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At first, Shen Qingqiu thinks nothing of the itch in his throat. It is irritating, yes, but with a sip of tea it is gone for a short while. It only starts piquing his concern in earnest when it persists as days pass and pass and pass. He wonders, at that point, if he’s caught a cold somehow. It doesn’t make sense, though. He’s an Immortal Cultivator — he’s supposed to be free of such worldly woes.
Then again, with Without-a-Cure flowing in his veins, he supposes anything is possible.
So, he continues to ignore it.
It’s just a cold, he tells himself. It’ll go away soon enough.
Except it doesn’t.
The itch persists. It’s slow, but it grows worse. The itch grows from subtle to unbearable, he has to cough and cough and cough until it grants him mercy at last. His lungs begin to feel tighter, his breaths drawing shallower. He still doesn’t go to Qian Cao. It’ll go away, he tells himself, it’ll go away eventually. It is little compared to what Luo Binghe must be going through in the Abyss now, in his third year there.
Until then, he endures, ignoring the voice in the back of his head that tells him suffering by his own hand does not equal repenting.
It’s the worst when he sits outside, in front of Luo Binghe’s sword mound with burning lungs, coughing until his throat is raw and blood taints pale lips. He does not think too much about the correlation.
Not until it’s too late.
He gets away with joining the mission to Jin Lan City by simply not telling Mu Qingfang about his mysterious, persistent ailment. What else is he meant to do, otherwise? His doctor is going on this mission, and so is the man responsible for his meridian clearing treatments! He’s no protagonist, in fact, he’s the scummiest of villains — how is he meant to survive with both his caretakers so far away?! Anyway, it’s not hard to wheedle his way into the trip, despite Yue Qingyuan’s original intentions.
And that’s how he winds up where he is now, walking down the streets of Jin Lan City.
So far, however, as he, Mu Qingfang, and Liu Qingge follow the young Yang Yixuan through the desolate and plague-ridden city, it’s…uneventful. A few people walked around, here and there — no more than four to five people scattered through the streets, swathed in black from head to toe and scurrying around like anxious lambs to the slaughter. Despite this, despite the obvious signs of life, the city feels…lifeless.
A small tickle of discomfort pricks at the back of Shen Qingqiu’s throat, and he softly clears his throat behind his fan. He catches Liu Qingge’s questioning gaze at the same moment and quickly looks away.
“That boy,” he says, nodding his head towards Yang Yixuan walking ahead of them. “What does Liu-shidi think of him?”
Liu Qingge grunts noncommittally. “What does it matter?”
“He has potential, does he not?” Shen Qingqiu steps closer to his shidi. “Fit for Bai Zhan, some may say. He even held his own exchanging blows with you.”
“What of it?” Liu Qingge asks. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t take disciples.”
Shen Qingqiu hums behind his fan. His eyes slowly slide back to the boy guiding them. Really, he would be suited for Bai Zhan, though…
Soon enough, the group makes it to the unexpectedly large Jin Zi Weapons Shop. Shen Qingqiu looks around, appraising the layout as they make their way to the cellar, where Master Wu Chen awaits them.
An already grim situation grows grimmer as Wu Chen fills the three Peak Lords in on what he knows of the plague and how it spreads.
It’s not much, but it’s more than they knew before. After a thorough back and forth, exchanging as much as they can, Yang Yixuan returns only to tell them more cultivators have arrived. Huan Hua. Shen Qingqiu swallows against the lump in his throat — thoughts immediately rushing to two years from now, when Luo Binghe will be leading the Palace with confidence and a grudge — and immediately sends him away to bother Liu Qingge.
If nothing else, giving his shidi a little sticky problem to deal with lifts his mood the slightest bit. Then, he’s off to do a bit of his own investigating.
It will be difficult to deduce what’s going on without more information — patients to examine, though the source of the plague would be preferable, if not wishful thinking.
In fact, it’s this wishful thinking that leads Shen Qingqiu to where he is now, stepping into the three-story brothel his mark has fled into. Somewhere along the way he gained an ally in the form of Huan Hua Palace’s Gongyi Xiao. He was surprised to learn Gongyi Xiao isn’t the one leading the Huan Hua investigation party, and his surprise only grows as Gongyi Xiao helps him hunt down the black-clothed ‘old woman’ who’d run into him and grazed his hand.
They investigate the brothel, separating to check each room, nothing turning up in either search. It’s not until Shen Qingqiu is outside the door of the sixth room that he hears another voice from the floor above. Shen Qingqiu pauses and shares a look with Gongyi Xiao across the hall. Without a word, the young man follows him up the stairs, caution in their every move.
