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When Luo Binghe finally saw Shen Qingqiu again after clawing his way out of the Endless Abyss, alive and well in Jinlan City (minus the Without A Cure), he did not know how to feel.

Of course, he had known he would see his shizun again—he had come to the city specifically so he could see him, but once he actually had, it was like all rational thought left his body. Contrary to popular belief, though, once he processed the situation, he had been so happy when he realized who was there, walking in on him and the Huan Hua disciples.

Overjoyed, even.

Despite the betrayal he had been put through, he had been happy to see his shizun again.

Happy for the opportunity to get answers. For the opportunity to clear things up and fix things. To confront him, calm and composedly, and give him a change to explain...

So, Binghe restrained himself.

He didn’t run over to him and beg him to take him back or beg to know why he’d been thrown away and if he could come home. He didn’t break into tears like a softhearted maiden and out him to everyone as the one who shoved Binghe down into that hell—he had to have had a reason.

After all the gentleness he’d treated Binghe with, to throw him down to cruelly, he had to have a reason.

And Binghe would find out!

And he would get stronger, no matter what it took, and show Shizun just how proud he could be of his Binghe.

Luo Binghe acted with decorum the whole time—soft smiles and a gentle voice, even ignoring the brash behavior of the Huan Hua disciples despite how bold and ignorant they were to show such open hostility his dear shizun in front of him. Binghe even showed off the knowledge that Shizun had taught him in his Qing Jing days!

How proud would he be to hear that!

Shizun, however, had looked like he couldn’t get away from Binghe faster and it hurt.

The entire time, he was antsy even as he stood stock-still. Binghe would read him so well, they worked so good together because he could read him so well. One did not spend countless days attending to their shizun to not learn how to read him like a children’s book! And his Shizun, Shen Qingqiu, looked ready to bolt at first chance the entire time they were near one another, no matter how polite or kind or knowledgeable Binghe was.

He could hardly even look at him.

It didn’t make him crumble and confess he wanted him back at the Peak, back at their house, like Binghe secretly hoped and prayed. No, it just proved he hated him, proved he was disgusted by him, simply for the fact that he was a Heavenly Demon.

Not just a demon—no, any other demon would have been fine—but because he was half Heavenly Demon specifically.

The Huan Hua disciples behind him acted as if Shizun was mud on their shoe, like he’d gravely offended them, even if they didn’t outright say it. Their attitude was enough, their faux politeness was enough. They did not like his shizun. His shizun who looked ready to flee behind his pristine, cold mask and lightly fluttering fan.

He couldn’t stand them. Couldn’t stand their blatant distaste for his shizun.

Binghe admitted he did not entirely know how the misunderstanding of his feelings for Shen Qingqiu occurred when he arrived at Huan Hua Palace and gave his unfinished story, but he had some short idea, some speculation. Like maybe it was because he refused to talk about what happened that led to his arrival or how they found him, or maybe it was because he’d gone there rather than home…

But maybe it was a mistake to go there at all, he thought at times. Maybe it was a betrayal to his shizun.

After Shizun betrayed him so cruelly, though, was a little of his own not owed?

It was necessary for his plan to be in Huan Hua Palace.

He needed to rise to the top, needed to show Shizun just how great he could be, just how little his blood mattered. How he could be good, how he could be strong, how he could be righteous, how he could be powerful, how he could protect himself, how he could protect him.

Protect the man who shoved him to his doom…

Ah, but there had been regret—just the smallest sliver but regret nonetheless—on his face when Binghe fell. Horror, panic, regret peeking through that perfect, iron mask he wore like a second skin when it cracked for just a second.

And Binghe had latched onto that look like a lifeline.

The thing was, he really had planned on questioning Shizun calm and composedly as stated before. He really had meant for things to do down without much fanfare—he just wanted to understand what had happened, why he was so awful that Shizun felt he couldn’t do anything but shove him into the Abyss as his reaction.

He wanted to understand his thoughts, understand his actions, if it was possible.

He just wanted to know if he really meant it.

If it was an accident, if it was a momentary lapse of extremely poor-judgement, or if he really meant to do it for no other reason than he couldn’t bear to see a Heavenly Demon alive and under his tutelage.

Binghe wanted to forgive him. Wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, wanted to listen to his side of the story, wanted to call upon those big, wet tears and sob into his arms like a child again and beg Shen Qingqiu to love him like he loved Shen Qingqiu. Because despite how wicked it may be for him to love the man who sent him falling to what very well could have been his death, he did.

Oh, gods, he really, truly did.

