#candleswriting

Curufin’s fury kindled, but he kept his mien cold and still with his will alone. How many times must he be reminded that he was the lesser, that their long years of closeness, their youth together, their quarrels and love, were nothing compared to Felagund’s infatuation with these mortals and their mayfly-quick lives. For the briefest of heartbeats, further poison gathered on the tip of his tongue. In his mind’s eye, he saw Felagund pushed further into wrath, saw the wild flame of his eyes. Would he draw his blade, as Fëanor once had against Fingolfin? Or would he close his bare hands about Curufin’s throat?

Felagund so loved to pretend at placidity, at gentleness, but his anger slumbered ever beneath those still waters. It shone, as bright as the summer blaze of his joy, and it was real. Curufin loved Finrod most when he was real.

The temptation was there. Curufin knew he could do it. But he did not insult Beren, or Barahir, or even Bëor. He said, cool, “Thou knowest that this was ever a fool’s journey, even hadst thou managed to rouse an army. The gates of Morgoth will not yield before the likes of thee.”

“Perhaps!” Felagund’s voice was sweet with rage. “But now we shall never know.”

Curufin’s eyes narrowed. “Thou wilt walk into doom for some mortal’s flight of passion, for Thingol’s whim?”

The back of Felagund’s fingers brushed, feather soft, against Curufin’s cheek. The touch was alight with the memory of thousands of other caresses, alive with the danger between them. His grey eyes were full of something unspeakable. “Wilt thou grieve for me, Curvo?”

It was the last thing that Curufin had expected. He flinched backwards, his mind unfurling, and beneath his anger his terror was laid bare.

“Ah,” Felagund said, the barest exhale. Gone was the might and majesty of the King, and in his absence there was only Finrod, small and pained and full of sorrow. “Thou wilt.”

“I’ve no desire to,” Curufin hissed. It did not matter whether he was met with softness or hardness; he could do nothing but arm himself with knives. “I desire naught but for thee to come to thy senses and abandon this futile quest.”

Finrod did not snap back. It would’ve been better if he had. He laughed, the sound soft and bitter and private. “I see! I had thought— Well, it does not matter what I had thought. Thy schemes have done naught but set my doom in stone, Curvo mine.”

The terrible thing was the way his small-name sounded on Finrod’s tongue: as tender as the press of lips against his neck, as solemn as the light of stars reflected in grey eyes, as laden with love as it ever was.

Curufin, rather abruptly, was forced to realize two things: Finrod did not love anything by halves, even now, and the love did not matter. 

Perhaps he should’ve realized that long ago.

“There is nothing I can say to change thy mind,” Curufin murmured, before he could think better of it. Unable to meet Finrod’s eyes any longer, he looked at the supplies scattered about the bed, the floor. He had not packed enough food. 

“There never was.” Gentle, gentle, as ever. From Curufin, it would’ve been a blade sharp enough to pierce the heart. From Finrod, it was just the truth. “I swore an oath to Barahir and his kin—”

Curufin’s hands fisted beneath his sleeves. “Do not speak to me of oaths.”

“—but I need no oath to compel me to Beren son of Barahir. I am bound to the House of Bëor by my own will.” The weight of Finrod’s gaze was a nearly physical thing, prickling across Curufin’s skin and sending shivers down his spine. He still did not look up. 

Finrod resumed his packing, haphazardly throwing things into his bag. One of his men would need to repack it for him. Curufin watched the quicksilver grace of his movements, the careless turn of his head. It should’ve been insulting, that Finrod thought so little of Curufin’s danger that he paid him no heed. But perhaps they simply knew each other too well for that. 

“I will not guard thy crown for you,” Curufin said, “Thou art dooming thyself and thy kingdom both.”

“Nargothrond is strong, when she is not sipping from thy cup of lies,” Finrod replied, and there, like the sun between clouds, was the splintered remnant of his anger. It was a weak thing now, muted by the helplessness between them, but not dead yet. “I’ve faith enough in Orodreth.”

Curufin sneered. “Yet more madness.”

“It is done, Curvo. There is no path for me but forward.”

There are many more paths than forward for thee, Curufin nearly snapped, but he made the mistake of meeting Finrod’s eyes. 

They were bright with treelight, with love, with doom. 

Curufin’s breath caught in his chest. He had no foresight to speak of, but he knew that this was the last time he’d see those eyes. 

Finrod smiled and slung his bag over his shoulder. “Farewell, Curvo. I hope I haunt thee.”

“I don’t know— It’s getting pretty late.” He affected sternness, vanishing the book with a flick of his wrist and propping his hands on his hips. “All of you need to be awake and alert at your lessons tomorrow!” 

