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“What do you mean he’s not seeing anyone today.”

The Huan Hua Palace attendant makes a sort of whimpering sound as he wrings his fingers, eyes darting nervously to Cheng Luan. Liu Qingge pointedly loosens his grip and withholds a growl in an effort not to look overly dangerous. It’s not this kid’s fault Luo Binghe is, once again, making a fucking nuisance of himself.

“Luo-shixiong has, um, decided he will not be taking…” his eyes flicker once again to Liu Qingge’s sword, “...visitors for the time being. This one sincerely apologies for the inconvenience.” He bows low, the corners of his mouth quivering as though he’s expecting to be executed. Though, Liu Qingge supposes, if he’s at all familiar with his daily clashes with Luo Binghe it’s not such a far-fetched response.

Still, he didn’t come here to get turned away at the door like some petitioner. If Luo Binghe doesn’t want to fight today, that’s his problem. Liu Qingge worked through the night and most of the morning healing some particularly nasty gashes he’d received in yesterday’s clash, so he’s already here later than he’d like. He doesn’t wish to give Luo Binghe any more time to prepare. “My business with Luo Binghe will not wait,” he says in a sharp tone that brooks no argument. “Taking visitors or no, I need to see him.”

The attendant goes a bit pale, and shakes his head weakly. “H-he really was very insistent. After returning yesterday he has seen no one and hasn’t left—” He breaks off with a click of his teeth. Liu Qingge narrows his eyes.

“Hasn’t left where?”

He doesn’t need to look for the boy’s shiver and uneasy gulp to know exactly where Luo Binghe is hiding. A distinct feeling of wary unease rises in his chest, and he ignores the boy’s stuttered protests as he pushes past him towards the front doors.

The grand entrance to Huan Hua Palace is almost always kept open for the many cultivators and civilians who pass through the sect each day. Liu Qingge very, very rarely makes it past the doors. The last time was. Well, it was a day he has not spoken about to anybody since it passed, and is not something he would like to be reminded of. His neck gives a quiet phantom ache beneath the rise of his collared robes, and he resists the urge to raise a hand to feel the bite marks that, even after all this time, have not entirely faded.

People inside the entrance hall don’t pay him much mind for the first few moments after he walks in, but then one passing cultivator takes notice of his pale robes and the distinctive flash of Cheng Luan in his hand, and suddenly the entire hall is ablaze with wide eyes and murmurs. Liu Qingge feels himself tensing up despite himself. He’s not a talker; he doesn’t enjoy being on show, and he makes an effort not to take his more social peak lord duties any further than absolutely necessary.

The interior isn’t exactly familiar to Liu Qingge, but he recalls well enough where Luo Binghe’s private wing is located. Luckily, most of the disciples, though they insist on staring, make way for him to walk wherever. Most of them have probably seen him lose a thousand times, and others still have likely been the ones to help drag him to his feet after the worse fights. But he’s still the Bai Zhan War God. They’re not going to try and stop him.

He walks down the silent corridor, feeling a small sense of satisfaction as the heavy lock clicks into place. Luo Binghe’s not getting away from today’s battle so easily.

The door Luo Binghe had led him through once before is shut tight. Unlike most other doors in the Palace, this one is made of dense, solid wood, with no ornamentation, and more importantly, no way to see the room beyond. Liu Qingge presses an ear against the thick wood, not entirely sure what he dreads hearing the most. He has heard rumours, dark and terrible and sickening, of what Luo Binghe has done with Shen Qingqiu’s corpse. Though, having seen for himself where the body is kept, Liu Qingge knows at least that it’s not being…physically tampered with. He’s heard of demons doing foul things with the bodies of deceased loved ones; at the very least, Shen Qingqiu was whole the last time he saw him.

But no sound seems to come from inside the chambers. Liu Qingge slows his breathing, trying to focus his body into higher perception. Even if Luo Binghe isn’t in here...Shen Qingqiu’s body will be. He could take him back without a fight at all. If Luo Binghe is in there, though, he doesn’t want to risk harming the body. It wouldn’t be wise to burst in. So he listens, hearing, for a long moment, nothing. And then faintly, so distant it barely registers as a sound, a low, long moan.

No. Fire runs along Liu Qingge’s meridians, his stomach dropping.

He wrenches himself away from the door, vision sunspotting at the edges with an angry, sick panic. Stumbling to his feet, he angles his body against the door and throws all his strength into a mighty kick.

The door doesn’t shatter, as most usually do under the full force of his power, but he feels something begin to give. Another hard kick, and the lower hinge splinters from the wall with a metallic shriek. After that it’s short work to bash the door the rest of the way open with his shoulder.

The smell of blood hits him first. Thick, edged with a demonic acidity that pricks at Liu Qingge’s eyes and nose. He looks frantically over at the bed, but Shen Qingqiu’s body is exactly where he last saw it, not a spot of blood staining his pale robes. What Liu Qingge spots next, though, has him freezing in the doorway.

Luo Binghe is curled up on the floor, looking like a dirty bundle of dark robes wedged into the far corner of the room. Blood streaks the floor at his feet in thin trails, streaks of dark, oxidised brown overlaid with unsettling lines of deep, fresh red. That alone is enough to have Liu Qingge on edge, but his hunter’s instinct is properly alarmed when, despite the loud crack of the door and his obvious presence in the room, Luo Binghe doesn’t look up.