He looked at Shizun—looked at Shen Qingqiu—and he didn’t think of the feeling of Xiu Ya piercing his chest or the cold look on his face as he let Binghe fall. No, despite it all, he thought of the brief regret and panic that flickered there momentarily. He thought of soft pats on his head and gentle smiles hidden behind various fans. He thought of all the soft and kind ways Shizun had treated him, thought of the good before he thought of the bad.

Thought of hands that could heal as well as hurt.

Thought of words that could save as well as damn.

And he loved him, all of him, the good and the bad, and he didn’t care how crazy it made him look. How crazy he must have been, to love the man and want to be loved by the man who shoved him into the Endless Abyss, unknowing of the fact he would return three years later stronger than ever.

He didn’t care.

Luo Binghe did not care.

Fuck it all, he really didn’t.

He just wanted to be loved.

Just wanted his love returned by the man who held his heart and life in the palm of his hand so unwittingly, so obliviously.

He just wanted to be loved.

And so, he wanted to understand. Wanted to hear the words from his shizun’s own mouth, his own lips—needed to hear the “I hate you, Luo Binghe” for himself to just give up. Though, deep down, he knew even if he did, he still wouldn’t.

This all-consuming, overwhelming anger, betrayal, pain, heartbreak, and ever-persevering love and need to be loved would just shove him forward harder and harder until he snapped and lost it all and—

And Luo Binghe was scared.

Terrified.

His hands, despite himself, trembled as he stood outside Shen Qingqiu’s inn door and tried to gather all the courage in the world to face him. He felt like he’d been launched back years in the past, once again standing outside that bamboo house they shared, still unsure if he truly was allowed to come in and stay in…

That was to say, he felt like a child. A trembling, frightened child, who wanted nothing more than to run into a warm embrace and sob in ways he hadn’t let himself since he first landed in that monster-ridden hellscape.

He wouldn’t do that, though. No, not when he was here for answers. Here to show Shizun how strong he’d become.

Binghe took a deep breath to compose himself, then raised his fist to the door and knocked twice. Firmly. With a touch neither too light nor too heavy.

This was it. He was going to get his answers. He was going to stay calm, he was going to stay composed, he would not let his emotions get the better of him. He would find out the truth. He would—

“Liu-shidi?”

Luo Binghe’s blood ran cold the moment the name was spoken from the other side of the door, so hopeful and expectant.

Every single promise he just made to himself flew out the window along with his mind and ability to think clearly. He shoved the doors open forcefully, all the hurt and betrayal shooting to the forefront of his mind, clouding his judgement and rational.

The middle of the night, the middle of the night, and he’s calling for Liu Qingge?

What about him?

Did he ever call for him?!

No! No, he didn’t! He pushed him into the Abyss! Of course, Shizun didn’t call for him!

Why would he?

Why would he?

When the doors burst open and Binghe stepped in, exterior calm while internally he raged.

His shizun stood beside a table, pale as a ghost as his eyes fell on his disciple—or, rather, ex-disciple. Not that Binghe would ever address himself that way. Shizun could damn him for eternity, curse him into the dirt, but he would still call himself his disciple even if only to spite him. Proud of his teachings and too fond of their memories to wash them away for anything.

“Hello, Shizun,” Binghe greeted, voice disturbingly level.

He barely trusted himself to speak, but to his own surprise, his voice didn’t betray his inner turmoil.

Impossibly, Shizun paled further. Binghe stepped into the room, with slow and steady breaths to keep himself from snapping then and there. Liu Qingge, he called for Liu Qingge!

Could Liu Qingge help him as good as Binghe could????

No.

No one could help Shizun like Binghe could. But Shizun didn’t want his help. A bitter taste rose in his mouth, a bitter resentment—for who he didn’t know, and he shoved the feeling back down along with his rising heartbreak.

“Shizun never calls for this disciple so sweetly anymore,” he commented as if he were merely stating the weather, ignoring the twinge of hurt that seeped into the words. A wry smile pulled at his lips. “This humble one wonders, just how far does Shizun’s hatred run?”

Shizun didn’t answer and his hand twitched at his side, as if aching to grab for Xiu Ya but restraining himself, as Binghe crossed the floor to him with slow steps.

He didn’t move fast, and he kept his breaths even. Trying desperately to calm himself down before he got to him.

It was barely working.

The anger and grief simmering in him was just about ready to boil over the longer he watched his shizun stare silently at him, gaping at him with something in his eyes he couldn’t place.

Binghe stopped right in front of him and tilted his head to the side. He looked thinner than when he last saw him, now that he looked so closely. Looked tired, exhausted even. Shizun’s hands clenched tightly at his sides, it was like he was staring at a ghost. And when Binghe raised a hand, just wanting to touch him, with barely trembling fingers—maybe in anger, maybe in something else—Shizun looked ready to flee at any moment, a hairsbreadth from turning tail and running.