Little Lola, one of the more outgoing children, immediately cried, “No! You promised us stories, Lyney!” 

“Shh,” he urged, “Your other siblings are sleeping!” More protests arose, and he sighed, seemingly reluctant. “Alright, alright! How about a deal, then? I’ll read you one more story, and then you'll all go to sleep.”

“Promise!” Lola said, delighted to have gotten her way. Lyney waited until more voices piped up, nodding briskly at the general agreement. 

“Good! And remember: the House rewards those who keep their promises.” It wouldn’t do to reward Lola for speaking out, and so he cast around and spotted one of the shyer boys, new to the House of the Hearth, curled up in an armchair near her. “Valere, it’s your turn. Why don’t you pick a book for me to read?” Immediately, Lola leaned over to Valere to whisper suggestions; Lyney hoped her friendliness might encourage the boy to come out of his shell a little. 

With the children’s attention finally drawn—temporarily—away from him, Lyney let his eyes fall on the one person who hadn’t stopped watching him all night. 

Lynette was sitting in the back of the room, half-hidden in the shadows. Freminet was lying on the bench beside her, fast asleep with Pers tucked under his arm, but Lynette’s dark violet eyes were open and watchful. Lyney could tell from the tilt of her ears that she was overwhelmed by the thunder and the children’s exuberance, but she still hadn’t left. 

Ever since she’d gotten her Vision, ever since Lyney had almost died, she’d refused to be parted from him. Lyney could understand her anxiety; wasn’t he the same, after all? How many days after her kidnapping had he insisted on holding her hand as they went about their day just to remind himself that she was there? 

But it was silly for her to worry about him. He was her older brother, after all. Worrying was his job. 

Stepping lightly, he made his way across the room, smiling and gently assuring anybody who reached out to him as he passed. By the time he stopped in front of Lynette, she looked flatly at him and said, “You just like basking in their attention.” 

He pouted, like he always did whenever she teased him. “You’re so cruel to me.” But she was too wired up to smile—her own small, barely-there smile that he could read in the softness around her eyes—and he let his mask slip sideways until the pout was pleading. “The kids want me to read another story, but I was supposed to check the mail after dinner. Could you do it for me, Lynette? Please?”

Lynette hesitated, understanding immediately that it was just a ploy to send her away from the too-loud room. Displeasure flattened the corners of her lips. “You should do your own work.” I don’t want to leave you.

He took her hands in his. “Please, Lynette? For your favorite older brother?” He squeezed her hands, letting her know that he was alive and fine and here. “I’ll even make you the new tea that Freminet brought home and bring it to you in bed.” I’ll be there soon. 

Another boom of thunder sounded overhead, and Lynette’s ears flattened against her hair. Unhappily, she said, “Fine.” She extracted her hands from Lyney’s and gently shook Freminet.

The younger boy blinked sleepily.  “Hm? Is it time to go to bed?”

“Bedtime,” she agreed, getting to her feet. As she and Freminet left, her tail flicked across the back of Lyney’s bare hand. 

Without anything to immediately occupy his attention, Lyney had to fight the urge to sway on his feet. He was so tired. His body ached. 

Shaking himself, he turned back to the children. Valere was standing behind him, shuffling his feet. “Um,” he said, voice soft, “Can— Can we read this one?” 

Lyney grinned. It was even a genuine one, now that he knew Lynette was free to put on her headphones and curl up in bed away from all the noise. “Of course!” He took the book and flipped it open. With all the panache of a real performance, he turned the book so that the children could see the pictures and began to read. 

-

By the time Lyney finally got all the children to bed, the pain and exhaustion were bad enough that he was nearly tripping over his own feet. But it was worth it; the stories and camaraderie of the makeshift sleepover had calmed any terror caused by the storm, and he thought that he’d seen Valere giggling with Lola towards the end. That was good. The boy needed friends. 

Muzzily, he found the tin of tea that Freminet had stolen from a noble’s manor on his last mission and began to brew it. Lynette normally made all the tea, and he fumbled one-handed through the process until he managed to produce a passable cup of it. 

Breathing carefully through the newly sharp pain in his side, he made his way up the stairs to their shared room. He was so sick of being injured. He wished he would heal faster. How was he supposed to carry out missions if he didn’t heal?

The door to their room was unlocked, and Lyney opened the door as quietly as he could. 

Lynette was curled up on her side on the bed, the headphones that Freminet had customized to be noise-canceling and as low tech as possible over her ears. Alarm bells immediately went off in his head; alone and in the silence, Lynette should’ve been able to enter standby mode and start recharging, but there was still tension coiled in the line of her spine. She was upset. 