Another low, long whine emanates from the dark bundle, raising the hairs on the back of his neck and arms. The lingering frustration he’d felt at the situation melts into a deep unease, his heart thudding heavy in his chest. Liu Qingge has killed many, many beasts. He knows the look of a dying creature.

“Luo Binghe,” he tries, cautious. From the bundle, a flinch. A dark mass shifts and wavers—Luo Binghe’s hair, he realises with a start. Usually it’s groomed to a fault; all dark, silky waves. Now it’s tangled and crusted with blood. A sliver of pale face emerges from the mess, and two red eyes finally meet Liu Qingge’s.

Luo Binghe looks…bad. More demonic, for one thing. His pupils are blown wide and dark, and what little of his face is visible appears drawn and bloodless. He looks sick in a way Liu Qingge has never seen. Even when Shen Qingqiu died he didn’t look this terrible, though there’s a familiar air of hysterical distress about him now.

Slowly, Luo Binghe’s eyes seem to focus, and settle upon him. Liu Qingge takes a cautious step closer, lowering Cheng Luan slightly. “Luo Binghe,” he says again, very quietly. What happened here? His first instinct says poison, but a small part of him whispers madness, grief. It would not be so unthinkable that Luo Binghe has finally lost his bearing and succumbed to the throes of his demonic heritage. Just yesterday, though, he was wearing his usual self-important smirk as he tore into Liu Qingge’s shoulder without a hint of contrition. Now he looks so… He doesn’t seem mad; he seems fractured, distraught.

You could kill him now, whispers that same part of Liu Qingge’s mind. You could finally take back Shen Qingqiu. But. He grips the hilt of Cheng Luan so tightly that his fingers ache. He is not a butcher. He kills to protect, not just because he has the capacity to. And as much as he hates Luo Binghe, as much as he resents the injustices he’s suffered at the demon’s hands, he can’t help but glance at Shen Qingqiu’s body where it lies motionless on the bed. Shen Qingqiu cherished his disciple, mourned his death for years, and once they were reunited he did not hesitate to throw himself into harm’s way on his behalf.

To kill Luo Binghe now, in this state, would be to spit on the memory of Shen Qingqiu’s devotion to him. It would be a waste of his sacrifice, little though Liu Qingge can claim to understand the reasons behind it.

“Shizun…”

Liu Qingge blanches at the sound of Luo Binghe’s voice, quiet and distraught. He turns to look. Luo Binghe is gazing up at the bed, eyes unfocused once more.

“Shizun, shizun, this disciple is sorry.”

A pale hand reaches from the mess of robes. The claws Liu Qingge is so regrettably familiar with are gone, looking as though they’ve been gnawed down past the quick, fingertips raw and bloodied. A tremor runs through them. That, for some reason, is what catches his attention most. Luo Binghe never shakes; but here he is, reaching unsteadily out towards Shen Qingqiu. “Shizun, please.”

A gasping inhale, thick with misery. “This one cannot— not without you.”

A shiver of discomfort ripples down Liu Qingge’s spine and he sheaths Cheng Luan in a swift motion. Whatever has happened to Luo Binghe, it’s not good, and the threat of a sword will not help him control the situation. If he really has lost his mind, Liu Qingge needs to contain him.

“Luo Binghe,” he calls again, with more force behind his words.

Luo Binghe turns to look at him. His face is in full view now, eyes and mouth red, lips chewed bloody. He squints. “...Liu Qingge?”

A long pause, as though he’s confirming his own words. “So you have come to kill me. Good. Good.” A faint smile crosses his mouth, and somehow that is more unnerving than the blankess. “I was having a hard time doing it myself.”

Liu Qingge’s mind goes blank, as though he’s been kicked. What. What on earth is Luo Binghe saying? It must be a lie; some sort of demonic power play. He looks once more at the layered streaks of blood on the ground, at Luo Binghe’s torn fingers.

“You don’t wish to die,” he says, and though he intends for it to be a threat, a ploy to reveal Luo Binghe’s true intentions, the words come out strangled.

Luo Binghe looks up at him with an expression so vacant it crosses the border into inhumanity. Liu Qingge feels his own frown deepen.

“You cannot want to die, Luo Binghe. What about—”

It feels wrong to gesture to Shen Qingqiu’s empty body, but a sense of impending disaster is hanging thick in the air of this room, as though if he doesn’t stand in between Luo Binghe and another rash decision now, it may be too late. Luo Binghe’s gaze trails over Shen Qingqiu’s body, but instead of the fiery passion that Liu Qingge is so used to despising, hollow despair crushes through his expression.

“Shizun…”

Liu Qingge wants to be angry. He wants to draw Cheng Luan and put an end to this stupid young man’s bleating, but. He’s already decided that he cannot kill Luo Binghe, and something is clearly very wrong here. He’s no healer, and certainly not an expert in grieving well, but surely he can talk Luo Binghe off of this strange ledge he’s toeing.