But he didn’t run, and maybe that was more devastating.

Yes. Yes, it was more devastating.

More devastating, more soul-crushing, more heart-shattering—because he flinched.

The moment Luo Binghe lifted a hand to his face, inches from touching him, his shizun, Shen Qingqiu, poised and aloof and composed and fearless Peak Lord Shen Qingqiu, flinched.

Because of him.

And, oh, if that didn’t hurt.

Binghe dropped his hand and stumbled a step back, faltering, his heart in his throat.

He looked closer now, with a clearer gaze not clouded by his anger, not clouded by his overwhelming need to know what did he do wrong? Why did he push him? Why? Whywhywhywhywhy—

Binghe swallowed hard. His heart sank but his throat stayed thick as if it were lodged tightly there still.

The look in his shizun’s eyes was not one of disgust, not one of hatred, not one of condemnation. It was something much worse. It was something that made Luo Binghe’s stomach church wickedly as nausea rolled over him in harsh waves at realisation.

Luo Binghe, for all that he was, was not an idiot.

Luo Binghe knew what hatred and disgust looked like.

This was not that.

This was fear.

It was pure, unadulterated panic. And Shen Qingqiu looked damn near crazed with it.

“Shizun…?” Binghe asked, his voice coming out weaker and smaller than he ever wanted around Shizun when he was trying to show him how much stronger he was now. He couldn’t help it, though. And he couldn’t help the way his brows furrowed, hand hovering halfway between risen and at his side—uncertain.

He was just so…so put out by the reaction.

He expected screaming, shouting, pushing—anger, hatred, disgust—not…not this.

Not fear.

Not panic.

Not flinching.

Shizun was frozen in front of him, like a statue. The only thing that gave away he was alive was the heavy rise and fall of his chest in uneven, labored breaths. It was a sight Luo Binghe never wanted to see. The sheer terror in his eyes, the way he didn’t tear his gaze away from Binghe as if something terrible would happen if he did, the shaking of his breath—everything.

This was not Shen Qingqiu, the cold, aloof Peak Lord standing before him. This was Shen Qingqiu, the man. This was Shen Qingqiu, caught unawares and laid bare and naked with no mask to hide himself behind.

“Binghe—”

The name fell from Shizun’s lips almost as if by accident, barely audible and cut off immediately as a pained look flickered in his usually cool, clear-headed eyes. It was gut-wrenching, the way he said it. The plea in his breathless whisper stabbing Luo Binghe in the chest, the way he snapped his mouth shut after twisting the blade.

His eyes flicked to the window and Luo Binghe guessed his next move before he could even think it. A hand shot out and grabbed Shen Qingqiu’s wrist, drawing a sharp, gasping inhale and making his gaze snap back to Binghe—wide like an animal caught in a trap.

Binghe loosened his grip just slightly, praying the action showed his shizun he didn’t want to hurt him.

Did he really think he would? Binghe couldn’t help feeling hurt at the thought. He would never hurt him… Even if Shizun hurt him, he would never hurt Shizun.

“Does Shizun truly think of fleeing?” he asked, quiet and with a level of emotion in his voice that made him cringe internally. He swore wasn’t going to be weak, so why was his voice so tiny and why were his eyes growing hot? It was too much; it was too much. He just—Binghe took a deep, trembling breath and tightened his grip once more. “Shizun…this disciple missed you. Did Shizun miss this disciple?”

He couldn’t deny the hope, the pleading, in his voice even if he tried. A complicated look came over Shizun and his brows furrowed. He didn’t answer. He stopped trying to flee, though. There was distrust in the way he held himself, wary caution, and lingering fear—like he thought Binghe would snap any second…

Did he think Binghe a beast?

“Binghe! No!” Shizun gasped, horrified, and Luo Binghe frowned before it dawned on him.

Ah, he had asked that aloud… That—he hadn’t meant to do that. Still, though, the almost instinctual reaction from his shizun made his aching heart flutter momentarily. Shizun seemed to remember himself quickly, however, and snapped his mouth shut, straightening up. He was trying to close himself off.

Binghe recognized the signs. He’d known him so long, after all. He saw him fighting to put those walls back up, but that act of Peak Lord back up.

He wouldn’t allow it.

Before thinking it through, Binghe dragged Shen Qingqiu across the room and pushed him down onto the bed, so he was sitting on the edge. The panic returned to Shizun’s face for a moment when Binghe fixed himself on his lap. He straddled his lap, facing him with a pounding heart and a murmured, “forgive this one’s impropriety…”

Shizun sputtered slightly, eyes going wide. “Luo Binghe! This is entirely inappropriate of—”

“Do you hate me?” Binghe blurted out, forgetting himself and his pronouns in his outburst, unable to hold back the question burning on his mind. When Shizun stopped, expression stunned, he swallowed hard and tried again. Tried to gain back the confidence he had before. “Shi-Shizun must truly hate this unruly disciple of his. Does he not wonder how this one escaped the Abyss?”

