Chapter Text
When Liu Qingge awoke, in the dark of the LingXi caves, there is a coolness overlaying his usual warm qi, like the feel of a splash of water upon skin after a considerable time spent under the sun – refreshing, invigorating, and just a slight bit unsettling, mostly due to the fact that he didn’t know where the splash came from.
In Liu Qingge’s case, it took a while for the slowly cooling body on top of him, emitting the last of its body heat like the dying embers of a campfire, to register as the source of water - the splash, so to speak. And with careful, gentle (trembling) hands, he found the courage to lift up the body’s face, with its (soft) jet black hair, and its (hauntingly) beautiful figure, for even from the back one would surely recognize the bane of their existence for the many decades they have known each other.
Only, Liu Qingge cannot comprehend why his scumbag of a shixiong would be here in the caves, much less be on top of him for some reason.
(He can’t even bring himself to think of his name; an unknown, helpless voice begs him not to, and though he tries to ignore it, he heeds it this time)
This was Liu Qingge’s first mistake, the second being that had he listened closely, he would have heard the other man sigh wordlessly, that had he looked closely, he would have seen how the ever-present furrow in his brows had smoothed over, that had he paid close attention, he would’ve felt his shixiong’s palms slip away from his chest, that the other man’s heartbeat, already slowed down from his earlier sacrifice (not that Liu Qingge was aware of it, at present), become frighteningly close to stopping altogether.
Liu Qingge’s third mistake was setting his shixiong down beside him in a daze, and not immediately noticing the sword imbedded deep within the other man’s chest, just shy of the place where his heart should (would) be, instead looking around to survey his surroundings.
A weak glimmer somewhere to his right, and Liu Qingge hones in on it, the shimmer dimming the longer he stared, until at last the light died down. And still Liu Qingge doesn’t move, mind far away, thoughts flying too fast to catch. Liu Qingge finally deigns to listens to that helpless, unknown voice screaming somewhere from the back of his mind, from the moment he woke up, that something happened, something wrong, and his eyes (finally, finally) flit back to the body beside him, catching onto the engraving on the hilt of the sword he (finally, finally) sees, and a whole world of pain shoots up towards his brain from the phantom ache in the shape of a handprint pulsing from his diaphragm.
(Memories of erratic qi, cloying, dark, and suffocating, setting his entire being on fire – a shout – a flash of swords sparking and dancing and ricocheting around – pain, pain, painpainpain –– sticky warmth oozing from his fingers – a searing palm on his stomach - a crying, bloody, blurry visage above him yelling - and finally, finally, ice-cold sweeping over his inflamed meridians)
Echoes of “You brute!”, “I’ll kill you if you die!”, “Please… please live…,” bounce around his head as he screams himself hoarse, bombarded by the memories of the past few hours, and once Liu Qingge finally (finally) calms down, he hoists his shixiong up and gathers him into his arms, fleeing from the caves - not sparing a glance back, fighting off a wave of nausea, a pounding headache and ignoring the blood flowing from 5 of his orifices.
-
The minutes after that were a blur. He vaguely remembers startling a few Qiong Ding disciples into screaming bloody murder at the state of him and the body in his arms, and then he remembers tasting the rotten tang of demonic qi souring the air. He had to gently hand off his shixiong to a disciple and instruct him to fly to Qian Cao and have them look him over before gingerly pulling off Cheng Luan from the other man’s chest.
Afterwards, Liu Qingge goes on a rampage, descending the skies like a deity satiating its bloodlust - blood pouring from his eyes, dripping down his nose, his chin; hair untied and flowing wildly; robes unkempt, askew and bloody - he looked more like an evil spirit than the war god he was known for.
(What an ungainly sight he must’ve made, he only hopes that Mingyan hadn’t been there to see him)
He remembers the shock in the young demon girl’s face when she narrowly avoided being beheaded. He recalls her stuttering out a deal or some sort, and the fear in her eyes when he summoned (A thousand? Ten thousand?) sword glares, all poised at the fuckers for daring to storm into his sect while he’s here.
