came from the same place, when we were younger. Somewhere that has… Strange ways. Me and Shang-shidi have not found this commonality anywhere else.”
The phrasing makes Mobei-jun give him a sharp look. Commonality is a strange word for divinity. Shen Qingqiu subtly lifts his fan a little higher.
“There are questions you have that I cannot answer,” he says plainly. “Not because I don’t want to, but because I am also ignorant. I don’t know how Shang Qinghua did what he did, nor would it be my place to say.”
Mobei-jun lets the words wash over him one by one. It’s entirely different to Luo Binghe’s potent killing aura, but he finds it just as acrid. He looks up at Shen Qingqiu, and wonders with dawning clarity if it’s possible he’s a God as well. They speak the same unique language, their jokes contain words Mobei-jun has never heard before, and he thinks then that it’s not impossible that Luo Binghe may also have a God in his house. A God fanning himself.
The idea sounds like the start of a bad joke; two Gods and two demons walk into an array…
At least he doesn’t feel so far behind anymore, since apparently Shen Qingqiu and Luo Binghe are just as unsure as he is. He glances at Shen Qingqiu, taking in the man’s stance. There’s a hint of tension around his shoulders, though he’s doing his best to hide it. Mobei-jun has a washed out memory of Shen Qingqiu fracturing the array, his energy wavering before he abandoned his position. It makes him indirectly responsible for Mobei-jun’s supposed fatality, and he seems to know it, too; neither of them has a map of navigating conversation with death as the mutual ground.
“One thing I do know, however,” Shen Qingqiu interrupts his stewing, and Mobei-jun’s attention snaps to the man. “It is that he is sincere in his devotion.”
Mobei-jun grits his teeth, horribly feeling the urge to shuffle. “I am.... unsure how to proceed.”
Shen Qingqiu sighs and snaps his fan shut.
“I think the best course of action would be to simply talk to him,” he says, like it’s that easy. And maybe it is for him. But for Mobei-jun, talking to Shang Qinghua means getting him to stay still long enough for that conversation. He must be scowling, since Shen Qingqiu continues, “Perhaps ask yourself, Mobei-jun, is it just answers that you want from him? Or is there something else, as well?”
Mobei-jun doesn’t answer. He gets the distinct impression that whatever he replies will be the wrong thing to say, and that’s an error he’d prefer to make within the privacy of his own mind.
“Whatever it is,” Shen Qingqiu continues, seemingly tuning into Mobei-jun’s sullenness. “It’s not out here in the garden. Why don’t we head back? Binghe usually cooks around this time.”
And then he snaps his fan shut and breezes off back towards the walkway without even bothering looking back. They both know it’s not an invite to stay for tea.
⬷ ❆ ⤐
Mobei-jun leaves the underground palace feeling more wound up than ever. Learning that he’d quite literally died was the most comforting thing about this entire encounter, and it makes him unbalanced in the worst way. Whether he likes it or not, Shang Qinghua is one of the pillars upon which Mobei-jun and his reign is built, and it feels like someone has reached inside him and made that foundation wobble.
It’s an exercise in patience when Mobei-jun doesn’t find Shang Qinghua in his study. The papers on the desk are stacked neatly, and without work, he could be anywhere in the castle.
“You,” Mobei-jun snaps when Gold Fang toddles into the room, typically stacked with missives. The demon pauses, attempting a rather clumsy bow with the scrolls hindering him. “Where is Shang Qinghua?”
Gold Fang makes a vague “I don’t know” sound, tossing a similar frown at the empty desk before depositing the scrolls on the regular shelf and shuffling a bow on his way out. Mobei-jun watches him leave with keen interest; not once had Gold Fang had to stretch to reach the shelf.
A quick glance at the floor reveals no stool in sight, and he sweeps out of the study with even greater intent than when he’d entered.
If Shang Qinghua really is a God, he does not express it in obviously, if at all. He still forgets to eat enough, to sleep enough even less. And yet, the more Mobei-jun thinks about it, the more Shang Qinghua’s divinity seems obvious; his encyclopedic knowledge of things he couldn’t possibly know, the strange, nonsensical language he uses when he’s sidetracked and unaware, the foreign tongue that Mobei-jun has neither heard nor read anywhere else in this world, with the exception of Shen Qingqiu’s letters.