It was the wrong thing to say.

Shizun’s face contorted into one of pain and guilt and he turned his head, refusing to look at Binghe. As if it hurt to look at him. Which…didn’t make any sense—it didn’t…it didn’t make sense. Why—that expression—Binghe reached up and grabbed Shen Qingqiu by the chin, turning his head back and forcing his shizun to look at him.

Yes. Yes, that’s what it was. Guilt. Sorrow. Remorse.

Binghe’s heart ached.

“Why—why does Shizun look like that?” he choked out. “Why does Shizun look like—you—Shizun pushed this disciple with his own hands! Does he—why does he look so burdened? Does…does Shizun regret it?” He paused, took a shuddering, quaking breath, then asked, voice barely audible, “do you regret it?”

There was a sharp intake of breath. Then, gentle, familiar hands cupping his cheeks and thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. It was only then he registered the traitorous dampness of tears on his face. He was crying. He swore he wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t be weak. But the panic melted from Shizun’s face as he wiped his cheeks, his eyes were still pained and guilt-ridden, but in more of a heartbroken way than the frightened way of before.

So, Binghe sniffed, inhaled shakily, and blinked rapidly, tears heavy on his lashes and threatening to spill from his eyes faster than Shen Qingqiu could wipe them away.

“Oh, Binghe…” Shizun whispered, voice unbearably soft.

And he crumbled.

A broken sob tore from his throat despite his attempts to bite it back and he slumped against Shizun’s chest, fat tears rolling down his face as another sob already built.

It was the worst sound he’d ever made.

The sound, full of every last bit of pain, heartbreak, betrayal, and sorrow he’s felt over the past three years, echoed through the room. Horrible, broken, heart-shattering, wretched sobs shook his entire body as Shizun’s hands fell from his face so his arms could wrap around him in a long-overdue embrace and hold him against his chest.

Despite every promise he made himself that he wouldn’t, Binghe sobbed and sobbed and sobbed into Shen Qingqiu’s chest, clinging to his robes, to him, like he would die if he let go for even the briefest moment.

He sobbed until his voice was hoarse and his eyes were painfully dry, his shizun whispering soft words of comfort into his hair the entire time, just holding him and rubbing circles into his back like he was a child again. And gods, it was the deepest form of comfort, but it only made him sob harder.

To be treated so gently, so tenderly, by the one who hurt him so badly in the first place.

It was almost laughable. Except it wasn’t, because gods, this was all Binghe wanted. To be held by his shizun again. To be treated this sweetly once more. To feel cared for.

To feel loved.

“This master missed Binghe every single day.” The words were sudden, choked out like they were physically painful to say, and quiet.

To Binghe, though, they were all too clear. He inhaled sharply and pulled away, eyes wide and hands still clutching the front of his shizun’s robes with a tight grip.

“Shizun…missed me?” he whispered, voice hoarse and rough from all the crying. Before he could answer, though, Binghe shook his head. “But Shizun threw this disciple away—how could he—?”

He cut himself off, unable to finish the question. It had been just what he wanted to hear but he hadn’t expected how hard it would be to believe Shen Qingqiu. Hadn’t expected how hard it would be to trust him.

His shizun winced visibly at his words, though, and bowed his head. There was something about Shizun that looked so…pitiful like this. The exhaustion Binghe had noticed before only seemed amplified, and the paleness from when he first walked in hadn’t receded either. It was terrifying how terrible Shizun looked—terrifying how even in this awful state, Binghe still thought he looked beautiful.

“This master—” Shizun cut himself off, cringing, and changed tracks with hesitancy. “…I…missed Binghe, mourned Binghe… There were—how do I—there were circumstances that…limited my choices when Binghe was forcefully awakened so suddenly. I had to—no, that’s—I had a choice, I did, but I didn’t make the right one. I chose to save myself and let that stupid—” His explanation turned to rambling for a moment, a distant look in his eyes, before he suddenly snapped back as if burned and cleared his throat.

Then, tentatively, a slight fear in his voice—though for what Binghe didn’t know, he continued. “There were other forces at hand, Binghe, and I can’t…you deserve to know more, but I can’t tell you more—I want to, this master wants to, but he—I can’t.”