“What happened?” he asks, in as kindly a manner as he can muster. It still comes out rather brusque. Luo Binghe blinks slowly, those blown-black eyes rimmed with red. Crying, Liu Qingge realises with a dull jolt. A silence falls between them for a long moment. It’s— he’s not entirely sure what to do.

“The pipa.” Luo Binghe murmurs.

“The what?”

Luo Binghe’s gaze moves vaguely to a spot behind Liu Qingge. When he turns, it's to the sight of a mangled pile of wood and strings lying half-against the wall next to the door. It does seem as though it was a pipa once, though now it’s probably destroyed beyond all hope of salvage. He’d walked straight past it.

“What is that?” Though he’s not sure he wants to know. The longer he looks at the destroyed instrument, the less comfortable he feels in its presence. There’s not a particularly cursed energy about the thing, but he can sense a distinct air of wrongness about it.

“It was meant to work. Everyone said— everyone said!” Luo Binghe ends his words on a harsh yell. He thrashes in his corner for a moment, some of his robes dislodging to reveal another bloodied hand and a long gash along the front of his robes.

“Luo Binghe!” Liu Qingge barks, and Luo Binghe freezes, wheezing heavily into the stagnant air.

“He’s supposed to be back,” he says, with great effort, his expression wild. “It was meant to work!”

“Luo—

“So where is Shizun?” Luo Binghe snarls, and then he scrambles towards the bed. Liu Qingge jumps without thinking, catching Luo Binghe around the middle and slamming him backwards onto the hard floor. The wood creaks beneath their combined weight, though the sound is mostly lost beneath Luo Binghe’s long, low whine.

“Shizun…”

This close, Liu Qingge is almost blinded by the potent stench of demonic qi and blood. He gags, trying to keep a tight grip on the man beneath him.

“Luo Binghe, calm down!”

Luo Binghe makes a sobbing sound, head thrashing. Liu Qingge can see his sharp teeth, and the shadow of thin black lines crawling across his temples. Something is very wrong with him. He shifts his weight to hold down both of Luo Binghe’s wrists, examining them. Aside from the blood and what Liu Qingge now recognises as more than a dozen tiny splinters, they look unscathed. Still, he raises his fingers to the delicate skin and—

Liu Qingge flinches back, unable to stop the reflexive movement. Luo Binghe’s meridians are screaming. Beneath the surface of his skin, his body is in absolute chaos. It’s as though he’s having six different qi deviations all at once, and Liu Qingge has to wonder at how he’s even still alive.

“Luo Binghe… what did you do?”

But Luo Binghe doesn't give any indication that he hears this. His wide, wet eyes twitch frantically up towards the bed, and he writhes in Liu Qingge's grasp. A long broken sound creaks from his throat, and Liu Qingge feels his patience snap like splintering wood.

"LUO BINGHE!"

The demon flinches and stops moving beneath him. Liu Qingge grips his wrists with all his strength.

"You will tell me what you've done. Now."

Luo Binghe stares up, looking panicked and disoriented. "I— this disciple— I—" His face crumples, the demon mark on his forehead glowing an angry red through his wild tangle of hair. “Without Shizun, this disciple has— I can’t—” His breathing comes in hiccupping gulps, too fast and irregular. A thin streak of blood oozes from his left nostril and begins to trail down the side of his face.

Liu Qingge knows, somewhere, that Luo Binghe is fighting a war he himself nearly lost many years ago; he can feel the rioting energies trying to tear Luo Binghe apart at the seams. He remembers the way Shen Qingqiu gave endlessly of himself, how both he and Luo Binghe owe their lives to his love, so freely given.

He also remembers, however, teeth in his neck and pain in his lower body that took days to fade. He remembers handprints on his neck, and confessions that were never meant to be let loose. Most of all, he hasn’t yet been able to shake the memory of hours spent lying on the forest floor, willing himself not to let this be the thing to break him. Coming back to fight the next day like it was nothing. Having to look into Luo Binghe’s eyes and act as though he wasn’t still mortified by his own stolen pleasure.

Their positions now are not so different, except today Liu Qingge holds the power.

He grits his teeth against the thought. Whatever Liu Qingge may be—cowardly, jealous, impulsive—he is not immoral. He digs that resolution into the front of his mind like a stake into soft earth.

Beneath him, Luo Binghe is beginning to hyperventilate again. “T-this disciple— Shizun—!” His words blur into heaving pants, and Liu Qingge casts around for some sort of solution. When Luo Binghe’s sharp teeth catch at his tongue and blood begins to spatter from his mouth, though, the choice is made for him. On a wild impulse, he lets go of Luo Binghe’s wrists and stuffs three of his fingers in his mouth. Anything to interrupt the awful retching sound he’s started making. The demon seizes around them momentarily, still panting wildly, but then his fangs clamp down hard around Liu Qingge’s fingers, and something in his face loosens.

Liu Qingge watches in half-confused silence as Luo Binghe’s breathing slowly calms, and he begins to draw longer, slower breaths, jaw working slowly around the digits in his mouth. It reminds Liu Qingge of a nursing puppy, and the slick, wet sensation is. Well. He just isn’t going to think about it. It’s one thing dealt with. Luo Binghe isn’t going to asphyxiate himself before Liu Qingge has the chance to— ah, he’s going to save his life, isn’t he? Fuck.