He hasn’t even reached the top of the staircase when the world stops spinning. Time stills, and his heart skips in his chest.
“It’s no bother.”
He doesn’t even breathe. In his hand, his fan stills in front of his face, every bone in his body frozen. His throat grows tight. No.
It can’t be.
But his eyes don’t lie.
There, at the top of the stairs, surrounded by nameless Huan Hua disciples, Luo Binghe stands at the center. Something ugly and painful twists in Shen Qingqiu’s chest. He hasn’t spotted Shen Qingqiu yet, facing away from him, but Shen Qingqiu doesn’t need to see him face-on to know it’s Luo Binghe.
The System rebooting at the same moment the realization crashes into him only reaffirms what he already knows.
[ Power Source Detected. System Rebooting… ]
[ System Re-Activation Successful: All System’s Online. ]
Message after message barrels at Shen Qingqiu full speed, one right after another with no time for him to process the last before the next. It’s dizzying, nauseating.
What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck?!
He’s supposed to have two years, System, what gives?!
Isn’t he meant to be deep in the Abyss, fighting deadly beasts and conquering sweet-faced nymphs?! Why the fuck is he here?! Why is he out already?! A five-year mission, turned into a three-year trip?! No, no, no, this can’t be real.
System, something has to be wrong. Shen Qingqiu chokes down a startled cough, eyes locked onto the familiar stranger at the top of the stairs.
[ Running Diagnostics… ]
[ Diagnostics Complete; 1 Bug Found. Implementing Quest-on-the-spot! Quick Fix… ]
[ Thank you for your continued use of our services! Automatic Emergency Quest Activation: Flower Language currently underway. Do your best, Host! Good luck! ]
Then, before Shen Qingqiu can even think to process what had just happened, the System shuts back down in a flash. Every instinct in his body tells him to turn around and flee quietly before Luo Binghe sees him. Just as he’s starting to turn, however, something thick and scratchy lodges itself in the middle of his throat and Shen Qingqiu freezes.
Behind him, Gongyi Xiao notices his distress and calls, “Senior Shen? Is everything alright?”
Shen Qingqiu could almost weep over how fast that draws the attention of the group at the top of the stairs. Granted, that implied he was able to do anything but fight to hold back the cough trying to crawl out of his throat. It’s the worst timing for his weird cold to act up, and so strongly, nonetheless.
“Shizun…?”
The gentle, breathless call and the familiar voice tainted with bone-chilling sweetness… Gripping his fan tight in front of his face, Shen Qingqiu slaps his other hand over his mouth behind it in hopes to muffle the coughing he can’t restrain.
There’s a sharp inhale, a single step. “It is you, Shizun.”
And Shen Qingqiu can’t resist the need to look at him, to see his face as he calls him so calmly.
It’s a mistake.
The moment his eyes meet Luo Binghe’s a rib-shaking cough wracks his body and something warm splatters onto his hand behind his fan. At the same time, Luo Binghe’s eyes go wide and Gongyi Xiao gasps a concerned, “Master Shen?!”
He doesn’t have time to compose himself before the next cough shakes him and he curls in towards himself. His fan hits the stairs at his feet with a clatter as the hand holding it instead grasps at his throat, a sharp, scratching pain tearing through his esophagus.
“Shizun?” Luo Binghe asks, the concern in his voice almost convincing.
It’s worse than any other fit he’s had before. Blood taints his pale lips, and every breath comes in gasps — broken, horrifying sounds of a man desperately trying to breathe around a thick intrusion blocking off the way.
As he’s actively choking, a sharp, feminine laugh cuts through the air.
“What good timing, Immortal Master Shen has,” a haughty voice taunts. “To be stricken by such a fit as soon as he’s caught.”
Caught?! Who’s been caught? And what has he been caught doing?! Miss, your words make no sense! Even if you’re a simple-minded cannon-fodder half-wit, at least try to make some sort of sense for the plot-relevant people!
He doesn’t, of course, say this. Even if he wanted to, it’s not like he could. After all, unlike that young miss seems to believe, he is not actually faking. A hand touching his arm startles Shen Qingqiu into stumbling back, his eyes going wide as Gongyi Xiao catches and steadies him by some miracle. Fuck, when did Luo Binghe get so close?!
“Shimei!” Gongyi Xiao calls chidingly, removing his hands from Shen Qingqiu quickly. “What sort of behavior is that? Where is your respect?”
“Respect!” Another brainless NPC disciple scoffs. “As if that man deserves our respect!”