The carnage, the wreckage, the screams, and the moment where he actually sliced off the head of the demoness were lost to him, muted and dulled until he finally (finally) came to his senses, drenched in blood and streaked with demon viscera while - ironically enough - in the throes of another qi deviation, the fuel in his meridians burning cold and freezing hot.
Qi roiling, yin and yang sliding of each other like oil and water in tandem, Liu Qingge finally (finally) stumbles onto Cheng Luan and heads off to Qian Cao peak, calling over his shoulder some vague instructions for the clean-up and reporting. If he’s aware of all the fearful stares his appearance garners him, he takes no notice of them, his thoughts until now only on one man and his fickle fate.
-
He swoops in atop his sword at the infirmary, only hopping down once inside, merely glancing towards the harried disciple manning the reception desk before he wordlessly staggers in the hallway he is pointed at, alarming the disciples rushing about the place.
Again, Liu Qingge feels his control slipping away, giving way for the helpless voice to poison his mind with venom-filled terror, and Liu Qingge nearly falters at the palpable panic rising with the acid in his gut, coating his esophagus with the taste of iron and his tongue heavy with ash.
Gritting his teeth, he pushes away the feeling of impending doom gripping his ribcages painfully, and reaches the only open door at the end of the hallway, steeling himself with a deceptive calm that would fool no one, and walks in.
His entire world shatters with one look at the red around the rims of Mu Qingfang's eyes.
Mu Qingfang takes notice of him immediately, his glare sharpening his eyes into slits as he unsheathes his sword, standing in front of his (deceased) shixiong’s body. Liu Qingge takes in the ghastly pallor of his (lovely, dead) face, and his world crumbles even further when Mu Qingfang brandishes his sword at Liu Qingge’s face in desperate defiance.
“Shidi, haven’t you had enough?” Mu Qingfang intones monotonously, barely heard above the static in Liu Qingge’s ears. “Shen-shixiong, he never meant any of those things he– how could –“ Mu Qingfang’s eyes mist over. Liu Qingge feels afloat, adrift, untethered to his consciousness. Distantly, he feels perplexed, had his prickly shixiong actually make a friend out of their sect’s healer, for him to feel so strongly about his death?
Mu Qingfang, unaware of his shidi’s musings, paused to hiccup in a fresh wave of tears, and a valiant effort at keeping them in was done. Unfortunately, a few drops had gone over his lower eyelid, trailing down his cheeks. Liu Qingge stares, entranced.
Visibly composing himself, his shixiong wipes at his eyes, and goes back into stance.
“I have had access to Shen-shixiong’s records ever since he came to the sect. The damage, the scars, his pain; you know nothing of what he’s gone through,” Mu Qingfang laughs bitterly, the sound drawing a wince from Liu Qingge. “It took me years to finally (finally, Liu Qingge’s mind echoes) get him to warm up for even a simple check-up,” at this Mu Qingfang’s demeanor turns more hysterical, “I tried so hard to help him – I never believed the rumors you and Qi Qingqi and the rest of our martial siblings kept making up about him, he was-“ Mu Qingfang whimpers, no longer able to keep his tears from falling, the look on his face crestfallen.
“I just wanted to help him, and… and now…”
Mu Qingfang lets go of his sword as he falls to his knees, turning away from Liu Qingge towards their shixiong and cradling his limp hand, lifting it up to his face with a wretched expression, mournfully whispering broken apologies. Liu Qingge bristles, emotions stirred with an anger not his own. Shixiong hated apologies.
Then, Liu Qingge deflates, and begins his excuses with a weary sigh. The helpless voice is back in full force, only now he has identified what the unknown feeling tethered to it was. A big helping of guilt lashes out at the confines of Liu Qingge’s hoarse throat, and he utters a plea for reasoning to his kneeling shixiong.