Lyney quietly shut the door behind him and put the cup of tea down on the bedside cabinet, next to Lynette’s gently glowing Vision, so that he could sit on the edge of the bed. Lynette’s eyes snapped open, and her tail immediately curled around his ankle. “I brought the tea,” he said, smiling. It was better to talk around the issue until Lynette felt like bringing it up. She didn’t like it when he fussed. 

“Mm.” She pulled off the headphones and waited a beat, head tilted. Satisfied that the storm had abated, she sat up and reached for the tea. 

“Did Freminet get to bed alright?” Lyney asked. 

The line of her mouth flattened. “Yes. Father says we’re supposed to check the mail every day when she’s not here.”

Lyney winced. He could see the mail, piled into loose stacks on the cabinet across the room. “I forgot yesterday.” The downstairs bathroom had flooded, and Freminet had been out diving, and so it’d fallen to Lyney to temporarily fix the problem until someone could run out and fetch him. It’d been a mess. 

Lynette sipped the tea and made a pleased sound. “Mm. Yes. You did.” 

“Well. We’ll hand it out tomorrow at breakfast, and I’ll apologize if any of it is late.” 

She didn’t say anything. He’d normally be able to keep talking, to tease out the root of her discontent, but he could barely even think anymore. The silence lingered, broken only by the sound of Lynette drinking her tea. Darkness encroached at the edge of Lyney’s vision, and when he blinked he found himself slumped against the pillows, half-under the blanket. 

“I should change into pajamas,” he mumbled. He’d lost the thread of what he’d been doing. 

Lynette nodded, and he reluctantly got to his feet. The left half of his body—the side that had suffered the brunt of the impact from their crash—immediately screamed in protest, and he staggered and would’ve fallen if Lynette hadn’t leaped to her feet and caught him. 

“Sorry,” he said, automatically. 

Her tail flicked with displeasure. “Let me help.”

His first instinct was to protest. He was fine, really, just temporarily shaken. But his head was spinning and he was sure he’d just embarrass himself further if he tried. 

And tomorrow evening Father was supposed to get back from her mission and he needed to be the best that he could. 

Lynette read his consent in the dropping of his shoulders, and she pushed him back to the bed and went to fetch his pajamas and the bruise cream for his injuries. He was a poor patient at the best of times, he knew, but he tried to stifle the instinctual flinches and protests as she helped him change his clothes and redress his wounds. He was pleased to see that the tension in her slowly unwound as she did her work, but when she went to go put away his day clothes a new anxiety stirred in his gut. 

She’d hardly stepped back into the room when he blurted out, “Are you mad at me?”

She stopped. He flinched, horrified at the rawness in his voice. His lips started to smile, hoping to soften the question, but then she strode forward with a single-minded intensity and the smile died. She planted her hands on his shoulders—gentle as ever with his injured one—and leaned close to his face, her dark purple eyes blazing. “You’re very stupid.”

A nervous laugh bubbled out of his throat. “Ah—”

She shook her head irritably. “What did you do yesterday, Lyney?”

Off balance as he was, Lyney could do nothing but reply truthfully. “Crawled around in the basement trying to find the leak.”

“And today?”

His eyes dropped. “Help clean up the water damage.”

She saw that he could see where she was going, just as he saw that she was intending to make him say it anyway. “And what were you supposed to be doing?”

He mumbled, “Resting.” She nodded, stepping back, but he couldn’t help but add, “But how was I not supposed to help? They needed me.” She glared at him, and he couldn’t help but flinch again. He shouldn’t, not when she’d so tactfully avoided answering the first time, but the words spilled out without his control again. “Are you mad at me?” 

Lynette sighed. “Ask me again tomorrow.”

The words sent an irrational bolt of terror through him, but she sighed again and gently nudged him, arranging him until he was lying on his uninjured side and she was curled up with him. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, and they both pretended he wasn’t crying. 

She petted his hair, but she didn’t reassure him. It wasn’t really about her being mad at him for not resting. It was the way he’d failed to bounce back from the injury, the mistakes that lead to the fall in the first place, his own frustration with being unable to perform at his usual capacity. 

And Lynette had healed so much faster than usual, now that she had a Vision. The fear of being left behind was irrational and silly—Lynette would never—but that didn’t stop the thought from keeping him awake at night. He needed to be stronger. He needed to be perfect. 

Matter-of-fact, she said, “You always say it’s your job to take care of me. I don’t want to have to take care of you.”

He laughed, wetly. “You’re so mean to me.” But he understood the meaning behind her words. “I can’t promise to take care of myself better. I need—” He trailed off, but she knew. 

“I mean, I’ll do it.” Her fingers curled around the pulse point at his wrist. “But that’s why you’re stupid,” she added, long-suffering, “I’m not telling you not to work when you should rest. I’m telling you to be smarter about working when you should rest.”