“Address Immortal Master Shen properly,” Gongyi Xiao scolds.
All the while, Shen Qingqiu — finally, through with the coughing — tries his hardest to swallow the rising lump in his throat.
“Immortal Master Shen will get the respect he’s earned,” a third voice — a familiar one, Qin Wanyue maybe? — pitches in. “He hurt our Luo-shixiong. What respect has he earned from us?”
“Enough.”
The sharp, cutting tone of Luo Binghe’s voice as he addresses the other disciples sends shudders of terror and dismay down Shen Qingqiu’s spine. He inhales the wrong way and falls into another coughing spell, this one even worse than the last.
This time, whatever’s stuck in his throat starts moving. Up, up, up, climbing higher and higher in his throat until it’s edging onto his tongue. The taste of metal and something vaguely floral taints his senses, but Shen Qingqiu doesn’t have time to linger on it before he’s doubling over — four hands (two from in front of him and two from behind him) supporting him so he doesn’t collapse — and something wet and heavy is splattering on the stairs between his and Luo Binghe’s feet.
The scene falls eerily silent.
The only sound echoing in the brothel is the gasping of Shen Qingqiu, finally able to breathe again. His chest heaves as he gulps down breath after breath, eyes blurred with tears from the agony of coughing up whatever just ripped out of his throat. His throat still feels raw, and swallowing down the leftover blood in his mouth feels like swallowing shards of glass. When he finally comes back to himself enough to blink away the tears in his eyes, a couple dripping from his lashes to the floor, Shen Qingqiu stills at what he sees.
There, on the stairs between Luo Binghe and Shen Qingqiu’s feet, a crumpled, mutilated lily lies.
Nausea washes over him as he stares at the flower. Pure white petals are tainted, stained with blood seeping into and dying the colorless natural material. It has more petals than an average lily should, as if it were two lilies smashed together rather than one alone, and the petals were unlike a natural flower.
They are sharp as razors, even an imbecile could tell at a glance.
Shen Qingqiu’s throat burns as he swallows down the acid climbing up his raw throat.
A flower.
A flower came out of his throat.
A fucking flower just came out of his fucking throat. The room sways a little, his ears buzzing with a deafening white noise.
“Shizun…you—”
Shen Qingqiu doesn’t hear the rest of Luo Binghe’s sentence. Instead, he hears two dissonant shouts of surprise as his body drops like a sack of flour and his consciousness blinks out like a dead light.
When Shen Qingqiu wakes, he’s back in his room at the inn.
System…
[ The System is available 24/7 for your satisfaction and user assistance! How can this System assist host? ]
Shen Qingqiu stares blankly up at the ceiling, flat on his back on the bed. What the fuck is going on.
[ Host is currently in the middle of Last-Minute Emergency Quest: Flower Language. Host is encouraged to deepen the bond between himself and the protagonist while the opportunity is ripe and resolve the bug in his System before Host’s imminent and untimely demise occurs! ദ്ദി/ᐠ - ⩊ -マ.ᐟ ]
Shen Qingqiu blanches. He scrambles upright, as if he can get tangibly closer to the System. What do you mean imminent and untimely demise?!
[ System woke up from hibernation and found something wrong with Host (╥﹏╥) ]
Something wrong…?
[ So! System took initiative and discovered the illness plaguing Host and started an emergency quest to remedy the situation! ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧ After all, Host cannot fix the plot if he’s dead! ]
What the fuck…what the fuck… Are you telling me the cough I’ve had wasn’t just a fucking cold?! What the fuck, shitty System, what did you do?!
The System makes a weird sound, almost wounded — if computers could sound wounded.
[ Host thinks so unkindly of this System. Host was plagued by an illness of his own creation, he should know this. After all, Host knows PIDW better than anyone! (˶˃⤙˂˶) ]
An illness of his own creation… Shen Qingqiu flops back down onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling once more. The System couldn’t possibly mean…
But no, there’s only one illness in PIDW that makes you cough bloody flowers like that, especially in such a brutal way. There’s only one, and Shen Qingqiu couldn’t possibly have that. He didn’t— he doesn’t— he’s not in love with anyone.
[ ∘ ∘ ∘ ( °ヮ° ) ? ]
[ Host understands the nature of this disease is borne from the victim’s denial of their own feelings, correct? ]
Shut the fuck up!
The System blips out of existence with a small beep. Shen Qingqiu rolls onto his stomach and shuffles down, pressing his face into the mattress as hard as he can before screaming into it.