Shizun took a heavy, trembling breath and smiled ever so faintly. “But this master knew Binghe would come back. Not so soon, oh, no, this clever Binghe—”

Binghe’s head was reeling from the information thrown at him so abruptly, but he was still aware enough to notice the tell-tale infection on Shizun’s hand when it raised once more to his face as he spoke. He cut Shen Qingqiu off with a sharp gasp and a worried, “Shizun!”

Catching Shizun’s wrist in his hand, Binghe stared in horror at the red standing out in stark contrast against his skin.

“The sower…why didn’t Shizun say anything?!” Binghe snapped, tone harsher than he meant it to be. “When did it infect you? Is it spreading? Let me help! I can—” he cut himself off before he could say cure it. Because could he?

His blood could, but it would need to be inside Shizun, and…well, he didn’t see him willingly taking in the blood of a Heavenly Demon anytime soon. Rather, he didn’t see him willingly taking in the blood of anyone anytime soon. If he did…well, that was a concern for another time. Binghe swallowed hard, concern flooding him and distracting him from the situation at hand.

He could just—he could force him to drink his blood and then use it to…no, that would ruin the tentative trust he’d built with him this night. But he needed to…he couldn’t just let him suffer!

“Binghe, breathe,” Shizun urged gently. He didn’t try to pull his hand from Binghe’s grip. His brows were furrowed, but he was calm on the outside. Only his eyes, flooded with barely concealed worry, betrayed him. “This master is just fine. Binghe should not worry about me. I…”

There was something in the way he said it. Something about the emphasis, whether intentional or not. Something that whispered I don’t deserve your concern where Shizun said nothing. Something that made Binghe’s stomach churn uncomfortably and his heart squeeze tight in his chest. Something in his eyes, in his voice, in his body language that said I deserve this.

And Binghe couldn’t fucking stand it.

He bit down on the inside of his cheek, hard, and surged forward, crashing his lips against Shen Qingqiu’s.

It was messy, it was rough, and it was bad, but the purpose of the kiss wasn’t just to kiss.

No, the moment Shizun’s mouth opened in a shocked gasp, Binghe pushed even closer and shoved his tongue past his cracked lips. The warm, metallic taste transferred from his mouth to Shen Qingqiu’s, and he stayed there, glued to his mouth, kissing him with surging anger at the self-loathing in his voice before and a love he couldn’t shake no matter how hard he tried, until he felt his shizun swallow the blood.

Then, staying a moment longer to savor the feeling of Shizun’s lips warm against his, the kiss grew softer—although still messy and inexperienced—before he finally pulled back with a heavy breath and only slightly crazed eyes to look at his dazed, stunned Shizun.

Something he’d wanted to do for so long, tainted by the fact he was doing it with an ulterior motive… Binghe didn’t know how to feel, ashamed he’d resorted to the very thing Shizun likely expected from him or thrilled he got to feel those tempting lips against his even once.

The silence between them was stifling, the only sound being their heavy breaths. Then, slowly, realisation dawned on Shizun’s face. And once it did, a myriad of emotions flooded his eyes. Horror, panic, confusion, something Binghe couldn’t quite identify because it was gone too damn fast.

He had more important things to focus on, though, than fleeting emotions he couldn’t decipher in the brief moment they were shown. Luo Binghe took a deep breath and, before Shizun could open his mouth and start protesting his actions—he knew it was wrong, he knew, okay, but it was necessary—he put the blood parasites he’d made him ingest to work.

He watched Shizun’s face pinch in discomfort, fear flickering on his face before he seemed to realize the blood inside him was helping him and blinked, fear replaced with shock and confusion and something else. Something like…denial?

Ah, how strange…

Binghe couldn’t even focus on that strangeness, though. No, and maybe it was terrible, but the only thing Binghe could think about as he carefully used his blood to cure the infection on his hand, was how much he loved this version of his shizun. The expressive, open, undisguised version of him.

The Shen Qingqiu who wore everything on his sleeve, rather than the one who hid behind the cold, pristine mask.

Sure, he could read him either way, but to have him openly show these things, even if it was just because he’d been caught off guard… Luo Binghe swallowed hard.

“Begging forgiveness, Shizun,” he murmured when he finished, not meeting Shen Qingqiu’s eyes and shifting slightly where he still straddled his lap. It was entirely inappropriate and if anyone walked in, they’d absolutely get the wrong idea. “This disciple saw no other way to convince Shizun to accept his help in curing the infection.”

Shizun stared at him, gaping, silent.

Now that the threat had passed, however, Binghe’s attention fell back to the matter at hand. Back to why he came to find Shizun in the first place. And finally, finally, he processed the explanation he’d given before Binghe noticed the infection on him.

And something about it felt…wrong.

“Shizun…mourned for Binghe?” he asked after a few moments, quiet.