For a qi deviation often the best strategy is to forcibly subdue the person and then stabilise their energies while unconscious, but… He carefully moves his free hand back over Luo Binghe’s wrists. The energy thrashing about Luo Binghe’s body feels fierce and unsettled, not like any qi deviation Liu Qingge’s ever been witness to. It feels more like an overflow, something foreign fighting to get out.

He tries to wrack his mind for memories of the long evenings he used to spend with Mu Qingfang and Shen Qingqiu. The two could talk endlessly about spiritual ailments and the various treatments available for them, and took great joys in verbally sparring about their respective understandings. Liu Qingge was lost more often than not, but he’d…enjoyed the company. Of course, it’s been years, and he doesn’t have time now to send a message to Mu Qingfang and ask for advice.

But Shen Qingiu had always been very interested in demonic anatomy, hadn’t he? And Mu Qingfang is one of the leading minds in medical practice, even being brought here once before. Surely, in all those years of discoursing, they must have discussed something that’s applicable now?

A tiny shimmer of memory; Shen Qingqiu’s nose scrunching up in distaste. He sometimes forgot to hide that expression behind his fans, and Liu Qingge remembers the flutter of delight that had run through him at seeing it.

“Unfortunately,” he’d said with a tone of resignation, “you can never overlook dual cultivation.”

Mu Qingfang had shaken his head and begun to recite a list of rebuttals, but Shen Qingqiu had smacked his forehead with his fan. “I’m telling you. If this were any other world, of course it wouldn’t be a catch-all solution, but some things are just facts, no matter how ridiculous.” Then he’d looked a little sad, and had retired to bed early.

Liu Qingge recalls how Shen Qingqiu had left that particular fan behind that night. It was a green and yellow painted one, finely-inked with streaks of gold in Shen Qingqiu’s favourite style. Liu Qingge knows it’s stowed away now, in a large chest full of fans that’s laid untouched for too many years. He put it there himself.  

A whine from beneath him, vibrating up his occupied fingers, breaks his trailing thoughts. Luo Binghe is still gnawing on his fingers, breathing more even than it’s been since Liu Qingge entered the room. His eyes still seem slightly unfocused, however, and the frenzied energy of his blood fighting off the strange qi in his body is getting so strong Liu Qingge can sense it even without touching his wrist.

Dual cultivation. Liu Qingge’s stomach curls in disgust. He really doesn’t want to do that. Maybe— maybe if he can just get Luo Binghe to. Expel some of the foreign spiritual energy. Then Liu Qingge could sit by and settle his meridians without having to… do all that. The idea still deeply rankles, but there seems to be so little time, and Shen Qingqiu had sounded so certain.

Gently removing the fingers from his mouth, he heaves Luo Binghe into a sitting position and leans him against the side of the bed. Luo Binghe stares at him, mouth hanging half-open and sharp teeth bared, a line of only slightly bloody drool trailing down his chin. Liu Qingge feels a shiver run down his spine. “I…” Luo Binghe’s throat works around a heavy swallow. “I failed Shizun.”

“Yes you did,” Liu Qingge snaps automatically, then clamps his mouth shut. Idiot! He’s already—  It’s too late, though. Luo Binghe’s face crumples into an expression of agony as he tips his head back and wails. Liu Qingge slams his hands over his ears to block out the raspy caterwauling, but when it doesn’t stop, he leans forward and slaps Luo Binghe across the face.

That shuts him up. Liu Qingge grits his teeth at the expression of blank, horrified confusion on Luo Binghe’s face as he reaches up to touch his reddened cheek

“You—agh! You’re not well, you have to stop yelling. You’re going to have a qi deviation and die if you don’t calm down!”

Luo Binghe blinks, then lurches forward with a cry to clutch at the front of Liu Qingge’s robes, probably leaving smears of blood on the pale fabric. It’s a miracle the Huan Hua attendants don’t all swarm in here with how loud Luo Binghe is keening.
“This disciple deserves to die! The pipa was— but it didn’t work! He’s still—!”

Then he twists frantically around and throws himself halfway across the bed, scrabbling for Shen Qingqiu’s hand where it rests against the blankets. “Shizun, this disciple is sorry! He couldn’t bring you back!”

Liu Qingge lurches forward after him, managing to wrap his arms around Luo Binghe’s thick middle and drag him back down the bed. “Shut up!”

With his chest pressed up against his back, he can feel the rapid in-and-out of Luo Binghe’s unsteady, ragged breathing. It’s the closest he’s been to anyone since…since Luo Binghe’s last bad day. It’s difficult to push down the simmering shame that threatens to flame across his face. He smells the same, underneath the acrid blood. Hot musk and spice—something like cinnamon. He doesn’t have time to dwell on the thought though, luckily, because Luo Binghe immediately jerks and tries to fling himself upon Shen Qingqiu again.

With a bitten-down sound of frustration, Liu Qingge wrestles Luo Binghe into an easier holding position; on his knees, chest held down against the bed, with his arms crossed firmly behind his back. He fights it for a moment, a low growl vibrating between their bodies, but when Liu Qingge tightens the grip on his arms he goes limp, flopping down, one cheek resting against the pale bedlinen.