(Admittedly, that was not his smartest idea. His throat is still aching from the blade-petaled flower that forced its way out of his lungs and up his throat and screaming into the mattress only further aggravated that pre-existing pain.)
A light knock on the door startles Shen Qingqiu out of his internal crisis. Slowly, he sits up and tugs at his robes until he’s a bit more presentable and looks at the door.
Expecting Mu Qingfang, Shen Qingqiu braces himself for the lecture he’s bound to get and the barrage of questions demanding to know when his symptoms started and why he wasn’t told. What could Shen Qingqiu say, though? He didn’t think it was anything worth worrying about! Why would he fall victim to an illness like this?
He still remembers the wife plot that introduced the disease into PIDW. A paying reader had specially requested it, apparently, and paid a large sum to see it written. The young wife had fallen in love with Luo Binghe at first sight but didn’t want to be apart of such a large harem — destined to be forgotten, ignored, and neglected once he’d gotten a taste. Shen Qingqiu — Peerless Cucumber — had hated that wife a little less than the last hundred. In fact, he’d even liked her a bit.
She was independent and strong, thought for herself.
She denied her love, to even herself.
And then she fell ill.
Hua Tu Bing.
A subtle, slow progressing, deadly disease. It started with a few coughs, easy to brush off and ignore — until the blood came. And then the pain. It was one of the few times Airplane (that hack) described the ailment of a wife so gruesomely. It was one of the rare times Peerless Cucumber had little to say about his quality of writing — one of the rare times he got to see a little bit more of the potential Airplane refused to hone, in favor of shitty porn and money.
Luo Binghe caught her, at last, coughing up flower after flower in her garden, and then all the good writing immediately disappeared as she desperately confessed her love for him between the petals falling from her bloodied lips. The climax was…anticlimactic. The illness was cured that fast and Luo Binghe was carrying her back to her chambers to papapa her to perfect health.
So, with all that known, Shen Qingqiu can’t understand why he of all people, has this disease! Not to mention why it’s grown so much worse since entering Jin Lan. Or why the first flower finally made its way up after seeing Luo Binghe. He’s not— he’s straight, okay, first of all.
He’s not in love with Luo Binghe.
He’s not.
This illness — this disease — it’s wrong. It’s got it all wrong. He’s not in love with his disciple — ex disciple.
Another, less hesitant knock echoes through the room, snapping Shen Qingqiu out of his spiraling thoughts. He cleared his throat and gave a small shake of his head. He can think about that all later, now he just needs to survive Mu Qingfang’s interrogation.
“Enter.”
The door slowly creaks open, and Shen Qingqiu’s heart drops to his stomach when his guest steps into the room.
“Binghe,” he breathes, eyes wide.
Fuck.
“Shizun,” Luo Binghe greets. His voice is calm and carefully measured. Shen Qingqiu’s blood turns to ice in his veins. Slowly, he steps out of the doorway and across the room to where Shen Qingqiu sits on the bed. “Shizun looks surprised to see this disciple. After such a display, did he truly think this one would not be here when he woke?”
One could hope! Shen Qingqiu smartly does not say.
Is he here to enact his revenge while Shen Qingqiu is weak? The thought makes his stomach turn and his chest burn with a strange, familiar sort of ache he refuses to acknowledge. Shen Qingqiu clears his throat again, steadfastly ignoring the tickle in his throat.
“Luo Binghe…looks well,” he says dumbly.
“This one wishes he could say the same about Shizun,” Luo Binghe replies, and — as delusional as it seems — he sounds like he means it.
It’s…awkward.
He doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know how to talk to the young man in front of him, no longer his little white lotus, but instead a blackened stallion protagonist in the making. His chest grows tighter and tighter as he watches Luo Binghe stand at the edge of the bed, seemingly just as lost as him. And isn’t that the most confusing part?
He should be furious, should be full to the brim with a need for vengeance and hatred for the Shizun who tossed him into hell. There should be no room for hesitation, no room for…for awkward silence as he stares at his ill Shizun, both lost and unknowing what to say. Something about the silence between them feels delicate. Shen Qingqiu doesn’t want to break it. Doesn’t want to break the illusion that is the fidgeting, white lotus-like Luo Binghe standing before him now.
Shen Qingqiu swallows down a cough. He’s the first to break eye contact, turning his eyes to the sheets over his lap.
“It seems Huan Hua is treating Binghe well,” he says, grimacing when his words come off a bit bitter.
Luo Binghe makes a strange noise somewhere between a cough and a laugh.
“And for what cause does Shizun care about how Huan Hua has been treating this disciple?” he asks, leaning forward to place his hands on the edge of the bed. Shen Qingqiu’s heart jumps to his throat at the sudden proximity. Half-unconsciously, he leans back.