“Oh,” he said, feeling very small and very seen. He’d been tense, afraid she was about to ask for something he couldn’t give, but he should’ve known better. There was nobody in this world who knew him better than Lynette. And she was right; pushing himself through an injury as severe as this one when he had no motive but his own anxieties, had been a stupid, reckless thing to do “Okay. I can do that.”

“I know,” Lynette said simply. 

He wriggled, pulling away far enough to see her face. She wasn’t crying, but the exhaustion in her eyes matched his own. “Are you okay?”

Her nose wrinkled. “Of course.”

He’d always been able to see well in the dark, and her face was as familiar as his own. She was calmer now, her worry lessened if not entirely dispelled. She wasn’t completely fine, not yet—but then neither of them were.

She saw him looking and raised her eyebrows. “I’m fine.” 

And she would be. Both of them would. 

He grinned, abashed, and said, “You know I had to check.”

She nodded; of course she knew. Without another word, he pressed himself back into her side and closed his eyes. They stayed there, curled up like two pieces of the same puzzle, until sleep took them. 

He was cold. 

That was probably bad. He was still losing blood.

It was hard to breathe. 

A shudder wracked his frame, and he squeezed his eyes shut. The wind—a mere whisper of a thing, surprisingly gentle despite the storm on its way—threaded through his hair, caressed his face. Diluc released the breath caught in his lungs with a gasp and opened his eyes.

His last thought was less of a single thought and more of two impulses, hand-in-hand and of equal weight:

I do not want to die.

But I would be glad to die in Mondstadt.

The wind wrapped around him.

-

Diluc did not particularly expect to wake up. He wasn’t surprised to, though. He was always waking back up after he should’ve died. 

The lack of pain was surprising, though. 

So was the lyre.

Diluc opened his eyes. Above him, the familiar branches of the tree at Windrise fluttered gently in the breeze. Beyond them, the sky was brilliantly blue. 

Slowly, mindful of injuries that no longer ached, Diluc turned his head towards the sound of the lyre. The roots of Vennessa’s tree cradled him, and over their curves he could see a familiar green cape. Venti was perched on top of a nearby root, his head tilted downwards as his fingers absently plucked at his lyre. His eyes were closed, but his expression was somber in its concentration. There was a startling weight to it, and Diluc was reminded—abruptly, and not for the first time—that the bright-eyed, laughing bard who frequented his tavern was an Archon older than he could even fathom. 

As if sensing his gaze, Venti’s eyes fluttered open. The lyre vanished in a twist of his wrist and a pretty flash of pale blue-green energy, and Venti hopped down from the root. The wind lapped at his heels, slowing his fall and tugging him in Diluc’s direction. “Master Diluc!” he declared, with a bright grin that was all Venti, “Fancy meeting you all the way out here.”

Despite himself, Diluc was undeniably fond of that smile. He would say it was a terrible inconvenience, but he’d been making a valiant attempt to not lie to himself lately. “Venti.” Cautiously, experimentally, he pushed himself into a sitting position. His muscles ached where he’d been stabbed and the skin that had once been burned felt newly sensitive beneath the miraculously clean fabric of his shirt, but it was nowhere near as bad as it should have been. The Statue of the Seven glowed faintly in the distance.

Venti planted himself on the overlarge root that Diluc was leaning against. “You know, you’re lucky it was me that found you!” He leaned over to meet Diluc’s eyes, smile tugging at his lips and braids dangling freely in the air. “Anybody else and you would be dead meat.”

Diluc grimaced. “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

“Didn’t you?” Venti asked, still smiling despite the sudden solemnity in his eyes. 

Whatever Diluc might have said to that died on his tongue. He’d never really looked at Venti’s eyes before. They were the color of the ocean at its most unfathomable, so deep and green that it seemed absurd that nobody else had seen him for what he was. A name escaped his lips, caught halfway between prayer and request. 

Those eyes blinked, startled, and Venti said, “Oh, you know I prefer Venti nowadays.”

Diluc shook himself. “Yes. Sorry.” 

Venti tilted his head, eyes still solemn. 

Diluc felt very small beneath that gaze. It'd been so long since anything had made him feel small, but it didn’t feel bad. He could never feel bad, under that gaze. Mondstadt—land of freedom, of song—had always been his first and strongest love, and he couldn’t help the surge of feeling he suddenly felt for its Archon. Venti, despite his capriciousness, loved his people just as dearly as they loved him, and Diluc felt just as fiercely for him as he felt for Mondstadt. It wasn’t a feeling he could name, but it filled him with light and noise and pressure until there was a blazing wildfire in his chest. “Thank you. For saving me.”