The question snapped Shizun back to reality, his eyes widening. Probably from the sudden yank back to their previous conversation. Luo Binghe didn’t give him time to answer, though. He pushed forward.

“Shizun said he knew this disciple would come back,” he pressed. “Shizun didn’t want to push him? Shizun—shizun doesn’t…hate this disciple…?”

“This master…I…” Shen Qingqiu hesitated, eyes flicking around the room. Binghe didn’t like that. Didn’t like how he didn’t look at him. He reached up and grabbed his face in his hands once more, cradling his cheeks and making those brilliant eyes snap back to him in an instant.

When their gazes met, Binghe tilted his head down slightly.

“Shizun said…there were other forces at work,” he started hesitantly, “said he can’t explain anymore…did—did someone force Shizun to push me? Did someone threaten Shizun?”

Shen Qingqiu sucked in a sharp breath, confirming without confirming what Binghe feared. Luo Binghe’s chest grew tight, and his throat grew dry. Someone was controlling his shizun.

“Binghe, this master…really cannot say anymore,” Shizun insisted, voice guilt-ridden. “Binghe deserves more, so much more…but I—this—I can’t say anymore.”

And gods, it sounded like he was in pain even as he said it. Sounded like the was scared.

Yet, still, he apologised.

“This master is so sorry, Binghe, I’m so—there is no apology deep enough for the pain and trauma this master has put you through,” he whispered. Binghe swore he saw a glittering wetness rise in the corners of his eyes, but Shizun closed his eyes before he could really tell if he was imagining it or not. He took a shaking breath. Leaned his head forward so their foreheads touched. “I’m so sorry.”

It was so raw, so sincere. Binghe swore he could feel tears burning his eyes once more, despite the fact he’d sobbed himself dry earlier. Someone was controlling Shizun so much that it terrified him to even speak about them. Someone was hurting his shizun. Forcing him to hurt Binghe.

It both terrified and infuriated Binghe to learn that there was someone who had such a strong hold and control over the man he looked up to and adored so much.

The man who seemed so unshakeable, damn near trembling under his fingers as they sat chest to chest, forehead to forehead. It wasn’t—it was wrong. It was so wrong.

“I didn’t—I shouldn’t have—” Shizun cut himself off, quickly rambled something Binghe didn’t understand—a language he’d never heard—before he took another deep breath and slowly opened his eyes.

His lashes were damp, Binghe could see from so close.

A lump formed in his throat.

His strong, unfaltering, unshakeable Shizun was crying, or more accurately, trying not to cry.

“Binghe…” It was all he said. Just his name, just once. Nothing more. It made Binghe’s heart jump. The wrecked, hoarse way he whispered it… It wasn’t a tone he ever wanted to hear again, even saying his name. When he spoke again, it was with a steady voice once more.

“Binghe did nothing wrong,” Shizun swore to him, firm and unwavering in his declaration as he held Luo Binghe’s gaze. There was a certain fire in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “Demon, Heavenly Demon, human—no matter what he is, Binghe chooses who he becomes. Good, bad, somewhere in between. It is not pre-determined. And this master has never hated you. Ever. He said foolish, terrible, untrue things in a moment of panic and…” he paused, trailed off.

Then, voice low and gaze lowered, he added, “there is nothing that can make better what I’ve done. It was—is…unforgivable.”

Unforgivable, he said.

And yes, Binghe would live with the trauma of it for the rest of his life—maybe that trauma would shape who he became, maybe he would eventually work through it and be able to think of his days in the Abyss without bile rising in his throat and panic churning in his gut. That was undetermined, so far.

Unforgivable, Shizun said, though. Yet, Binghe found himself wanting to forgive him. It was awful, yes, and it was…unspeakable. Yet, still, the way Shizun froze when he mentioned the force controlling him, the way he so deeply and sincerely regretted his actions and missed him…

Binghe wanted so badly, so deeply to forgive him.

And it would take time, he knew, to forgive him fully.

He had been out for a while, yes, but the wounds were still raw. And even though there were outside forces at play, it was still Shizun’s sword through his chest and his hands by which he fell.

And it would take time to heal from that.

Even if his secret hopes and wishes were proven true—Shizun didn’t hate him, he missed him and even knew he would be okay and come out safe—it would take time to heal. But Shizun could help him through it. They could help each other. They could heal together. They could…they could find a new normal together, and they could heal their trauma and wounds with each other’s help.

If only Shizun would open up to him, would open to the idea, would accept him.

If only Shizun would let him come home.

He had a plan, sure, but every day he longed for that little bamboo house and if he could go back…he would in a heartbeat. In less than a heartbeat!