Regardless of the pounding in his chest, at the closer proximity Shen Qingqiu can see just how well they are taking care of him. His hair is silky and shiny and looks softer than a bed of clouds made from cotton candy. His skin is clear and smooth; his robes are of the finest material. It’s clear even at a glance he’s being more than taken care of at Huan Hua. It makes something in Shen Qingqiu’s chest itch and burn.
The worst part is, Luo Binghe is right to question him. Though, rather than his cause, it should be his right. What right does he have to inquire about Luo Binghe’s wellbeing? He shoved him into the Abyss. He stabbed him. What right does he have to care how he’s being treated? To show that care?
Luo Binghe’s brows furrow as he watches Shen Qingqiu, oblivious to the war going on in his head. Then, suddenly, Shen Qingqiu coughs. Luo Binghe freezes. Shen Qingqiu’s covers his mouth with a hand, pain shooting through his throat, and he coughs again. And again. And again.
“Shizun!” Luo Binghe cries, surging forward.
It doesn’t end until he’s folded over on the bed, gasping for breath with blood splattering his hand and crumpled petals falling from pale lips. Beside him, half on the bed, hands hesitantly hovering over his arm and back, Luo Binghe watches, pale with horror.
“I’m…this master is fine,” Shen Qingqiu assures between gasps, despite being assuredly not fine.
“Mu-shishu said Shizun is sick.”
Luo Binghe’s voice is low, wary. Shen Qingqiu grimaces. Damn Mu Qingfang…
“It’s nothing,” Shen Qingqiu brushes off.
He straightens up, Luo Binghe’s arms retreating as he does. He stays close, though — stays kneeling on the bed.
“You’re coughing up flowers.”
Shen Qingqiu bites his tongue. Yes, thank you, I’m aware! He wants to snap, throat burning. However, he does, in fact, like his limbs and isn’t too keen on speeding up the whole revenge arc. Honestly, he’s not even sure if they’re on the revenge arc, anymore. Shouldn’t Luo Binghe be jumping on the chance to take down his cruel Shizun while he’s weak and broken down??? Why does he…why does he almost sound like he actually, genuinely, really cares?
Why does he sound so horrified? Why is his voice so strained and pitched? So pained?
“What does Binghe care for?” he asks against his better judgment. “Disappointed this old master is already sick? That you’re not the first one to strike against your Shizun?”
He holds his breath to force back a cough, head down and missing the flash of hurt that passes in Luo Binghe’s eyes.
“So that’s how Shizun thinks of this one,” Binghe whispers. Then, louder, more confident, demanding, he asks, “who are they for?”
Shen Qingqiu blinks. Pauses. Slowly, he looks up, brows furrowed, to meet Luo Binghe’s blazing eyes. Where was this emotion from all the sudden?! What righteous anger! What does he think?? Shen Qingqiu fell in love with one of his future wives! Ahh, you’ve got it all wrong! Shen Qingqiu isn’t in love with anyone, let alone one of those little hussies!
“Luo Binghe is mistaken,” he chokes out around a lump in his throat. “They are—” his voice breaks and he clears his throat, pained, “—they are for no one.”
“Shizun takes me for a fool,” Luo Binghe scoffs.
Now where did he say that?! Shen Qingqiu stares at him in alarm as Luo Binghe leans in closer, reaching up to grab Shen Qingqiu by the chin and force him to stay facing his way. Slowly, Luo Binghe’s thumb slides over Shen Qingqiu’s bottom lip, rubbing away the blood drying there. Shen Qingqiu stays still as a statue, pupils pin-point, not so much as breathing.
“This disciple knows more than Shizun thinks,” Luo Binghe murmurs. He keeps his eyes trained on Shen Qingqiu’s parted lips, and his blood-smeared thumb still pressing against them. He stays silent for a moment, just staring. Then, he lets go of Shen Qingqiu’s chin and raises his thumb to his own mouth.
Shen Qingqiu sucks in a sharp breath. Luo Binghe lets his gaze slide up his master’s face, to his eyes. Pride shudders down his spine when he catches Shen Qingqiu not holding his own stare, but instead with his eyes locked onto his thumb, his pupils blown wide. His lips quirk up in the ghost of a smirk, before his tongue flicks out and slowly licks over the blood tainting his skin.