Liu Qingge gives a measured exhale, then loosens his grip. He doesn't want to accidentally break the man’s wrists or something, seeing as he’s going to be needing them soon.

“You’re not going to like this, but I. Ngh. We’re going to have to…” He bites his tongue, trying to find words that aren’t going to set Luo Binghe off again. “Whatever you tried to do, it’s killing you. You have to. Expel it. Okay?”

Luo Binghe makes a small sound of unhappy confusion. Liu Qingge lightly smacks the back of his head. “You don’t want to die. That’s the poison talking. Just— get on with it, and then it should settle down.”

There’s a moment of tense silence as Luo Binghe seems to take this in.

“This disciple doesn’t—”

Liu Qingge grabs one of Luo Binghe’s wrists and drags his hand down to the front of his robes. Heavens, this is somehow more painful than the wailing.
“Go. Now.”

Gingerly, Luo Binghe begins to move his hand—by himself, thankfully—and Liu Qingge lets go, shutting his eyes trying to pretend he’s literally anywhere else right now. He thinks of moving away, but he’s not certain that Luo Binghe won’t spring away and start bleeding everywhere again, or worse, weeping over Shen Qingqiu’s body.

Despite his best efforts to not notice, it’s difficult to block out the way Luo Binghe’s breathing begins to speed up again, with a different edge to it now. Still unsteady, but less edged with emotion. Liu Qingge swallows and tries to focus his mind on the wider situation at hand. This is—it’s medical treatment. That’s how Shen Qingqiu had described it, right? It’s just a body under too much stress, and this is the way to deal with it. Like how Liu Qingge had cleansed Shen Qingqiu’s meridians every month. Of course, it’s not like they ever had to—Shen Qingqiu never had to do things so degrading as this. He had too much pride to allow himself to be seen so unkempt. If he had, he would have just dealt with it himself. Liu Qingge would have offered to help him if it had ever come to that, obviously. He would have sat with him in the bamboo house and…

Heat flashes up Liu Qingge’s neck. Shen Qingqiu wouldn’t have let him watch, of course! But. Maybe he would have let Liu Qingge stay with him, turned away towards the wall. It would be hard not to listen, of course, because Shen Qingqiu is never quiet. He makes little sounds of delight when he eats sweets, and lets out quiet grunts of frustration when he misplaces something or can’t find the book he wants. He’s a verbal creature, and in something so overwhelming as this, of course Liu Qingge would want him to feel free to…to express his need however he felt it.

“Ah…Shizun…”

The quiet moan, followed by a desperate, slick sound, snaps Liu Qingge from his thoughts like a punch to the gut. He reels back, nearly stumbling over onto the hard floor. “Luo—!”

Luo Binghe looks over his shoulder, eyes scrunched pitifully up, his pupils still blown black. A tiny flush sits high on his cheeks, feverish and… Liu Qingge chokes on a breath. “W-what!”

Luo Binghe gnaws on his bottom lip, and Liu Qingge tries not to look at the way it draws a little bit of fresh blood. “This disciple is…”

There’s a small, hitched movement at his front, hidden from Liu Qingge by the mass of his body, and he gives a shaky inhale. “It’s not working.”

Something like unease quivers in Liu Qingge’s gut, and he shuts his eyes. “What do you mean it’s not working.”

“I can’t finish,” Luo Binghe says despondently, shifting his hips. The motion has him brushing up against the front of Liu Qingge’s body in a way that sends his nerves shrieking.

“It feels bad.” He adds with a weak furrow of his brow.

Feels bad? How the fuck does he think Liu Qingge feels about all this? But a shade of that manic sadness is leaking back in Luo Binghe’s expression, and that’s not a good direction to be moving in.

“Are you—” Liu Qingge tries to block out the discomfort screaming through his head. “Are you doing it. Like usual?”

Luo Binghe falters.

The sensation of unease intensifies tenfold as Luo Binghe averts his gaze, the red flush deepening. “This disciple—” He cuts himself off with another bite of his lip, then shakes his head. He’s beginning to look slightly disoriented again, and Liu Qingge shoves down the urge to shake him. Or just stab him.

“You what. Spit it out.”

Luo Binghe shakes his head again, frowning harder. Liu Qingge growls in frustration. What kind of man can’t even do this right? And after he’d—

A wave of shame washes over Liu Qingge like molten metal. When Luo Binghe had pushed him down, it had felt... Liu Qingge had never felt anything like that. It had been painful and humiliating, yes, but it’s not the pain that comes rushing back to him in the evening hours, alone in his room. It had been the sensation of fingers…inside. Of being filled, of feeling the rest of the world fall away, completely lost to the feeling of it.

He feels his blunt fingernails digging into the meat of his palms. It’s not like he hadn’t known how men lay together, and although he’d never let himself imagine what it would be like…he knows, now with more certainty than ever, that there are ways to push pleasure from a body, even when the mind keeps getting in the way.

“Just keep going, and,” He coughs, trying to clear the rasping note from his own voice. “And I’ll…help you.”

“No.” Luo Binghe says, short and sharp. Liu Qingge raises his gaze to meet his eyes. The red iries are glowing fever-bright. “No, it’s not— not for you.”