Shen Qingqiu’s suggestion to talk remains the most effective route, and that advice had come from Mobei-jun stumbling his way through a conversation with the Heavenly Emperor. He has even less idea what to say to a God, and even if he did, Shang Qinghua could just lie.
They’d both know he was doing it, but Mobei-jun doesn’t know how to get the truth out of him short of simply demanding it, and he desperately doesn’t want Shang Qinghua to leave again. Just the thought makes his chest ache and his knuckles crack, moreso when he remembers Shen Qingqiu’s words.
Is it just answers that you want from him, or is there something else?
Of course there’s something else. Shang Qinghua’s presence in Mobei-jun’s life, whilst unsteady, is indelible. He’s never met a man so contradictory in his life, deferential yet entitled, cowardly yet fearless when it matters, knowledgeable yet dense. Mobei-jun had been intrigued by these facets, but the dimension of affection sliding in behind them has pushed his interest closer to the realm of obsession. He covets everything Shang Qinghua is, with absolutely no idea how to ask for any of it.
And now he’s discovered that Shang Qinghua is a God, and there seems to be more to him than Mobei-jun could ever learn. He could spend a lifetime unspooling the man and never reach the end. Mobei-jun secretly hopes he never does.
So yes, of course, there’s something else.
He’ll settle for answers first, though. Answers are small and tangible in comparison to the overwhelming intolerance of Mobei-jun’s feelings.
Mobei-jun stops pacing then, thinking with a fractious kind of awe, a God in his house.
He’s not sure what greatness he’d achieved in a past life to attract a God to his side, but Mobei-jun would be dead thrice over without Shang Qinghua, and the knowledge of this makes something behind his gut tug. Unwittingly, Mobei-jun’s feet have brought him back to the private garden, still flush with foliage. It would be impossible for anyone to get such flowers to grow in these temperatures, regardless of how sheltered the garden is.
For a God, though...
A muttering off to the side draws Mobei-jun’s attention, and he’s surprised to spot Shang Qinghua’s auburn hair poking out from behind the base of one of the diamond-wood trees. It’s unexpected to see him, but never unwelcome. In fact, it has saved Mobei-jun the task of chasing him down, since Shang Qinghua has gotten a little too good at avoiding him. He quiets his steps as he approaches -- Shang Qinghua’s shoulders are hunched the way he gets when he’s focusing hard on a task. Mobei-jun has seen this exact hunch before Shang Qinghua hands him precise specifications on how to crush an uprising.
The mumbling gains clarity the closer Mobei-jun creeps, but it’s far from coherent. Or it would have been, prior to visiting Luo Binghe. Now, Mobei-jun listens with an understanding so fresh it stings.
“-ally should’ve thought better before designing these damn trees, but I never thought that I’d have to be the one cutting them. Two weeks for the blooms? That’s more days than holidays I get in a year! And I don’t even attend as many court meetings as my king, so when was he ever meant to get time to appreciate them? Can’t believe I made it so cold here that the flowers hardly grow either, honestly. Stupid! Two weeks, aaah, two weeks isn’t nearly enough, just let me- Okay, okay c’mon Qinghua, focus! If I can just-”
Shang Qinghua is holding something cupped in his hands. Mobei-jun can’t see what it is from his position, but he does see the burst of brilliant fractal light it produces, flinging a spectrum of colours across the garden. Shang Qinghua lets out a triumphant little woop as the light gathers into stout little outlines before him.
Mobei-jun is not sure what he expected divine power to look like, but it isn’t Shang Qinghua lifting his nimble fingers to press against a row of glowing squares like he’s playing an instrument. A neat line of text appears as he dances his fingers across the squares, searing itself into the bark of the tree like a brand, glittering and powerful.
One moon.
It stays for a moment, shimmering wild with unnamable colours before it fades into nothing. The gleaming bark of the diamond-wood tree remains untouched, but the petals of its blossoms recede from where they’d been withering into curls, pearlescent and vital once again. With a satisfied huff, Shang Qinghua stands and turns around to walk smack into Mobei-jun’s chest.
“Ah?” The shock sends Shang Qinghua stumbling back, palm pressed to his nose. Mobei-jun instinctively reaches out to steady him, so he sees close up how Shang Qinghua’s eyes fly wide and fearful. “A-AH! My king! You- You’re aah um- How long have you been standing there exactly?”
Mobei-jun stares at him. Even with the idea making sense, he hadn’t truly been able to picture Shang Qinghua as a God. Now, it’s all he can see; the warm amber of his eyes, the auburn hair flushed with fire.