A choked noise not unlike a whimper falls from Shen Qingqiu’s throat, before he’s abruptly spinning around and throwing himself halfway off the bed. Luo Binghe snaps back to himself, smug pride replaced with cold terror as Shen Qingqiu coughs and hacks and trembles, chest heaving and gasps rattling as blood and petals and whole flowers rip out of his throat and splatter onto the bedside floor.
“They’re not—” Shen Qingqiu’s voice cuts out as he wretches, wheezing in pain, “they’re not for anyone.”
Luo Binghe’s horror is forgotten as his lips pull into a sneer. He leans down, over Shen Qingqiu’s back and roughly grabs the hair at the nape of his neck in his fist. Shen Qingqiu cries out when his head is abruptly yanked back, baring his soft, pale throat as blood drips down his chin and past his jaw.
“Is it Liu Qingge?” he asks, half-feral.
“No,” Shen Qingqiu gasps. It’s desperate, but honest. His throat doesn’t tighten or tickle, there’s no coughing or even slight discomfort. No, it’s true. It’s not Liu Qingge. “Why—why would Binghe even—”
“Yue Qingyuan?!”
A strangled sound, but no coughing, no struggle as Shen Qingqiu yelps out a sharp but definitive, “No!”
Luo Binghe’s nails lengthen into claws and the space between his brows glows as his zuiyin breaks through his facade, carefully crafted mask fracturing with each answer.
“Shizun wasn’t close enough with Qi Qingqi when this one was shoved into the Abyss,” Luo Binghe snarls, his grip tightening on Shen Qingqiu’s hair. He tugs his head back further and holds Shen Qingqiu’s stare. “This one was gone for three years…maybe things have changed.”
A primal, raw, sort of fear bubbles up in Shen Qingqiu as he stares into the blazing red eyes of the protagonist, and he babbles without thinking. “No! No—it’s not—it’s not a woman, it’s not—Qi-shimei wouldn’t—it’s not a woman!”
Binghe’s pupils shrink into thin, feline slits as his Shizun babbles helplessly. A sharp, dangerous grin spreads over his lips and he leans in even closer, their noses nearly brushing. Shen Qingqiu’s mouth snaps shut with a sharp inhale. He’s almost cross-eyed trying to look where their noses almost meet.
It’s endearing— cute, even, a distant part of Binghe purrs in the back of his head.
“Not a woman?” he asks on a low hum. He brings his other hand up to cradle Shen Qingqiu’s throat, claws resting dangerously over the most vulnerable part. He can feel it when Shen Qingqiu swallows.
“I—”
“Who, then, could it be?” Luo Binghe prods. He presses his claws against the skin. Not enough to break it, just a little pressure… “Who could Shizun both love and hate so deeply he would suffocate rather than listen to his own heart? Who could Shizun both be so enamored by and so disturbed by his love for?”
“I-I don’t…” Shen Qingqiu swallows again, harder this time, like he’s trying to choke something down. His eyes flit all over Luo Binghe’s face, terror and confusion and denial and — and something else — all warring within them. “I’m not disturbed— I don’t— Binghe, please, there is no one—”
Luo Binghe lets go of him just in time to let Shen Qingqiu throw himself back down, hanging halfway on the bed once more as he coughs up lily after lily, throat raw and burning and eyes blurry with tears.
There’s no one, there’s no one, there’s no one… The words echo in Luo Binghe’s mind, but he saw the way he looked at him. He saw that flicker of affection, of adoration, of pain. It’s nauseating. It’s fitting. Luo Binghe retreats. He stands slowly and walks around the bed, kneeling in front of where Shen Qingqiu hangs off the bed.
The mess in front of him is enough to make a weaker mean hurl. Luo Binghe is not weak anymore. He never will be again. He kneels in the mess, careless of the robes that are sure to stain. Careful, he reaches down and picks up one of the bloodied lilies, holding it up to inspect it as calmly as he can with the realization singing in his veins.
In the back of his head, Xin Mo slams at the walls he’s put up to keep its consciousness out of his mind.
“I know this disease, Shizun,” Luo Binghe tells him. He closes his fist around the lily and tosses it aside in one swift move, before surging forward to cradle Shen Qingqiu’s face in his hands. “It just gets worse the more you lie! Is the answer so abhorrent? Is it so disgusting? Shizun would rather die than admit it, even to himself?!”
Shen Qingqiu wants to snap back, wants to ask him what he’s talking about, wants to deny, deny, deny, deny— instead, he chokes another bloodied lily. He tries to cough it out, yanks his head out of Luo Binghe’s hands, and wheezes, coughs as hard as he can and— nothing. It’s stuck.
It won’t come out.
His blood turns to ice.
It won’t come out.
Oh, god, he’s going to die like this, isn’t he?