Venti waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, pshaw.” He propped an elbow on his knee so that he could rest his chin in the palm of his hand. “You should be more careful, Master Diluc. There are many people who love you, and they would be sad if you destroyed yourself for them.”

“I’m not,” Diluc said. It was suddenly very important that Venti understood that. “I was, once. But I’m not, anymore.”

Venti blinked, gaze heavy on Diluc’s face. Whatever he saw made him smile. “Alright then!” He held out a slim hand, calluses on his fingertips. “Come on, then. It’s a long trek back to Mondstadt.”

Diluc took his hand. Venti’s grip was surprisingly strong, and he pulled him effortlessly to his feet. 

Voice soft, Venti said, “I’m glad you’ve decided to live.”

Diluc smiled at him. He was out of practice at it, but it felt good. It felt right. “I decided it was about time.”

Venti beamed at him. He didn’t let go of his hand.

-

Kaeya: Darknight is delusional and I resent that you’ve assigned me to investigate him Jean: As if you wouldn’t have done it yourself anyways Anything interesting?

-

Demons rarely used sleeping curses. It was an impractically complicated method to get something that could be achieved with simple knockout powder or any blunt object. 

Unlike knockout powder or a blunt object, Mu Qingfang didn’t have the cure sitting readily on his shelf. 

He was just starting to sift through what he did have when the distant crash of his door slamming open interrupted his concentration. He grimaced. One of these days, Shang Qinghua was finally going to snap and go after Liu Qingge for destroying so many doors. 

“Where is he?” a voice demanded, as low and snarling and dangerous as any demon. 

Mu Qingfang hastily put down his things and made for the entrance room as the danger level ratcheted up from Liu Qingge to Shen Qingqiu. 

Sure enough, Shen Qingqiu was standing in the doorway, glaring one of Mu Qingfang’s disciples into a nervous wreck. “Tell me where he is, you sniveling brat.”

The poor boy looked like he was about to faint. Mu Qingfang came into the room and smiled pleasantly. “I would appreciate it if you could refrain from insulting my disciples, Shen-shixiong.”

Shen Qingqiu whirled on him, and the little disciple let out a squeak and ran for it. Mu Qingfang would have to scold him later, but he wouldn’t be too stern. All his disciples were terrified of Shen Qingqiu, and  for good reason. The man looked absolutely livid, his usual affected loftiness abandoned for a raw fury that even Liu Qingge couldn’t draw from him. At his hip, Xiu Ya rattled in its sheath. “Do not make me repeat myself.”

Mu Qingfang’s smile didn’t slip. “Zhangmen-shixiong is currently resting in a private room.”

“Resting,” Shen Qingqiu repeated, the word dripping with derision. He opened his fan with a sharp snap of his wrist, and his dark eyes glinted over its edge. “Let me see him.”

“Ah.” Introducing an element as volatile as Shen Qingqiu to a sick room was invariably a terrible idea. Explicitly telling him so was an even worse one. “Shen-shixiong, I’m afraid that Zhangmeng-shixiong’s state is currently very delicate. It would be best if he didn’t receive visitors right now.”

If looks could kill, Mu Qingfang would be a smear on the floor right now. “Was I asking?”

As mildly as ever, Mu Qingfang said, “I wasn’t aware that Shen-shixiong and Zhangmen-shixiong were close? If Shen-shixiong is truly so worried, then I suppose a brief visit would not be remiss.”

Shen Qingqiu’s eyes widened over his fan. “I’m not worried,” he snapped, “I am merely doing my duty, as the lord of Cang Qiong Mountain’s second peak.”

Got him. Mu Qingfang smiled, not at all smugly because he still had common sense and Shen Qingqiu still had Xiu Ya. “Shen-shixiong is truly admirable. Zhangmen-shixiong is still sleeping, and this one was just about to create a cure.”

Shen Qingqiu floundered as gracefully and loftily as he did anything else. After a beat, he closed his fan with a snap and whirled around. “Fine. Do it quickly.”

“Of course.”

Shen Qingqiu drew Xiu Ya in a dramatic sweep and leapt into the air. Mu Qingfang squinted after him. He was heading in the direction of Xian Shu Peak, which was not where he should be going if he was truly “doing his duty as the lord of Cang Qiong Mountain’s second peak.”

Which— interesting. Mu Qingfang hadn’t been aware that Yue Qingyuan’s frankly painfully obvious affections were returned with anything other than reluctant tolerance. 

He could think of no other reason for Shen Qingqiu to go haring off to Xian Shu Peak if it wasn’t to harass Qi Qingqi for more information about the demon that had cursed Yue Qingyuan. 

Well. At least that was a better use for his energy than pestering healers who had work to do. 