A God in his house.
His silence is clearly making Shang Qinghua uneasy. The cultivator is hopping foot to foot and looking as if he’s trying very hard not to hold his breath as he emits meek noises of terror.
“Oh!” Shang Qinghua fails to meet his eyes, but the hopping stops as the chatter starts. “Did you just get back, my king? I can have a bath prepared for you if you’re weary from travel. The servants told me you’d gone to visit Lord Luo so-”
“I did,” Mobei-jun interrupts, and then abruptly wonders if that’s an insult to the divine. He often interrupts Shang Qinghua’s babbling; thinking of it now draws a pinch of concern between his brows.
“Ah, you did? That’s um- That’s good! I hope everything went well? What did you need to see Lord Luo for, my king? Is it something this servant can help with?”
Something about the word ‘servant’ sits uncomfortably. Shang Qinghua has been more than that for a while, he’s been an aide, and a friend. Really, he’s been so much more than Mobei-jun ever thought he was.
“Is there… Did something happen, my king?,” Shang Qinghua asks, oblivious to Mobei-jun’s silent awe. “Do we need Lu- Lord Luo’s insight on anything? Apologies if this servant has missed something, there were a lot of reports to write up from the most recent trade exports to the Southern border. Razorback hare meat sales were down by almost a third, and some of the villages believe it’s because of a cold snap that’s driven the herds to migrate earlier in the season but that’s- Not to bore you with such things, my king!”
Shang Qinghua folds his hands in front of him, like he can get a better grip on the conversation that way. It in no way makes him look like a God, but Mobei-jun keeps watching. He sees it when Shang Qinghua’s eyes flicker to one side of Mobei-jun’s waist for a fraction of a second, and then he squeezes his fingers hard enough to make his knuckles crack.
“I would just like to say!” Shang Qinghua looks up, determined. “That you seemed a little, er- more stoic than normal? And if there was something this servant could do for you - anything at all! - then please just ask!”
“I spoke with Junshang,” Mobei-jun says, thinking in his house, in his house, in his house . “He said you are a God.”
It brings no satisfaction to see the colour drain from Shang Qinghua’s face. Mobei-jun resists the urge to reach out and hold him close, even though it smarts in the tips of his fingers. It’s his own insecurity, Mobei-jun knows; Shang Qinghua has proven his devotion time after time, and he deserves better than the doubt of a selfish king.
“What?” the cultivator says weakly. The word comes out little more than a breath, but speaking seems to reanimate him from the mouth up. “That’s- He!! Hah, I don’t- My king, I’m not sure I understand aha- ha…”
“No?” Now the door has been opened, Mobei-jun finds himself unable to back down, a feverish strain of tenacity rearing in his chest. “Were you not just changing the diamond-wood blossoms to flower for one full moon?”
It’s impossible for Shang Qinghua to get paler, but the blood lost from his face makes him sway on the spot. “That- You... I didn’t-”
“Didn’t you?”
This time, Mobei-jun does reach out to steady him, since the cultivator looks two words away from fainting, and really that will only prolong this conversation. Mobei-jun can’t unring a God-sized bell. The action jolts Shang Qinghua from his daze, and he leaps out of reach, stomping away through the snow. For a second, Mobei-jun believes he’s going to run away, and he takes an abortive step forward until Shang Qinghua sharply diverts his route towards the row of flowers lining the garden wall and then back again, pacing deep tracks in the powder. His mouth is the only thing moving faster than his feet.
“I mean!” Shang Qinghua yells to the open air, throwing his hands up. “Yes?! Sort of? But I can’t- It’s not like I often do- I can’t, even! How could I?! I don’t know what I’m doing, and you weren’t supposed to even be here! Otherwise I never would’ve- It's not like that, my king! My king!”
Shang Qinghua reorients himself at the title, turning to Mobei-jun with wide, imploring eyes.
“I’m not a God.”
Mobei-jun lifts one brow. As predicted, they both know he’s lying.
“I’m not!” Shang Qinghua insists at Mobei-jun’s expression. “The tree blossoms, that was simply- Uh, a different type of cultivation! I’ve just been trying something new, okay?”
The teary shine of Shang Qinghua’s eyes gives Mobei-jun pause. It could be panic - he can practically feel Shang Qinghua vibrating from across the garden - but the cultivator really seems to believe what he’s saying.