Binghe shifted slightly and let his forehead fall to the side to Shizun’s shoulder, dropping his hands from his shizun’s face to wrap around his waist instead. And he held him.

He just held him.

Luo Binghe hugged Shen Qingqiu so tightly, like it was the last time he would ever see him, pressing their bodies close as possible. He wouldn’t ever let Shizun throw him away again, no matter what this person having the nerve to control his Shizun wanted. He wouldn’t ever let him go or let him let Binghe go.

Never again.

Oh, gods, never.

In his arms, Shizun stiffened for the briefest moment, before he slumped into his embrace. It was the most reassuring feeling. The way Shizun’s arms wound around his next and pulled him even closer, the way his head turned, and his face pressed into his hair, the way his lips pressed against his curls as he worked to steady his breathing, the way his fists clutched the back of Luo Binghe’s robes so, so tightly…

Binghe’s breath hitched, and he blinked rapidly away the tears pooling once more, burying his face in Shen Qingqiu’s neck and inhaling deeply.

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that.

Twice, he counted, they’d held each other like this twice in one night for who knew how long.

Twice they’d held each other like lovers, if Binghe dared be bold.

Twice.

Binghe had come to Shizun’s room expecting to be thrown out and shouted at and condemned at first glance—he’d instead been held by him so intimately, so closely, twice.

It was almost dizzying. So much had happened in the short span of one night…

When Luo Binghe finally pulled back, it was to find Shen Qingqiu staring at him with a conflicted, confused expression on his face once more. It was a softer look, but somehow resembled the expression he’d made earlier, after Binghe kissed him. That look of trying to understand something deeper, something Binghe didn’t know.

And he must have finally understood because that look changed again into a more thoughtful look.

A look of realisation slowly dawning, followed by denial, then another, final wave of slow acceptance.

The same kind of look a person got when the final clue was finally found, and they cracked the case but couldn’t believe the answer despite all the keys pointing right at it.

A startled, soft, look of belated comprehension.

Then, he let out a small, dazed, “oh…”

The way he looked at Binghe changed after that. A curious sort of glint in his pretty eyes, and something he’d never seen in his shizun. Something simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar.

But no, it wasn’t accurate to say he’d never seen it, the more he looked.

No, he’d seen glints of it—flashes—of the same look but not the same look, when he was younger and he did something particularly impressive, and he was proud. A look of fondness, he wanted to say, but this was deeper than that old fondness he used to see. And that’s where the unfamiliarity came in.

It wasn’t the same as the look he caught glimpses of in his youth, because it was more, it was deeper, it was…

“Shizun?” he asked softly, cautiously, as if he would spook Shen Qingqiu by speaking too loud or fast, “does…what is Shizun thinking…?”

Shizun didn’t answer right away. He tilted his head to the side and furrowed his brows, but he didn’t answer. He didn’t shove Binghe off his lap, though, and he didn’t even unwind his arms from where they were draped around his shoulders. He just…stared at him, like he was something…new.

He stared at Binghe like he was something brilliant.

It sent Binghe’s heart pounding in his chest faster and faster the longer he looked.

“Binghe’s changed so much,” Shizun finally murmured, voice a mix of awe and remorse.

It was a strange tone that tugged at Binghe’s heartstrings and made him press impossibly closer.

He expected to be gently pushed back, forced to put space between them, but he wasn’t… Shizun only smiled—a faint, barely there, flicker of a smile but a smile, still. Shizun moved one hand from where it clutched the back of his robes to his face, cradling his cheek gently instead—a mimicry of what he’d done earlier, only this time there were no tears to wipe.

“Binghe is destined for so much greatness,” he told him, with such bone-rattling confidence that Luo Binghe almost thought he had foreseen the future and was giving his premonition. A familiar thumb brushed over his cheekbone, before Shizun leaned forwards and pressed their foreheads together again. Lowly, almost inaudibly, he confessed, “this master fears…he has done something deeply inappropriate, and he’s only just realized it.”

“He has?” Binghe asked.

Shizun nodded against his forehead, eyes downcast and cheeks flushed ever-so-lightly.

“Mn,” he hummed. “See, life without Binghe is…frighteningly bland, this master must confess. That is—he means to ask—I mean to ask—ah… Would Binghe be terribly attached to Huan Hua Palace?”

Would he…ah! Shizun was asking—was Shizun asking him to come back?!

Binghe’s eyes lit up and he shook his head quickly, smiling at the feeling of his forehead rubbing against Shen Qingqiu’s at the movement. His breath came quicker, anticipation building and bubbling under his skin.

Life was bland without Binghe—frighteningly bland! He…oh, it was so much to comprehend, so much to process. So much had happened this one night, so much had been confessed and so many tears had been shed, and now…now, Binghe was getting the one thing he begged for in his heart every night?