For a while, sniffling and static were the only sounds that Liu Qingge could hear. Then the sniffling died down, and for what seemed like a shichen or more or less, Liu Qingge can’t be bothered to guess, Mu Qingfang finally raises his puffy eyes over to Liu Qingge and takes stock of his shidi’s appearance for the first time. The healer grimaces in disdain, standing up to root around in his qiankun sleeves, pulling out a couple of talismans. He whips one towards the war god, and it disintegrates before it even made contact. Liu Qingge looks down to find himself a little less bloody, and flashes a small, wary, grateful smile at his shixiong. Mu Qingfang sniffs before slapping him with two more of the cleaning talismans before deeming him clean enough.
Mu Qingfang turns to tuck in their (deceased) shixiong and gently places a stasis talisman on his forehead, before sweeping past Liu Qingge without a glance back at him. Liu Qingge takes a moment to just stare at his fallen shixiong, and startles at a cough from behind. Liu Qingge sheepishly shuffles out of the room under Mu Qinfang’s heated gaze. The healer closes the door, activating an array with a spark of qi, and walks away without another word, Liu Qingge close at his heels.
-
Once at his office, Mu Qingfang immediately sets out to prepare tea, beckoning at Liu Qingge to take a seat. The scent of medicinal herbs waft around the airy room. Mu Qingfang always took advantage of his big windows to let in as much natural light as he can. A large garden where plants used for the many medicinal concoctions sprawled beyond. Among them, a section was dedicated to a wide variety of chrysanthemums, which Liu Qingge gazes at sullenly.
A moment of silence falls over them before Mu Qingfang snaps at him to get on with his explanation. Liu Qingge shifts uncomfortably, not used to the animosity that the doctor was displaying towards him, and begins. “A qi deviation-“
Apparently, a bad choice of words. Mu Qingfang looks livid when he whips towards him, hands holding a teacup that he raises as if to throw at him, and Liu Qingge hurriedly shields himself from the incoming ceramic. A moment passes before the doctor lowers his arms, hands shakily placing the teacup down on the counter; Liu Qingge lowering his a beat later.
Another beat, and Mu Qingfang recovers composure enough to grit out, “even after having taken his life, you still dare blame Shen-shixiong for your actions, shidi?”
Liu Qingge pales, and quickly clarifies himself. “N-no, it was me. I had the qi deviation.”
At the lack of any flying teacups, Liu Qingge continues.
“I… I was being too hasty, and in my desperation to achieve a breakthrough, I had lost control of my qi, and it went haywire.” Liu Qingge cringes at the memory. “I had been… incapacitated, and my ruckus must’ve alerted,” he gestures vaguely, staunchly ignoring the glare the doctor was throwing him.
“This master warned Shen-shixiong that you were in the caves, but he was insistent, saying that the caves were big enough that you two were unlikely to cross paths while in there together,” Mu Qingfang snorts derisively, a flash of regret passing through his eyes as he finishes with his preparations. He takes the tray and places it on the table between them, before reaching out and grabbing Liu Qingge’s wrist. They still for a moment, letting the healer do his inspection, qi prodding about Liu Qingge’s meridians. A few minutes pass before he lets go, settling in his seat with a bitter look on his face.
“This master detected a large amount of Shen-shixiong’s qi signature present in yours,” he pours tea for the both of them, swirling his teacup around before setting it down without sipping. Liu Qingge is, admittedly, thirsty, but he’d be damned if he drank before the healer did, lest he actually poisoned the tea. With how hostile the doctor had been lately, it was a possibility he doesn’t want to risk.
Mu Qingfang notices his aborted motion for the cup, and smiles wryly up at the war god, likely guessing his thought process. “This Qingfang is quite meticulous, shidi. I would not confuse my stash of poison with my stash of medicine, especially when it comes to tea.”
Liu Qingge squints his eyes warily at the doctor. Finding no sign of deception, he picks up his cup and carefully takes a sip – and then downs the tea in one go, the warm liquid a balm for his raw throat. Mu Qingfang pours him another cup, and Liu Qingge resumes.
