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One of the first things Shen-Yuan-as-Shen-Qingqiu did was raid the library. And not for the bestiaries, no matter how much they beckoned him, but for useless background information. I'm sorry, but this Master is not keen to be snuffed out because he got caught not even knowing the names of his fellow peak lords.
The library was a treasure trove of wordbuilding. All those little details he wondered about that Airplane never cared to put into the story, finally at his fingertips! It was like he had been granted insight in the writer's draft notes, but even better. He had years of pent-up questions and now no one could deny him his answers.
Except that as he was marveling at the thick bookshelves an elder disciple cornered him for advice on her painting, and all his studies into the world around him had to be forgotten before they could even begin. Seeing as her painting was actually really good, he only managed to stumble out of that encounter with his face intact through some faded old memories of a historical art documentary he once watched. Something something, symbolism and all that.
So he was going to have to build a base of knowledge around the four arts. He could already tell this was going to be awful.
Calligraphy was easy. Not only had he already learned it in a fit of boredom during one of his sicker periods, not having his hands constantly shaking made it all a breeze.
Playing go was, while not easy, not terribly hard either. It provided him with a challenge and stimulated his mind pleasantly. Having been accustomed to the constant barge of information characteristic of the twenty-first century, this world often felt too slow. Being able to put his full attention to something felt surprisingly good. It wasn't long before he trounced everyone as easily as the Orginal Goods must have done.
Then came playing the guqin. San yin, plucking a string with his right hand, came without any trouble. Fan yin, adding tapping motions to his left hand, took him a moment to figure out, but he adjusted quick enough. An yin was a new kind of hell. 1070 different finger techniques and he had to learn them all from scratch. Luckily it seemed his body remembered them even if his mind did not, and he managed to get a steady enough grip in time for him to be able to instruct his youngest group of disciples when he came across them having a practice session in an empty clearing.
And last but also definitely least, painting. Forget being turned into a human stick, this is where true torture lies!
He only 'inherited' a few unconnected bits of knowledge. Don't use too much of this colour, it'll darken the canvas irreparably. Hold this brush at this and that angle. Be careful, your sleeves will trail into the wet paint if you don't bind them back. (A lie. He had to figure that last one out for himself.)
Come on, he had once fallen asleep to Bob Ross's soothing voice every night for a month straight. Shouldn't that have counted for something?
So there he was, seventeen paintings in, he had ruined two sets of outer robes, he finally managed to produce a landscape that looked like a junior disciple could make it, and he still didn't know what the five unnamed peaks were called. Hmm.
But here is the thing.
It is very hard to hate doing something you are good at.
Two months into this endeavour he puts down his sponge, looks at the watercolour he made of his youngest disciples laughing in a sun-dappled clearing, and he -- it's like a dam breaks.
He likes this, he realizes. He likes expressing himself in quickly drawn figures, in bright colours and the flow of a carefully composed masterpiece.
His whole life his mind had been filled with ideas, with scenes he did not know how to put to paper. He had tried, tried writing anything in-between drabbles and full-on novels, but his process had always stalled out early. Too worried with keeping track of a thousand little details, with character development and pacing and everything all at once. The stress was enough to suck out any enjoyment he could have gotten out of the creative process. Eventually he stopped trying, but the memories were enough to fuel many more rants on others' work.
But art? Single snapshots into a bigger world rather than drawn-out scenes?
This was perfect for him.
Since then plenty of his evenings are spent putting inks to canvas, spilling his thoughts unto white paper, not in words but in carefully drawn strokes of a brush.
He recognized only some of it -- Qing Jing Peak, illuminated by softly sparkling fog that reflects the setting sun. A city filled with buildings far higher than anything they have managed to achieve in this world, the picture made blurry by a layer of smog. A whole pile of hastily drawn charcoal studies of various beasts' physiology.
(A strikingly handsome man bearing a red-glowing mark on his forehead, face twisted into a cruel snarl. A dripping wet cavern, blood-stained shackles open and ready to be used.)
And then, there are those works whose inspiration he could not discern.
"Where did you get the idea for this, Qingqiu-shidi?"