His eyes water and burn, and he squeezes them tightly shut, the garbled sound of his attempts at a plea mocking him. Clawed fingers press against his lips, prying them open, and Shen Qingqiu’s eyes snap open wide. Tears slip down his cheeks as Luo Binghe’s fingers force their way into his mouth and grip the flower stuck in his throat, refusing to come out.
He gags as Luo Binghe pulls the flower, impossibly gently, and then…
He can breathe again.
Shen Qingqiu gasps, his entire body heaving with the breath, and stares at the flower in Luo Binghe’s grasp. It’s an entire lily — stem, leaves, and all. And it came out of his throat. Shivers run down his spine.
Oh.
Oh, and he thought being human-sticked was an awful way to die.
Luo Binghe barks out a low, humorless laugh and tosses the flower away. “Shizun really would rather die than admit it…” He grabs Shen Qingqiu’s chin with his bloody hand, gripping tight. “Why won’t you just confess?!”
“I can’t!” Shen Qingqiu snaps back, voice hoarse. “I can’t—I can’t, I’m not—I’m—”
I’m straight! He doesn’t shout, despite the ever-present hysteria climbing higher and higher within him. This time, all that lodges itself in his throat is a sob, which he chokes back down desperately. He will not cry over this.
It’s just— his entire world view is kind of being flipped upside down, right now, and it is quite literally life or death for him to admit the one thing he’s always thought he knew for sure may just be a lie. And if that’s a lie, what else about himself doesn’t he know? What else is he wrong about?
But Luo Binghe is right in front of him, and he’s looking at him with feral eyes, but his claws haven’t once pierced his skin. He’s had all the opportunity but hasn’t so much as pinched his cruel old master. He pulled out that flower with the tenderness of a lover and Shen Qingqiu kind of wants to sob when all the thought brings is a bone-deep sort of yearning he never thought he could experience before.
I don’t love Luo Binghe! He wants to scream, he’s a man, I’m a man!
Instead, he tastes iron and petals. Petals that join the rest of his denial in the mess between the two of them.
Shen Qingqiu’s body sags, each breath coming with a shaky wheeze.
Fine, you win. He shuts his eyes tight as they can and rips his face out of Luo Binghe’s grip. His tears aren’t salty, they’re just…warm, wet, and mix unpleasantly with the metallic tang of his own blood.
“They’re for…they’re for Binghe.” There’s a sharp breath. But he’s not done. He takes a deep breath, thickens his face, and — to be certain it works — declares, “I’m in love with Luo Binghe.”
The room falls into silence, only broken by the mechanical, feminine sound of the System’s AI voice as it echoes out meaningless message after meaningless message.
[ Congratulations! Congratulations! Congratulations! Good things must be said thrice! Quest Status: Complete! Host has successfully completed emergency quest: Flower Language. ]
[ -600 Anger Points ]
[ -250 Heartbreak Points ]
{ +1,000 Protagonist Satisfaction Points ]
[ +300 B-Points ]
[ Continue the good work, host! Rewards come to those who put in the effort! Your bond with the protagonist is growing, who knows what could come next— ]
Shut the fuck up.
The System blinks out of existence with a beep mid-notification as Shen Qingqiu mutes the damn thing.
A low, wounded noise draws Shen Qingqiu’s tired attention back to Luo Binghe. He looks…wrecked. Shen Qingqiu swallows when their eyes meet. His demonic features are still out, but he looks more like a…like a kicked puppy than a big, bad demon lord on his way to revenge. Something in Shen Qingqiu’s chest squeezes at the sight.
“Shizun…loves me?”
He considers rolling back his words. Considers laughing it off, pretending he never said that. The words die on his tongue, however, when he sees the vulnerability all over his disciple’s face. He glances away, cheeks growing noticeably warmer, and gives a single, jerky nod.
“I—yes.”
Confusion washes over him, and Luo Binghe shakes his head. “But Shizun…” he furrows his brows. “You…Shizun pushed me. If you—why would you—?”
Shen Qingqiu bites his lip.
“This disciple is stupid and doesn’t understand,” Luo Binghe says, “if Shizun loves this one…why did he send me away?”
His voice trembles at the end, and his eyes glisten with the sheen of unshed tears. He looks, for all intents and purposes, more like a bullied maiden than a stallion protagonist. No— he looks like his little sheep.
Shen Qingqiu sucks in a breath. Oh, fuck.