“My memories during the qi deviation itself are… hazy,” Mu Qingfang’s eyes narrow, assessing.
“I remember shouting, from the both of us, and we fought with our swords at some point,” at this Liu Qingge straightens up, remembering Xiu Ya’s light flickering away some moments after he awoke, lying a few cun away from where he and his shixiong were laying. At Mu Qingfang’s eyebrow raise, he continues.
“He struck me on my lower dantian, and I… I stabbed him.” One of his hands travel towards the area, covering the feel of the handprint with his own. “And he circulated my qi until I passed out.”
“I woke up feeling sore, but it was so mild that I didn’t even realize it.” Liu Qingge rubs his hands up and down his arms, unable to meet the healer’s drilling, accusatory gaze. “I – shixiong he, he saved this one’s life.”
There was a pause, before Mu Qingfang looked away, forlorn. He grabs his cup again, and sips at his tea this time. Liu Qingge drinks from his own cup quietly, gazing out the window to the Qian Cao herb garden, in full view from their Peak Lord’s office.
Liu Qingge understands; no more words needed saying between them.
-
After cleaning himself up and donning a cleaner set of robes, Liu Qingge finds himself outside the LingXi caves, dread coating his hands in cold sweat, and his nape hairs standing on end. Nevertheless, he marches in, determined to retrieve his (deceased, daring, lovely, dead) shixiong’s filial sword.
Whilst taking tea with Mu Qingfang, they’d discuss how best to break the news to their shixiong’s disciples and, more worryingly, to Yue Qingyuan.
Although the one-sided enmity between them was evident, it was clear to anyone that the two had shared history, deeper than any of their own martial siblings would ever know about. Nonetheless, Yue Qingyuan outwardly cared a lot about the Qing Jing Peak Lord, and thusly, his death would definitely produce a devastating reaction from their Sect Leader.
As Liu Qingge traipsed through the caves, a bundle of something at one of the caverns caught his eye.
The cavern was lush with moss at its walls, with a ceiling rock formation dripping water onto the clear pond at the center, and another rock jutting upwards from it. Various flora littered the cave floor as Liu Qingge crossed over to where the bundle was laying innocuously.
He freezes, atop the bundle is an oh-so-familiar fan that could only ever belong to the late Qing Jing Lord. With trembling hands he reaches out and plucks it up. Opening it reveals an embroidered chrysanthemum against a painted backdrop of bamboo, a lonesome crane sweeping by overhead.
Liu Qingge doesn’t know why the fan sends him into the qi deviation that’s been dogging him this entire, wretched day, but he awakes again, hours later, entire body in pain and covered once again in blood. He groans, attempting to sit up, then giving up and just laying back on the ground with a thud. He winces from the pain, and does nothing but stare at the ceiling. It must be nighttime now, for the moss, with its verdant dark green, had begun glowing in an effervescent, lighter shade.
The color of bamboo, the war god remarks. Shixiong sure knows how to pick the best place to meditate in.
Liu Qingge doesn’t know how much time he spends in that cavern, staring at the glowing moss, thumbing at the fan that he never let go of despite convulsing for an inordinate amount of time. For now, he just wants peace. Peace and quiet, and letting himself mourn a fallen (scum? Lech? Lazy? After today, he doesn’t know anymore, realizing too late that he never knew anything in the first place) martial brother. One who he had belatedly realized he never wanted to kill or wished genuine death on in the first place.
Xiu Ya could wait for tomorrow. Zhangmen-shixiong could wait for tomorrow. His sister, his other martial siblings, the Qing Jing disciples, Mu Qingfang’s glares – they could all wait for tomorrow.
For now, he just wants to stop thinking, and let the residual yin qi - courtesy of his most complicated (beautiful) shixiong - run all over him, through him, inside him. Like a splash of water after a particularly long time under the sun.