Shen Qingqiu hummed and picked up the paper sketch Yue Qingyuan was standing over. A tired young boy was looking in the direction of the artist. His face was gaunt and his clothes patched up, but his mouth still held itself in a warm smile.
"Just this one's imagination, I'm afraid. Bits and pieces from the world surrounding us. I think he has your eyes, see?"
He did have his eyes, soft as can be despite being the colour of folded steel. And the shape of his face, and his patient demeanour, and the way he permanently exudes a comforting warmth.
He has kept himself busy. He didn't have time to contemplate how one of his presumed imagined paintings perfectly matched a lively forest he came across weeks after painting it, a place he had never been before, not even in the official art back in his first universe.
And maybe it was too easy for him to execute that perfect snap of his fan when he wants to make a point.
Maybe he only allowed Luo Binghe to do his hair because he felt too lazy to do it himself, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself that it was because these hairstyles are foreign to him.
Maybe he did not have to adjust his calligraphy style at all to perfectly imitate the notes left behind by the Original Goods.
Maybe he calls Yue Qingyuan by another name in the privacy of his own mind, a name that has never been uttered anywhere near him, one that he knows not the origin of.
But he already has enough problems to deal with, still trying to gain a stable footing in this new life even though he has lived here for half a dozen months already. So he ignored the way that Yue Qingyuan traced his fingers over the sketch, eyes wide and shiny, and hooked his fingers in his sleeve to pull him over for a cup of tea.
He laid down the final brush he had used, the fine tip having been perfect for placing floating ambers. They pulled the picture together into a cohesive whole -- a raging fire illuminating the surrounding wide grounds painted a stark contrast to the silhouette of a teenage boy standing hunched over into himself, a cheap sword clutched in his white-knuckled hands.
This dream had been with him since he woke however many hours ago, pushing him to put this image to paper. But even now the insistent vision did not cease, only having grown stronger since he first picked up a blank canvas and the nearest brush.
He stared blankly at the picture, unmoving as a jade statue.
He could all too easily imagine what that boy must have been feeling. The overwhelming dread washing over every other emotion, and pushed deep below, smothered by the bone-deep certainty of there-is-no-other-path, a flicker of wishful could-have-been.
He had been terrified. Terrified and desperate, and that man had offered a way out, concealing that he had been nothing but another cage, another type of cruelty.
The sounds of someone walking up behind him in carefully measured steps only barely managed to pierce through the fog covering his mind.
"Qingqiu-shidi? Apologies for not announcing myself, but when you didn't come over at the agreed-upon time, I grew worried."
Oh right. Yes. They had made plans for today, hadn't they?
"Shidi?"
"It's nothing." He still could not tear his eyes from the painting. It seemed like he could see the fire flicker if he stared long enough, the smell of burning wood and flesh wafting of the canvas. Was someone screaming at him?
He startled at the sense of hands settling on his shoulder, gentle but insistent as they turned him around.
Qi-Ge looked worried.
Running on nothing but instinct, Shen Qingqiu threw himself forward, burying his face in Yue Qingyuan's chest, clutching his clothes tightly in shaking hands.
He didn't realize he had been crying until Yue Qingyuan's robes grew wet.
After only a second of hesitation, Yue Qingyuan curled forward, arms coming up to rest around his waist and shoulders, pressing him even tighter up against his solid body.
The feeling of safety, of a warm body protecting all his vulnerable spots, both physical and mental, was enough to calm his shaking. Shen Qingqiu went utterly boneless, melting into the embrace.
He did not know how long they sat there, still hiding his face in the crook of Yue Qingyuan's shoulder as he felt a strong hand rubbing his back, comforting him with every stroke. It could have been minutes, could have been hours.
(It felt strange, to cry. He had never been prone to it, from what he remembered... Which was a little more than he should.)
He let out a shuddering breath as he gathered up the courage to leave this position. He kept his eyes fixed on his own lap as he moved back, not wanting to know what Yue Qingyuan's expression looked like.
He blindly felt the floor. A warm hand moved to encapsulate his own, gently pulling back the fingers to lay a fan in his hold.