“Binghe…” He wants to tell him he didn’t want to, wants to tell him he didn’t have a choice, that it was life or death for him and he was selfish and — he can’t. He can’t tell Binghe any of that. He can’t tell Binghe anything. All he can say is, “I’m sorry. I didn’t—I didn’t know what else to do, I…it was the wrong choice. I should’ve never—I should’ve just taken the—I’m sorry, Binghe. I’m so sorry.”
“Shizun regrets it?” Luo Binghe asks, lip quivering.
“More than anything,” he swears.
Luo Binghe breathes out a shaky exhale and Shen Qingqiu is moving before he can think. On his knees on the edge of the bed, he reaches out and grabs Luo Binghe by the shoulders, tugging him in close without minding the sticky and drying mess on the floor between them. Luo Binghe goes easily, sinking into his arms with trembling shoulders, immediately wrapping his arms around Shen Qingqiu’s waist and gripping the back of his robes like a vice. He buries his face in Shen Qingqiu’s chest, tucking his head under his chin.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, cradling the back of Binghe’s head with his hand and holding him close. He tucks his chin in, so his lips press lightly to the top of his hair and closes his eyes. “I’m so sorry, oh, Binghe…my Binghe… If I could go back, I’d do it all differently, I’d do it all right. I’d keep you safe, like I should’ve.”
His voice is still hoarse, rough and scratchy thanks to the damage the flowers did to his throat. It will take time to heal. There are more important things to focus on than that, though, for the time being. In his arms, Binghe shakes with quiet sobs, his tears dampening the front of Shen Qingqiu’s robes in a way that makes his heart ache.
He isn’t sure how long they stay like that, finding comfort in each other’s embrace despite the horrors it took to get there. Somewhere along the way, they’d migrated fully onto the bed, both stripped of their blood-stained outer-most layers and curled against one another’s bodies.
The moon is high in the sky by this point, the world moving on around them.
“Shizun,” Luo Binghe murmurs, breaking the tentative silence around them.
Shen Qingqiu hums, combing his fingers absentmindedly through Luo Binghe’s loose hair.
“Can I stay by your side forever?” he asks, voice small. “Can I…is that okay for me to ask?”
The hand in his hair stills. Shen Qingqiu slowly pulls back, just enough to look at Luo Binghe’s face. He lets his hand slide down to Luo Binghe’s cheek, cradling it like the finest, most precious porcelain this world could offer.
“Silly boy,” he murmurs. He leans in and presses his lips lightly to the space right between Luo Binghe’s brows, right where his zuiyin rests. “Binghe will never need to leave my side again. This master will fight anyone who dares say otherwise.”
When Shen Qingqiu pulls back, Luo Binghe is looking at him with stars in his eyes. Shen Qingqiu can’t help the way his mouth turns up at the corners with a soft smile. He parts his lips, ready to continue speaking, when Luo Binghe suddenly surged forward and pressed their lips together in a rough, clumsy, over-eager kiss.
Shen Qingqiu squeaks, eyes going wide and cheeks going crimson.
Luo Binghe retreats as quickly as he advanced, flushed all the way up to his ears and — ah! What is that about! Stallion protagonist, pa! He can’t even give a simple, chaste kiss without getting flustered! And what sort of kiss was that! It was clearly his first and — ohgod, was that Luo Binghe’s first kiss?
Did Shen Qingqiu just take the protagonist’s first kiss?
Oh, shit, oh. Oh. Well. It was…it was pretty endearing, that makes up for the skill.
“Shizun! Let’s get married!”
“Married?!” Shen Qingqiu sputters, pulling back with wide eyes. “Luo Binghe! We haven’t even—that’s—we just—!”
Luo Binghe’s lips jut out in a small pout and his brows furrow. “Shizun doesn’t want to get married…?”
“What?! Binghe, no, that’s not what I…” Shen Qingqiu sighs deeply and slumps forward. His forehead gently bonks against Binghe’s, who’s already got the hint of a smirk on his face. Oh, that little—! “We can talk about it in the morning.”
Luo Binghe blinks. Shen Qingqiu watches real-time as he processes his master’s words. When it finally clicks, his face lights up like a firework bursting in the sky.
“Shizun promises?”
Shen Qingqiu hums. “Yes, yes. Shizun promises…”
They have a lot more to talk about, anyway…what’s one more thing? At least that gives him a few hours to figure out how to explain to Binghe why they can’t just elope the moment he’s discovered to be alive by Cang Qiong.
Shen Qingqiu smiles softly to himself and tugs Luo Binghe just a bit closer, urging him to tuck his head back down under his chin so he can resume carding his fingers through his hair and working out the tangles.
Not…that it sounds like a terribly bad idea.