Liu Qingge feels himself bare his teeth, his shame turning to hot anger. As though Luo Binghe hasn’t always taken what he wanted, without asking, without caring. Shen Qingqiu is dead, and with him the last shred of humanity left in Luo Binghe’s soul. If what remains, his body, is not for Liu Qingge, then it is for no one.

“So you’ll just die?” He hisses. “You’ll let everything be in vain? His sacrifice, the years he spent— the years we’ve spent—” He shuts his mouth with a snap. There’s no we, no facade of unit between them. There’s only now, and things that must be done.

He wrenches Luo Binghe’s outer robes open, pulling them towards himself, off Luo Binghe’s shoulders. Luo Binghe gives a jerk and tries to shift out of his grip, but Liu Qingge presses him hard into the corner of the bed.

“No. You’re not dying, and if I have to force you through this then I will.”

Luo Binghe makes a strange, garbled sound, mouth crushed against the bedsheets, and Liu Qingge elects to ignore it as he finishes shifting thick layers of fabric out of the way. Left free now is a bare chest, heaving beneath his touch as Luo Binghe squirms.
“Stay still,” Liu Qingge hisses in his ear, and finally there’s acquiescence as Luo Binghe stills, his breath coming over-fast but not ragged.  

He knows what comes next, though he doesn’t exactly have experience with making it pleasant. They need slick; oil or something. He casts around for anything to ease the way, and the sudden image of Luo Binghe’s shiny spit on his fingers sends a rush of blood to his head unbidden. No, he’s not putting his fingers back in the demon’s mouth.  

The only thing he has that may work is sword oil, but he’s not sure it’s meant to be used for. This. Still, urgency pushes him on and he hastily slides the small tub of oil out of his pocket.

Luo Binghe makes a questioning noise at the sound of the lid popping off, but Liu Qingge shushes him. The jar is warm with his body heat, and the viscous liquid does slick his fingers up when he rubs it between them. It will do.

Luo Binghe chokes on his breath when Liu Qingge brushes against his hole. “You—!”

Liu Qingge doesn’t give him the time to finish his thought, pressing two of his fingers inside. Luo Binghe shuts up, tensing against the bed.

It’s hot inside him, and so tight Liu Qingge feels a little lightheaded. He doesn’t have the time to think too hard about it. Instead he moves around, trying to find whatever spot it was that Luo Binghe had abused that last time. For an overly long moment, only the sound of their joined breathing fills the room, but then—

“A-ah!” With a sudden yell, Luo Binghe presses his face hard into the sheets, and Liu Qingge can feel the way his knees tremble against the wooden floor. He presses again over the same spot, and this time Luo Binghe lets out a jagged, broken moan, flinching hard. The energy in the room flares, and though Liu Qingge can’t see his face properly, he’s sure this is the right place.

Shutting his eyes, he crooks his fingers over and over again, feeling Luo Binghe all but melt into the bedsheets, his sounds growing in volume and desperation. He really doesn’t want to watch this. He’ll open them again after— afterwards. Luo Binghe’s body has been craving this, it seems. It should be a relief that Liu Qingge figured out the correct response, but any feeling of success is very quickly destroyed by the actual sensation of his fingers in Luo Binghe’s ass. He can feel as the remaining tension leaks out of his hole too, making the motions easier, wider. When Liu Qingge’s free hand finds one of Luo Binghe’s wrists the energy there seems to be building, coiling in readiness for something.

“Come on,” Liu Qingge urges under his breath, scissoring his fingers.

"Ah!” High and broken, a good sound. He tries the motion again.

“Ah, sh— oh, fu— ah.” The moans are muffled, but quivering higher with each thrust into his body. Luo Binghe is crying something into the sheets, staccato and desperate. Liu Qingge tries to listen closer, to ascertain how much further they have to go.

“-izun, shizun, shizun, fuck, please, shizun, ah—”

Liu Qingge’s mind goes blank, eyes snapping open.

He raises his head, stomach dropping.

Luo Binghe’s top half is stretched across the bed, his face half-crushed into the sheets. His eyes are shut tight, tears leaking from them and staining the linen with dark smears, and with each thrust of Liu Qingge’s fingers, his expression seems to break open, gasping his words into the bed as his brow crumples. His mouth is wet and red and he looks wrecked.

What’s worst, though, what nearly stops Liu Qingge dead, is where the long line of him continues up the bed, one hand reaching forward, clasping Shen Qingqiu’s hand. As though— as though—

“What the fuck are you doing,” Liu Qingge snarls, tearing his fingers from Luo Binghe’s body. Luo Binghe makes a pained, whining sound, but doesn’t open his eyes or move his hand away. His hand that is touching Shen Qingqiu’s, has been touching him while Liu Qingge has been inside— “You beast!”

Luo Binghe cracks his eyes open, then, and Liu Qingge flinches back. His pupils are still enormous and black, but the whites of his eyes are stained an angry red, glowing and pulsing faintly. His gaze is unfocused, and he blinks in dazed confusion, mouth hanging open.

“Sh-shizun? Shizun?” His words are ragged and slurred, and they set Liu Qingge’s teeth on edge. “Shizun, help,” he chokes, and a spray of dark, acrid blood spatters across the bedsheets. Fuck.