He let out a thankful sigh, losing some of the embarrassed tension as he could hide his face again. He peeked over the edge with red-rimmed eyes.
"I -- Apologies. I don't know what overcame me."
"Xiao Jiu..."
And that was the problem, right? Being called by that name always rubbed him the wrong way. Yet that was easily explained away by him not wanting to steal the affectionate nickname he hadn't earned, wasn't it?
And so he had never questioned the feeling, never looked at it long enough to realise that that had never been the reason why he always felt a burst of dread.
But now -- he couldn't even sum up that spark of anger he normally felt at the name. He just felt tired. Wrung out.
The name didn't feel like it belonged to anyone but him.
'... System?'
【 Yes, Host? 】
'Where is the soul of Shen Jiu?'
【 System thinks Host already knows. 】
He closed his eyes. 'It never left, did it?'
【 ...There is currently only one soul in Host's body. 】
That was not a denial.
He didn't want to be that person. He didn't want to have been the one that locked his favourite student in the woodshed, to have spit cruel words like they were nothing. He didn't want to be the one responsible for those old hurts that have carved themselves deep into his Qi-Ge, so much so that he still hid a look of surprise at every welcoming word, every invitation for tea.
Everyone liked this new Shen Qingqiu so much more than the old one.
And to be truthful?
So did he.
He didn't know who he was talking to, Qi-Ge or the System or no one at all, when he admitted, "I don't know if I want to remember if it's anything like this."
He sighed as he thumbed through a pile of charcoal sketches. How many of these were not products of his imagination, as he had thought for so long? How many were suppressed memories, spilled out onto paper without knowing their dept and reasoning?
Ah, there was the stack of empty paper he had been looking for.
"You won't have to sit still for very long, maybe thirty minutes," he spoke as he gathered his brushes.
The sun threw a warm glow over Luo Binghe's features as it hung above the horizon. Luo Binghe adjusted the blankets and pillows on the floor before settling into them in a loose-limbed position, perfect on the first try. A natural, as he'd suspected.
The drama of the pose was offset by how young Luo Binghe still was -- the strands of his curly hair that had escaped from his ponytail to curl around his face only served to make him look adorable instead of devastatingly handsome.
It was nice. The atmosphere was peaceful, both of them comfortable in the reigning silence. Still, when Shen Qingqiu had set up the base of the painting and he could afford to be a little less focused, he decided to strike up a conversation.
"Tell this master, you have been progressing well in your studies, haven't you?" Luo Binghe started to draw himself up excitedly before freezing. He let out a squeak and settled back into his original position. Still, there was a proud smile on his previously calm face as he began to expound on the composition he had to make for his last guqin assignment. His bright chatter made for a pleasing background sound to his painting.
"-- and it took me a bit, but Yinyue-shixiong assured me that other students have taken a lot longer, so --"
Shen Qingqiu glanced up for a moment, a small smile on his lips. "You are a quick student, that's for certain."
"I wasn't always." He didn't know who looked more taken aback at the sudden admission, him or Binghe.
He was silent as he pretended to focus on getting the flow of the clothes correct. "That wasn't anything you could be blamed for. You did not change, your environment did. You always have been just as clever as you are now, you just had no opportunity to show it."
Luo Binghe looked torn between his instinct to defend his Shizun's actions and his refusal to blatantly contradict him. In the end he tried both, "I know Shizun needed to test me, to see if I was worth keeping on the peak."
Oh shit.
Binghe really believed that, didn't he? He had managed what the other Shen Qingqiu never had -- he had somehow convinced this child that he deserved to be treated badly, even if only temporarily. Certainly in the original timeline Luo Binghe had never believed this, had deep down always known his treatment had been wrong even if he covered it up with layers of denial that only got fully ripped away by the Abyss.
He could keep it at that. He could let Luo Binghe make excuses for him, and let sleeping dogs lie.
It would certainly be easier.
But at this moment, he couldn't do it. Couldn't let this child think that he had somehow deserved to be treated like nothing but a filthy animal, like he had at any time been lesser-than.
"It wasn't alright. It was cruel and unnecessary."