Truly? Truly? It wasn’t a trick, or a dream? Truly????

“Does this mean Shizun wants this disciple back?” he asked, unable to hide the hope in his words.

Shizun clicked his tongue and pinched his cheek lightly.

“Silly Binghe,” he chided despite the smile on his lips. “This master doesn’t just want Binghe back… I… He needs you back. Qing Jing Peak is not the same without Binghe, and the food is just—ah, Binghe…won’t you come back with this master? I…have done many things wrong, but I fear letting you go when I’ve got you this close would be the biggest mistake of all.”

And oh, that had to be a confession. Right? Right??? His voice was so gentle, and he said he needed Binghe back! That couldn’t just—that had to mean something! It had to—ah!

Luo Binghe could hardly contain himself. He surged forward once more, this time with no ulterior motive, and closed the tauntingly small gap between them. Shizun let out a startled sound, his eyes shooting open wide, when Binghe kissed him, and for a moment terror washed over Binghe at the thought that he’d really read too deeply into it all.

It was only for a moment, though, before those eyes fluttered shut and pale lips were pressing shyly back against his own.

Binghe’s heart soared.

The hand on his face fell to his chest, pressing flat and resting there over his heart, while the one between his shoulder blades clutched the robes bunched there even tighter. Binghe took in the image of Shizun’s brows furrowed tightly as he kissed him for a few more seconds before letting his own eyes close and gripping the back of Shizun’s robes like a lifeline.

The kiss was messy and Binghe felt a small surge of something deep within him when he realized Shizun was no better than him—only barely knowing what to do more than Binghe did, only barely more experienced. It only made the imperfect, experimental kiss more perfect.

And when they parted, Luo Binghe felt that another surge—a surge of possessiveness, he recognized—when he pulled back to see Shen Qingqiu’s high, flushed cheeks, parted lips, and ever-slightly glazed eyes, only half-open with long lashes casting shadows over those cherry-red cheeks.

Binghe swallowed hard. Oh…oh, he wanted to see that more.

He leaned in again, dizzy and unable to make a single coherent thought, only to whine when the hand on his chest pressed him back and Shizun shook his head.

“No, no, Binghe, we…” he paused when his voice came out breathless and cleared his throat, the flush on his cheeks darkening. Pride soared in Binghe at the knowledge he could make his shizun so disheveled so simply, almost distracting him from the fact he was being refused.

“But I thought…” he started, too dazed to remember his pronouns.

Shizun smiled, a soft kind of smile he’d never seen before, and nodded. “Binghe thought correctly. However, the sun will rise soon and…and if Binghe is caught here, with this master, in such a state…ah…”

Binghe blinked. Ah, that was why he stopped him! Not because he didn’t like it! Now, Binghe didn’t necessarily mind the thought of getting caught, but he knew his shizun had a remarkably thin face and he could put his own desires aside and be merciful. So, satisfied with all he’d discovered and found this evening already, he did. Luo Binghe nodded slowly and let his arms fall from around Shen Qingqiu’s waist.

“This disciple understands,” he said calmly. Then, after a short pause, “after the Sowers are dealt with…?”

“Binghe may accompany this master back to Qing Jing Peak immediately,” Shizun told him. “Unless…there are matters to attend to at Huan Hua first?”

Binghe shook his head quickly. Well, there were a few matters but…Binghe could deal with those before sunrise with ease. Innocently, he grinned.

Shizun, remarkably, grinned back for a moment—and it was the most gorgeous thing Binghe had ever seen—before he quickly remembered himself and schooled his expression with a cough.

“This…master will let you be on your way, then,” he said, that air of professionalism sneaking its way back in between them as he dropped his hands from Binghe’s body.

Binghe already missed the touch.

“I’ll come home, Shizun,” he promised, “this disciple will come home, and cook a meal so grand it can only be called a feast!”

Shizun’s eyes softened immensely, and he reached out. The feeling of his hand patting Binghe’s hair was one he’d missed so dearly, and now, feeling it once more, Binghe found himself blinking quickly with a light warmth rising in his eyes.

“Binghe treats his old master too well,” he murmured. Then, he dropped his hand with a sigh. “Ah, go, go… And as soon as this mission completes—”

Luo Binghe cut him off with a quick, short stolen kiss to his lips before scrambling off his lap. He held back the laugh that bubbled in his throat at Shizun’s startled face and walked to the window across the inn room. Binghe stopped when he got halfway out the window and looked back at the man sitting on the bed watching him, a poorly hidden look in his eyes of such pure adoration it hurt, and grinned.

Then, with a single, final whisper to Shen Qingqiu, he left.

“This disciple will come home.”