Fuck, okay. His own hands shaking slightly, Liu Qingge grasps for Luo Binghe’s other wrist where it dangles by his side. The energy in his meridians is thundering, angry and wild. It’s coalescing like before, but it hasn’t reached a higher peak yet. They have to— he has to keep going.

Biting at his lip, he scoops more sword oil from the jar into his sticky hand and works his fingers back inside Luo Binghe’s body. The effect is immediate as Luo Binghe’s eyes flutter shut, and he rests his head back on the bed, whimpering in obvious relief. When Liu Qingge crooks his fingers, the demon groans and coughs weakly, spitting up another mouthful of blood. It’s impossible to not watch as the hand clasping Shen Qingqiu’s tightens incrementally, like a lifeline. Liu Qingge shuts his eyes again, suddenly overcome by the tearing of scabbed-over emotions he thought he’d buried a long time ago. He clears his throat and shakes his head, trying to keep his breathing steady. Luo Binghe mad and weeping is enough for one terrible day; no need for him to lose his head as well.  

He finds his rhythm again quickly enough, though it’s far harder to block out the sounds this time; the slick motion of his fingers moving, and the steadily growing pleas spilling from Luo Binghe’s mouth. Liu Qingge tries to focus his attention instead on where his fingers meet Luo Binghe’s wrist; on the energy he’s trying to force out.

Everything feels hazy, painted in shades of red as he forces himself to keep up the motions. Maybe it's the prolonged proximity to whatever power is wrecking Luo Binghe, maybe it’s his own body, confused and heated. Liu Qingge doesn’t know. All he knows is the hot, damp space between their bodies, and the awful sound of Luo Binghe calling for his teacher over and over and over. The air is filled with pained moans, and Liu Qingge can feel the way Luo Binghe’s body is begging for release, but the energy writhing inside him seems to have reached its limit, unwilling to go any further. Liu Qingge grits his teeth, feeling desperately close to tears himself. Why isn’t this working? Isn’t he doing this right?

The answer appears in his head, immediate and clear. Dual cultivation. As in two. Shen Qingqiu’s grimace and the inexplicably sad tilt of his mouth as he’d excused himself. Unfortunately, some things are just facts.

Just facts.

He’s going to have to fuck Luo Binghe.

If he thinks about it like a fact, like something Mu-[shixiong] would explain in his dry tone, then maybe it will be easier. It will also be easier, he resolves silently, if he doesn’t spook Luo Binghe. To have to build up a rhythm again…he’s not sure they have that much time.

He keeps pressing into Luo Binghe’s body with his fingers, and navigates his spare hands around the bunched-up robes between them, moving them aside enough to. To fit.

Moving his own robes aside feels worse. Better, but worse.

Liu Qingge is hard. He wishes he wasn’t, but the heat curling between them, this leaking spitfire energy, is something his body doesn’t know how to resist. He feels nearly lost to it. Is this what it’s felt like the whole time? Liu Qingge isn’t ashamed of how his cock responds, but he can’t help the frisson of uncertainty that quivers through him as he lines himself up with Luo Binghe’s waiting hole.

Luo Binghe is. Fuck. He’s fever hot inside, burning like a dying star, and Liu Qingge gasps on a moan as the sensation threatens to white out his vision. Fuck. Is this what it feels like? It feels like fitting. Like being eaten alive.

Luo Binghe makes a new, high sound when Liu Qingge thrusts all the way inside him and begins to move in earnest. He calls for his shizun, louder now, and Liu Qingge pushes away the wave of emotion that threatens to drown him amidst all this raw, sparking pleasure. He just has to finish this. Just has to get this over with, and then he can— he can go. He can forget about this.

He works himself into Luo Binghe’s body again and again, feeling the energy bursting to life between them, feeling his own qi responding with new fervour, trying to pour into Luo Binghe, to merge and create new things. Wetness pricks at the edges of his eyes. He doesn’t want this. He can’t have this. He doesn’t know what this even is, but it’s threatening to drown him.

Liu Qingge grits his teeth and presses his forehead into the nape of Luo Binghe’s neck, panting wetly into his sweaty hairline. Tiny, rapid growls are building in Luo Binghe’s chest, rumbling up beneath Liu Qingge’s hand and leaving his mouth in breathy, wet gasps. Please, Liu Qingge mouths against his skin, fuck, please. Please be a sign that this is nearly over. His body is quivering, stretched so taut he must be in pain.

“Shizun—”

“You have to—”  

“Please—”  

Come, Binghe. Come. He’s thinking it, or whispering it, or shouting it, he doesn’t know. But Luo Binghe seems caught, teetering on the precipice with no way to fall. His rasping breaths are edged with distress again, his meridians feeling like they may burst any moment. He has to do something.

On pure instinct, Liu Qingge opens his mouth to press hotly around the soft, exposed back of Luo Binghe’s neck, and bites. He clamps his teeth so hard into the skin they ache, and though he doesn’t taste blood, the starburst of hate-please-help-stop-more that rushes into him is enough to send his world blurring.

With a scream, Luo Binghe spills. Liu Qingge feels it with his qi, more than with his body. It’s a coalescence of energy that, between one breath and the next, shatters between them. It’s a tidal wave of feeling and grief and pure existence that explodes into Liu Qingge’s consciousness. White, then black, then white again. Pleasure and pain and death. Hope and despair.