Luo Binghe opened his mouth to protest, but Shen Qingqiu cut him off. "No. Know this, he did not -- I did not do it because I thought it would make you stronger. I did it because I was blinded by past memories and saw something other than what you really were. It rekindled old fears, and I did not know how to deal with those feelings in a healthy way, so I hurt you."
He did not remember much of the last years before his Qi Deviation. Barely anything at all, to be truthful. However he was absolutely certain of the truthfulness of these words, and he needed to know Luo Binghe understood them.
He reached towards Luo Binghe and gathered his trembling hands in his own, a comforting grip that was nonetheless easy to break out of. "It was inexcusable. You should never have been treated that way. I am sorry."
There were the silent tears, spilling fast over his disciple's crumpled face.
"Shhh, it's alright. Just let it out," he whispered to his crying disciple as he picked up a warm blanket from the floor to wrap it tight around his shoulders, then haltingly, unsure of his welcome but wishing to comfort him nonetheless, threw his arms around him too.
"Dear child, it's going to be alright." He kept up an endless stream of sweet nothings as Luo Binghe shook apart on his lap.
He wrinkled his nose when he felt his clothes become soaked through with snot and tears, but did not move.
"Xiao Jiu?"
Shen Qingqiu let out a low hum, not willing to open his eyes to the man who was carting his fingers through his hair as his head laid in his lap. The night was only just beginning to set in, and the leftover warmth of the day combined with the solid feeling of Yue Qingyuan's legs under his head was enough to make him comfortably drowsy.
A deep breath. "You once agreed that the moment you willingly answer me after I called you this way, your anger would be gone."
Right, he had, hadn't he? The memory was disconnected but perfectly clear. He had felt so certain that he never would answer to that name again, that his fury would never be calmed.
"Are you truly not mad at me anymore?" Yue Qingyuan asked him, his voice low and soothing. Artificially so, because his fingers betrayed his anxiousness, trembling minutely.
He did not want to speak of this, for all that he had acknowledged it inside his mind. Still, Yue Qingyuan deserved an answer to this. He refused to fall into the same pits of silence that had ruined their relationship for so long just because neither Yue Qingyuan nor any of his own incarnations had ever learned how to properly talk about their feelings.
So he would try.
Shen Qingqiu took the plunge.
"You are aware that for a long time I was not angry with you simply because I did not know that I should be holding a grudge in the first place." His voice was steady. His eyes were still closed.
Yue Qingyuan made a sound of acknowledgement, not pausing in his ministrations to his hair.
"When I began to remember you again as Qi-Ge, rather than as the kind but unfamiliar Sect Leader, it was -- messy. The good memories were still distant. It was hard to feel angry about you abandoning me when I held no memories of you keeping me close instead. You can't be betrayed by someone who holds none of your expectations."
Yue Qingyuan's breath hitched, his hands briefly stuttering before resuming their path.
"And then, just when the feelings of betrayal were starting to grow inside me once again, you finally told me the reason why you were so late." Shen Qingqiu opened his eyes and peered at Yue Qingyuan's face. It had been a horrid affair all around, Qi-Ge stuttering out the story in broken up pieces and he overwhelmed by all the pieces that were connecting themselves in a cascade of memories. Still, it lanced the infection from the wound before it could poison him again.
"I wasn't able to say it back then, but I forgive you, Qi-Ge."
The smile on Yue Qingyuan's face was a small thing, tumultuous and shaky and perhaps the truest expression he had ever seen of him. Though his eyes were wet he did not cry, and instead leaned forward to press his forehead against Shen Qingqiu's own, hands still buried in his hair.
And so they remained. So close that they were breathing the others' air and not minding it for a moment, taking delight in the ability to enjoy each other's closeness.
He was still scared, sometimes, that one day he would open his eyes and find himself to be this hateful and bitter thing again.
But he is slowly finding that that doesn't have to be what he has always reduced his past as Shen Jiu to. He can take that battered core of fear and hurt, dust off the desperate trampled mix of loyalty and love that was hidden at the deep of it, and keep it, make it his own, this strange creature that rightfully couldn't be called either Shen Jiu or Shen Yuan, but was both of them nonetheless.