Mu Qingfang gave it an hour before either Shen Qingqiu or Qi Qingqi got fed up enough with each other to draw a blade, which should give him at least an hour and a half before anybody came running to him for emergency healing. 

With a sigh, he got to work. 

---

It took them forty minutes. Mu Qingfang barely resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose as a hysterical Xian Shu disciple babbled about how Shen Qingqiu had attacked Qi Qingqi—

“Like a beast! For no reason at all!” the girl cried, “He’s going to kill her!” 

Mu Qingfang considered his options. He didn’t like Shen Qingqiu, but he would never deny the man the respect he deserved. He was acerbic and impossible to work with, but he would never just attack Qi Qingqi for no reason. It was far more likely that she’d snapped at him and he—in his state of heightened stress—had overreacted and then she had overreacted too. 

Mu Qingfang smiled his most dangerous smile. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I heard you properly. Would shizhi mind repeating herself?”

The girl made a vague choking sound and hastily dropped into a bow. “This humble disciple apologizes for her disrespect! She—humbly—requests that Mu-shishu sends medical aid to Xian Shu Peak!”

Mu Qingfang kept smiling, because otherwise he was going to make a very unattractive expression. “What exactly did Shen-shixiong and Qi-shijie get themselves into?”

The girl wavered, still refusing to meet his gaze. “This disciple is unsure. Guo-shijie sent this one here as a— as a precautionary measure before anything terrible happened.” 

Mu Qingfang did not have time for this. He sent her away along with a handful of his best disciples to assuage her wide-eyed look of terror and irritably returned to his work. If Shen Qingqiu or Qi Qingqi got themselves hurt badly enough to need his help, then they’d need to wait their turn.

---

Thirty minutes later, there was another knock on his door. With a heavy sigh, Mu Qingfang gathered himself and went to open it. To his surprise, Shen Qingqiu was standing outside. He had his fan raised to cover the lower half of his face, and his hair and robes were only mildly ruffled by his flight here and whatever brawl he’d gotten into with Qi Qingqi.

Mu Qingfang just smiled and waited. It would do Shen Qingqiu some good to have to actually ask for what he wanted. 

Those dark eyes narrowed over his fan. “Have you made any progress in your research?”

Mu Qingfang kept smiling, because otherwise he’d probably bang his head into the door. Did Shen Qingqiu think that constant interruptions were the ideal environment for productive work? Is that what was happening here? 

It didn’t seem like he really wanted an answer, because Shen Qingqiu continued, “Qi-shimei shared the details of the incident with me. I would like to inspect our Zhangmen-shixiong’s condition myself.” He lowered his fan to reveal a smile that suggested it wasn’t a question.

Mu Qingfang did sigh this time, because apparently Shen Qingqiu cared about Yue Qingyuan! Who knew! Definitely not somebody who’d been forced to sit through their sniping at meetings, that was for sure. “Shen-shixiong may come in,” he allowed, “so long as he maintains the peace of the chambers.”

There was no point keeping him out, after all. He was practically vibrating with stress as it was, and there was no way he wouldn’t cause some other disaster if Mu Qingfang turned him away now. 

“Of course.” Shen Qingqiu closed his fan with a snap. “No need for Mu-shidi to chaperone. I’m sure he has much to do.” Without waiting for a response, he strode past Mu Qingfang and through the door to Yue Qingyuan’s sick room. 

Which. Great. Excellent. 

Mu Qingfang spent exactly three seconds valiantly staring at his work before giving up and following after Shen Qingqiu, fully prepared to do some kind of damage control. To his surprise, the other man was standing motionless in Yue Qingyuan’s doorway, toes barely over the threshold. The hand holding his fan was white with tension. 

Cautiously, Mu Qingfang said, “Shen-shixiong is free to enter.”

Shen Qingqiu’s shoulders tensed. He turned, unfolding his fan with a smooth, languid motion and bringing it up to cover the lower half of his face as he peered at Mu Qingfang. “Mu-shidi should get back to work. Cang Qiong Mountain needs our sect leader, after all.”

Mu Qingfang stared at him. Shen Qingqiu’s eyes were the color of lakewater at its murkiest. They were a deep grey-green, and they were filled with something terrible and unreadable, something that was somehow even more frightening than his usual hissing, spitting fury.

Ah, he thought, suddenly. 

“I’ll find a cure,” he promised.

Shen Qingqiu’s fingers tightened around his fan. His eyes narrowed, as if he were about to scoff, but in the end he just looked back through the door at Yue Qingyuan’s unconscious form, arms tucked neatly at his sides and blanket drawn up to his chest. Without another word, he turned and stalked out.