He might pass out, or maybe die. He doesn’t know. All he knows is that he comes back to himself breathing hard, mouth working mindlessly against the back of Luo Binghe’s neck, licking and sucking at the sweat there, latching on like it’s the only thing holding him in his body. His stomach and cock throb heavily, pain and pleasure buzzing all over his body.

Beneath him, Luo Binghe’s energies are finally recognisable as his own; still swirling with hurt and confusion, but no longer out of control. His chest heaves like he’s just run a thousand li, those breaths quickly turning to an awful gasping cough. Liu Qingge raises his head just in time to see him choke out a dark, thick ooze onto the ruined bedsheets.

That, however, seems to be the last of it. Silence falls, the two of them just breathing. Liu Qingge slowly forces himself to let go of Luo Binghe’s body, his fingers aching and still tingling with leftover adrenaline. Luo Binghe shudders at the motion, and they both freeze.

“Get off me.” Luo Binghe growls, voice low and wrecked. It’s easy to feel the way his breath catches, and the difficulty he has forcing it back into order.

Liu Qingge does as he’s ordered. The sensation of pulling out of Luo Binghe’s body is strange, halfway between unpleasant and delicious, and Liu Qingge can’t help the soft breathy sound that wrenches out of him as he does it. Luo Binghe flinches again, hackles rising.

Neither of them says anything else as Liu Qingge carefully stands and readjusts his robes. His knees ache from kneeling for so long on the hardwood, and his legs are annoyingly shaky. The thick fabric of his sect uniform clings uncomfortably to his skin where he tries to smooth it out with wobbly hands. He feels unsteady, wrung out. Probably Luo Binghe feels far worse, though he doesn’t move to fix himself.

In fact, he doesn’t do anything except to, very slowly, pull his hand back from Shen Qingqiu’s. Standing behind him, Liu Qingge can’t see his expression. Just a wide back rising and falling gently with each breath, ruined robes pushed aside and stained, and a single bloody hand retreating across the bedspread. Shen Qingqiu’s body hasn’t moved, still laying silent and perfect, not a hair out of place. It’s an unsettling contrast to the carnage lingering between the remaining two of them.

“Get out,” Luo Binghe rasps, finally. No more than a whisper, barely an acknowledgement of his presence. He doesn’t even turn to look.

Liu Qingge makes a small sound in the back of his throat. “What? No.”

“Liu Qingge, leave.”

“After I—? No. Tell me what you did.” His voice feels nearly foreign to him now; level and clear, but heavy with an emotion he can’t name. He turns away, eyes falling upon the wreck of wood and strings heaped against the far wall.

“The pipa. Why did—”

Luo Binghe snarls, and without warning Xin Mo flashes across the room, cleaving right through what was left of the instrument with a terrible crunching sound. “Do not,” Luo Binghe grits out, “think for a moment that you—”

“You nearly died,” Liu Qingge interrupts, indignant with disbelief. Surely Luo Binghe isn’t really going to just throw Liu Qingge out, after everything he had to do to keep him alive? After he threatened to make every one of Shen Qingqiu’s sacrifices be for nothing? “You owe me an explanation of—”

“Liu Qingge!”

Luo Binghe snaps around to face him, eyes wild and still glowing red hot, tears streaking down his face in wide rivulets. He has hair plastered across his face and neck. He’s still pale, though the high spots of feverish colour on his cheeks have faded. It makes him look ghostly, nearly as dead as Shen Qingqiu. His mouth and chin are tinged with dark blood and spit, like some vengeful demonic spirit.

Liu Qingge feels the urge to take a step back, but holds his ground. He will not be intimidated. Luo Binghe bares his teeth, expression wild.

“I owe you nothing! I will not thank you for your pity, and neither will…neither would—” His fists clench tight, and Liu Qingge sees a trickle of fresh blood leak from between his fingers.

“Get out before I kill you.”

Liu Qingge opens his mouth to argue, but Xin Mo begins to hum where it lays in the destroyed pipa’s wreck. With a quick flick of his wrist, it flies into Luo Binghe’s hand with a low resonance that presses painfully at Liu Qingge’s ears. It sounds…eager. Liu Qingge clenches his own fist. He knows better than to ignore that sword when it’s thirsty. Fine, he’ll leave. This disloyal, ignorant child can suffer on his own.

He takes a step away, then pauses. With a last burst of vitriol he turns and spits on the ground at Luo Binghe’s feet before heading for the door. It still hangs half-off its hinges, and Liu Qingge kicks it aside as he leaves the room. “Next time you fuck up, I hope it kills you.”

No retort comes from behind him, but Liu Qingge doesn’t care. He walks furiously down the long hallway, not bothering to stop and collect himself. Anger is a hot thread keeping his countenance together. Once it ebbs away, he’s not sure what will be left of him to preserve. An empty body with no one calling out for him to come home.

A traitorous lone tear spills down his cheek, and he wipes it roughly away with the back of his sleeve. It shouldn’t be a problem. He’s the Bai Zhan Peak Lord. He’s the War God, for fuck’s sake.

He’ll just stay angry until he dies.