“   you’re   requesting   my   guidance   on   the   matter   ?   “         shen   qingqiu’s   expression   was   set   somewhere   between   contemplative   and   miffed   .   eyebrows   drawn   together   ...   only   just   resisting   an   eye-roll   that   would   have   flagged   a   echo   of   OCC   (   despite   unlocking   such   a   feature   a   lifetime   ago   )   .      “   will   you   not   just   do   as   you   please   ?      .   “   

“   binghe   ?   “         such   matters   ,   he   so   easily   relied   on   the   other   .   without   much   thought   .         “will   you   assist   this   master   ?   “   

don’t be afraid.   //   @howdemonic

@howdemonic​   /   a starter <3

“ - You did. It’s fine.” It’s not as if he slept very much or deeply here anyway. Barring the oppressive atmosphere and the near constant fear that haunts him - from the horrors of the day or the thought of being found out - there’s also the fact that he’s unused to the climate here, unused to the way things are. Winces at the way his neck pops and crackles back into place as he lifts his face from the pile of scrolls - rubs cheek, certain it must be red and perhaps marked where it had been pressed against the coarse paper. “You should go back to sleep, though. There’s still a few more hours till morning. I’ll wake you up again when there’s breakfast.”

“...Well, you’re getting some ANYWAY.” Withdraws her hand and lets displaced strands of dark hair fall back into place over his forehead, pressing her lips together into a frown. Does...whatever he is - even GET fevers on the regular? Or is it indicative of something more serious? “For my peace of mind, if nothing else. Sometimes your body can USE a little help - no reason to let it struggle on its own if there’s better.” Even if it’s not a lot of help. She can imagine the life he might have lived BEFORE - going away to lick his wounds by himself in some dark corner, all because he can handle it - and her frown tugs even further down at the mental image. Waves and her maid hands her the basin of cool water and the clean rag. She dips the rag in, and then folds it into a neat square for his forehead. “You’re also staying in bed till I say so, hmm?”

He plucks a white piece from the stone bowl with a smattering of dull, cascading notes. Rearranges his sleeve with grace he does not feel in this particular moment as he retracts his hand, gaze still carefully fixed on the intersecting lines of the board. Voice is pressed down, deceptively calm, sharp - finely focused into a needlepoint. “ - And HOW is it your fault?” It’s a question he has thus far not posed - a question that he was never PLANNING to pose, one of many things that he could simply NOT SAY to anyone, unsure how Binghe would take it in the aftermath of everything, so miserable every time they met. But it shakes out of him now like river from a flooded dam, the way truth-telling usually goes for him. “The way you cultivate?” Lips press together. “What else were you supposed to do? You had to live, somehow.” Places the piece precisely in the opening it was meant for with a crisp click. He wins their games more often recently - but perhaps he can see the board more clearly only for being an outsider. ‘It’s not like you were IN CONTROL - you’ll have to find a solution to that eventually, now that you know how bad it can get. But you can’t blame yourself for the decisions that other people make.” Adds, after a moment, unable to stop himself. “And you never ASKED him to die for you.”

IT DOESN’T HURT, he wants to say. He has endured worse, felt worse, been hurt worse. This  is nothing compared to Qishan - compared to his father, to the brothel. It’s insignificant, JUST A SCRATCH. His body, battered and stitched together, is testament to that - and Binghe knows it already. Still - in spite of all of that, somehow - there’s something gentle and concerned about the way he’s being touched, and he DOESN’T manage to hold back the dull noise he makes when fingers make contact with the damaged skin and the sliver of purple and red dashed like a stroke of paint on a canvas. Fingers fall to rest, gently, briefly on Binghe’s wrist, and he breathes out. Asks perhaps a little childishly, after a moment, tilting his head - “...Are you going to blow on that for me?”