---

Mu Qingfang read many, many scrolls. He looked through all his notes, attempted all his usual solutions, but the demon’s sleeping curse was tenacious. It clung stubbornly to Yue Qingyuan, locking him in dreams no matter what Mu Qingfang tried. 

In the end, there was only one solution left. 

. . . Shen Qingqiu was going to eviscerate him.

---

“Are you telling me,” Shen Qingqiu hissed, all but vibrating with poorly-disguised fury, “that the only solution is to sleep with him?!” 

“Dual cultivation with a suitably powerful partner, yes,” Mu Qingfang replied evenly, smiling as if he wasn’t sweating bullets. The other Peak Lords, summoned for an update on their sect leaders’ condition and now attempting to melt into their chairs to avoid Shen Qingqiu’s rapidly building wrath, happily avoided eye contact. Liu Qingge had probably zoned out two sentences into the meeting. 

Shen Qingqiu tilted his chin up, both dismissive and derisive all at once. “You have access to resources of the most powerful sect in the cultivation world, and the best you can give me is dual cultivation.” 

Mu Qingfang did not flinch. It would’ve been a near miss, but Shen Qingqiu’s now obvious affection and concern for Yue Qingyuan had diminished his wrath to the hissing of an overprotective kitten and also Mu Qingfang was probably running on a few too many days without sleep. So he said, “Unfortunately, yes, that is accurate.”

Shen Qingqiu’s eyes locked onto him. Several tense moments passed. Shang Qinghua, several chairs away and not at all involved in the action, was nearly purple with stress. Finally, Shen Qingqiu stepped back, drawing his anger into some secret part of himself until nothing was left but a cold, cruel elegance. “Well! How far the majesty of Cang Qiong Mountain has fallen.” His lip curled into a sardonic sneer. “If I am ever cursed and the only solution is to sleep with my unconscious corpse, then just slit my throat and put us all out of our mistry.”

Somewhere in the back of the room, somebody mumbled, “Please.”

Shen Qinggqiu’s teeth clicked together. “Mu-shidi,” he said, in the same voice that made Mu Qingfang’s disciples piss themselves, “Surely there are some books on my Qing Jing Peak that you haven’t yet looked over. How can you make a diagnosis when you haven't done all the research yet?”

Mu Qingfang considered slamming his head onto the table. Unfortunately, he doubted that Shen Qingqiu’s mood was permissive enough to allow such dramatics. 

. . . it was never permissive enough to allow such dramatics. 

With the pleasant smile of a man who had definitely already read every single relevant book on Cang Qiong Mountain, he said, “I suppose I may have been remiss in my responsibilities. Zhangmen-shixiong’s condition is in no danger of worsening, and so there is no harm in further examining what information we have.”

Shen Qingqiu’s smile might as well have been fanged. “Good. I will drop them off as soon as possible.” With one last glare at the rest of the Peak Lords, he turned sharply on his heel and strode from the room in a flurry of green silks and danger.

Shang Qinghua sagged into the table. Qi Qingqi snorted and patted Mu Qingfang on the shoulder. “Good luck with that one, Mu-shidi.”

Mu Qingfang carefully did not stop smiling.

---

He waited until he was safely alone in his workshop before slamming his head on the table. It didn’t solve anything, but it did technically give him several seconds of shut-eye and that was better than nothing.

He was interrupted—once again—by the sound of his door violently slamming open.

“Shen-shixiong,” he said, peeling his face off his desk.

“Mu-shidi.” Shen Qingqiu sat down next to him and folded his hands neatly in his lap, deceptively demure. “Is dual cultivation really the only way to cure Zhangmen-shixiong of his curse?”

Mu Qingfang peered at Shen Qingqiu’s sleeves. They didn’t look very full, but there was no telling how many books the man had shoved into them. “There may perhaps—” Theoretically, possibly, somewhere. “—be other alternatives.”

Shen Qingqiu tilted his head down in acknowledgement, but his eyes never left Mu Qingfang’s. “But this is the best solution.” He didn’t wait for a response before adding, words crisp and only mildly colored by the revulsion he’d displayed in the meeting room earlier, “Dual cultivation with a suitably powerful partner is the best solution.”

“Yes,” Mu Qingfang said, not even bothering to summon his usual smile. It was what he’d already said in the meeting, after all, and Shen Qingqiu wasn’t looking for his smile anyways. 

Shen Qingqiu’s lips turned white as he pressed them together. He didn’t speak, but the glint in his eyes made it clear that he was waiting for something. 

Mu Qingfang had absolutely no idea what. If anything, all he’d learned from this entire affair—beyond the surprising effectiveness of sleeping curses—was that he could not read Shen Qingqiu whatsoever. Here he was, pale and tense and snappish for a man that the whole sect was convinced that he hated. 