“The stormaline mission,” Mobei-jun forges ahead, even as Shang Qinghua’s mouth snaps shut hard enough to make his teeth click. “Were you also trying something new when you saved this king’s life?”
It’s rare to see the cultivator completely speechless, so Mobei-jun drives the advantage whilst he has it.
“You made flowers grow in my palace of ice.” he takes a step forward, encouraged when Shang Qinghua doesn’t immediately flinch back.
“It’s not- I just made the soil warmer,” Shang Qinghua rasps, frozen in place. At least he’s not trying to leave.
“You made your assistant taller.”
“What? No, no he- I just made the shelf shorter! Organic matter is tricky.” That last part is said under Shang Qinghua’s breath, and Mobei-jun spares a moment to appreciate his cleverness.
“You changed your eyes to the colours of the North,” he hums, as both a counterpoint and so that Shang Qinghua knows he noticed.
Strangely, that’s what makes the cultivator look sheepish. The flush of his face deepens, and he averts his eyes in a last ditch effort to hide, but Mobei-jun won’t let him.
“Tell this king the truth, Qinghua.”
It’s a long, prickling moment before Shang Qinghua speaks, voice directed to the ground.
“I… Yes, it’s true that I brought you back,” he says carefully, as if the words are too brittle to stand a louder volume.
It’s nearly impossible to resurrect someone - the amount of power it takes is more than one person can provide. Not even Luo Binghe could manage it for his beloved shizun, and Mobei-jun ponders, stunned, how he’d convinced a God to do so. “How?”
Shang Qinghua’s shoulders shake, but he’s not crying, even though he wails, “I really don’t know! I think it had something to do with the stormaline but, my king, I’m really not sure what happened. All this one knows is that since that time, he can make small changes to earthly matters and so maybe-”
“Reaching through the veil of death is no small change,” Mobei-jun frowns. Shang Qinghua is making even less sense than usual.
“I don’t know what you want me to say!” the cultivator yelps, and oh- he’s pacing again. “It’s not like I remember re-aliving you or like I was consciously doing any of it. Even trying to do it now is difficult! And I’m not very good at it! Seriously, if I had any idea that I could change things, do you not think I would’ve used it sooner? I would have changed so many things, like it would be warmer here for one and-”
Shang Qinghua doesn’t appear to be talking to Mobei-jun anymore. This isn’t uncommon, for him to lose the thread of conversation and simply speak his every errant thought aloud, but Mobei-jun is paying for more attention this time. Which is why Shang Qinghua’s next words bowl him over.
“-and I loved you so much, I just couldn’t picture a world without you! So I really mean it when I tell you that I don’t know what I did, my king!”
“Loved?”
Shock punches the word out of Mobei-jun’s throat, but when it falls from his lips that he really tastes the hope of it. Shang Qinghua’s face goes slack with horror as he realises what he’s said. Neither of them moves.
It’s slow work to dream in the opposite direction of a life you’ve always known; Mobei-jun was long resigned to a lonely rule and a marriage that provided heirs but no love. Yet the tentative steps into affection with Shang Qinghua had kindled a dangerous spark in his heart that crackled with the words, What if…?
“Since when?” Mobei-jun demands, feeling suddenly frantic. The desperation comes out as a roar, but it is abruptly imperative to know the exact moment that Shang Qinghua had fallen in love with him. To know the exact moment that Mobei-jun missed it.
“Wha- since.. Since when?!” Indignation bleeds into Shang Qinghua’s voice as he shrieks back red-faced, his embarrassment quickly forgotten. “SINCE ALWAYS!”
And then he’s marching clumsily through the thick snow of the courtyard to square his smaller build right up into Mobei-jun’s space. “Why do you think I pledged myself in servitude to you, ah? Why do you think I stayed when you were spoiled and cruel and beat me three times a day?! It certainly wasn’t for my health!”
Mobei-jun had mostly assumed it was for survival, and perhaps that was part of it, but the indignation carving Shang Qinghua’s features is rapidly reshaping that memory.
“Why-”
“Because you were beautiful and powerful and I wanted to stay with you, because you were my king! You were MY king,” Shang Qinghua hisses, fierce with the truth of it, because yes - He had made Mobei-jun a king. “So yes, always! Even when you were alone or abandoned or lost, or you believed that no one in the world cared, you have always always been loved!”