“Would—” Shen Qingqiu began, before stopping and scowling at the wall. “Would. My cultivation level. Work.”

“Oh.” Mu Qingfang wondered if he should even bother being surprised anymore. At least this was one thing he’d already known about his Shen-shixiong: he was an absolutely abysmal communicator. “Um.”

Shen Qingqiu’s cheeks colored, and he quickly said, “Not that I want to do this. But Zhangmen-shixiong deserves better than some brute like Liu Qingge, and there’s hardly a wealth of cultivators powerful enough to match him. So excuse this lowly one for his flawed foundation, but—”

Ah, what?! Mu Qingfang had not asked for any of this??? Hastily, before Shen Qingqiu could ramble himself into changing his mind, Mu Qingfang said, “Shen-shixiong, you are one of the most powerful cultivators in the world.” There was a reason that he’d been able to last as long as he had in duels with Liu Qingge in their youths. “You would absolutely, ah, work.”

Shen Qingqiu’s fan opened with a snap. It did little to hide the redness of his face. “Ah. Well. Good.”

“Right,” Mu Qingfang said. 

They stared at each other. 

Shen Qingqiu bristled, shoulders tilting upwards again, and Mu Qingfang realized abruptly that he was about to get eviscerated if he didn’t leave very, very soon. Quickly, Mu Qingfang exclaimed, “Well! Good. I’ll take my leave first, to allow you and Zhangmen-shixiong your privacy. You know how this works?”

“Of course I know how this works!” Shen Qingqiu yelped, too indignant to maintain an even tone. 

Mu Qingfang smiled. It was perhaps his first genuine smile since Qi Qingqi had absconded after dumping Yue Qingyuan’s body in his arms. “Good. I’ll leave Shen-shixiong to it, then.”

Before Shen Qingqiu could figure out how to stop spluttering, Mu Qingfang gathered his things and quickly vacated the premises.

---

Well. He supposed that was one way to do things.

---

Yue Qingyuan was up and about by the next day. Any assumptions Mu Qingfang had had about Shen Qingqiu wanting to be private about his affairs were quickly dashed. Yue Qingyuan walked into the next Peak Lord meeting with, ah, marks visible high enough on his neck that his collar couldn’t cover them, and he seemed utterly incapable of keeping his eyes off of Shen Qingqiu. 

Shen Qingqiu ignored him as usual, but Mu Qingfang was sitting close enough to see that they were holding hands under the table.

Which. Great. Excellent. Exactly what Mu Qingfang wanted to see at every sect meeting for the rest of his life.

“It’s all your fault, you know,” Liu Qingge said.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Mu Qingfang protested. 

“No, it absolutely is,” Qi Qingqi said glumly, “I can’t believe we have to watch Zhangmen-shixiong making bedroom eyes at Shen Qingqiu every single month.” 

Mu Qingfang put his head on the table. Maybe if he just ignored everything, it would all go away. 

“Did you see them yesterday?” Qi Qingqi continued, “They were wearing matching outfits.”

Shang Qinghua, inexplicably, shot Mu Qingfang a strange gesture with both thumbs sticking up. “Nice.”

“No,” Liu Qingge said.

“Absolutely not,” Qi Qingqi agreed.

Shen Qingqiu became aware of the pain before he was even consciously aware that he was awake. For a second, he was irritated. It’d been so long since he woke up like this—covered in bruises and sporting a pounding headache—that his brain couldn’t help but focus on the pain instead of the more pressing problem, like where the fuck he currently was.

Well, he thought sardonically, he clearly needed more practice waking up injured.

With some effort, he forced his attention outwards. His hands were bound—chained, what the fuck—behind his back, and the ground was rough beneath his cheek. It was uncomfortable and everything smelled faintly of too-old straw.

The last thing he remembered was Liu Qingge confronting him in an alley. He’d been full of righteous fury, outraged that Shen Qingqiu would sully the reputation of Cang Qiong Mountain by visiting a brothel the evening before the Immortal Alliance Conference.

But Liu Qingge wouldn’t tie him up. It wouldn’t even occur to his stupid, honor-obsessed brain to do that.

Eyes still closed, he called upon his qi to expand his senses outwards, trying to see if there was anybody else nearby. He was brought up short when his qi didn’t respond. It wasn’t that it was gone; he could feel it circulating through his meridians, albeit slower and less smoothly than usual. But trying to reach for it was like trying to scoop water up in his fingers. He doubted he’d even be able to summon Xiu Ya with the amount he could gather before it slipped away.

His stomach sank. He knew—intimately—which poison could cause that. And there was only one place he’d ever found it before.