Shang Qinghua punctuates the declaration by flattening a palm in the centre of Mobei-jun’s chest. It lands with a resounding slap of leather meeting stone, and for a second, he just glares up at Mobei-jun, amber eyes glowing like hot coal.
And then his eyes widen abruptly as he glances down to where he’s laid his hand upon Mobei-jun and back up to his king’s face.
“M-my king!” he stammers, shock seeping into his features. Mobei-jun can feel the fingers against his sternum shake. He presses his hand over Shang Qinghua’s before he can pull away, flattening the palm over his own thundering heart.
It’s probably improper to kiss a God.
The thought occurs too late after Mobei-jun tips Shang Qinghua’s chin up and crashes their mouths together. His aim can’t account for the cultivator’s panicked jolt, and he lands off centre. Shang Qinghua’s gasp corrects things quickly, and Mobei-jun has never kissed anyone before but he knows it’s right when their lips slide into place. It’s warm and damp and perfect for one suspended moment before there comes a startled squeak and Shang Qinghua’s hands scrabble at Mobei-jun’s shoulders.
He doesn’t seem to be trying to push away, though, so Mobei-jun clutches him tighter as his heart sings, what if, what if, what if~
The whole line of Shang Qinghua’s body is taut as a wire, but when Mobei-jun cinches the arm around his waist, the cultivator abruptly goes boneless. He leans his weight against Mobei-jun’s chest and tilts his head sideways to- Oh. Their mouths fit together better like this. Shang Qinghua’s lips part on a stifled noise and Mobei-jun takes the opportunity to dip his tongue between them.
The effect is instant; Shang Qinghua’s fingers settle on Mobei-jun’s shoulder’s curling into the fur of his cloak tight enough to tear. His body starts shaking again, and before Mobei-jun can soothe him with another swipe of his tongue, Shang Qinghua is batting at his chest, squeaking out muffled noises of protest.
Mobei-jun is reluctant to let him go. He compromises by only pulling back enough to look Shang Qinghua in the eyes.
“My king-” the cultivator’s voice is a ragged breath, and the colour of his cheeks makes Mobei-jun feel disgustingly smug. “What- What-”
This is usually when Mobei-jun cuts him off before his mouth gains speed. Instead, Mobei-jun just waits, watching Shang Qinghua go through the entire spectrum of emotions and several aborted sentences before landing on one to say in full.
“You kissed me?”
“Mn.”
“On purpose?”
With them pressed so close, Mobei-jun can see the individual strands of gold scattered through Shang Qinghua’s eyes, warm like hot coals. Right now, they’re shiny with uncertainty, so Mobei-jun digs inside himself and drags out the words he’s been scared to say even to himself.
“Qinghua said he loved me.”
Shang Qinghua shakes harder in his arms. “That is- I um… Yes, I did say that.”
Mobei-jun makes a sound low in his throat and wishes what if, what if what if, “You are mine.”
“Ah… I always have been, my king.”
The shaky breath Shang Qinghua lets out ghosts over his mouth. Mobei-jun could kiss him again, right now. He wants to, but he has to get this out first.
“And I am yours.”
The shaking stops, even as Shang Qinghua blinks, his eyes turning watery. It’s a shade too close to doubt for Mobei-jun; he doesn’t think twice before lowering his mouth to Shang Qinghua’s once again.
Their second kiss is better.
Shang Qinghua makes a soft, wounded noise as his trembling arms smooth their way around Mobei-jun’s neck, and he wastes no time in parting his lips so Mobei-jun can kiss him deeper, tongue darting out. This kiss is long and lingering, and when Mobei-jun finally pulls back to rest their foreheads together, he shudders beneath Shang Qinghua’s fingers, which at some point have woven into his hair.
“Wow,” Shang Qinghua breathes, sounding pleasingly giddy. Then he blinks and pulls back a little further, eyes flicking over Mobei-jun’s shoulder. “Oh, wow. Okay.”
Wow is one word to express what he’s looking at.
The entire garden has burst into a vivid spectrum, the pale flowers now flush with pinks and yellows and reds. Impossible colours this far North.
Mobei-jun’s controls snaps-
“Qinghua,” he growls, and before Shang Qinghua can even blink, he tears open a portal and drops them directly onto his bed.
Shang Qinghua’s startled yelp dissolves into a breathless huff of laughter until Mobei-jun kisses it right out of his mouth.
A God in his bed, then.