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“Shizun.”

That voice is no more than a tiny, distant whisper. It’s reassuring and reminds Shen QingQiu of safety and home. Shen QingQiu instinctively chases that voice through the dark fog of his own dream. Luo BingHe, his disciple, his husband, he’s calling for him. Of course this master can’t let him down! Not now, not anymore, not after everything they went through together over the past years.

“Shizun,” Luo BingHe’s calls again.

Shen QingQiu can’t help but feel a bone-deep chill at the helplessness in his husband’s voice. Luo BingHe, ruler of the demon realm and enemy of humanity, holder of the immense powers granted by Great Master Airplane himself, shouldn’t feel helpless. His frown deepens  and he cuts through the fog with his sheer will.

There’s light on the other side. Shen QingQiu opens his eyes to a familiar canopy, crafted from black obsidian and encrusted with beautiful rubies. It’s Luo BingHe’s bed in the demon realm. Their bed, which Luo BingHe ordered to be a fancier replica of the one Shen QingQiu owns at QingJing Peak. It’s home, too.

Home is wherever Luo BingHe is, after all.

Shen QingQiu cringes internally at how cheesy he sounds. Give it to a few years of marriage to make you a romantic prick. If the System was still active, he’d demand compensation for this collateral effect in the form of a huge sum of B-points. Twenty thousand, yes, that sounds about right! He definitely earned them.

Nodding to himself satisfied at the thought—and wincing as a bout of headache washes over him—Shen QingQiu finally looks around the room. Everything is the same black and red he came to associate with Luo BingHe; the man himself is kneeling of the floor, elbows propped on the bed and fingers curled around Shen QingQiu’s surprisingly pale hand. Luo BingHe’s own hands are trembling and the demon mark on his forehead burns against the back of Shen QingQiu’s hand. His eyes are closed shut and a crease formed between his handsome eyebrows.

His beauty is as ethereal as Shen QingQiu remembers, yet there’s something oddly moving about his expression now. An image suddenly flashes before Shen QingQiu’s eyes—white walls and a white bed, the continuous beep of machines, his mother’s pained expression—before he understands.

Oh, so that’s what it is. It’s the despair of seeing someone dear in pain and being unable to do anything about it. It’s the love that gives the strength to stay and face everything by their side. To be the receiving end of such expression again after so long makes something stir inside Shen QingQiu’s heart. It’s not bad, but it’s not good either. It’s a sense of urgency, the bone-deep desire to say something even if he’s unsure what this something is.

He squeezes Luo BingHe’s hand once, a physical reflexion of his warring feelings. Luo BingHe’s breath stills for a moment before he finally looks up. His eyes are red, not the demonic red Shen QingQiu got used to see, but the kind of red produced by unshed tears.

Luo BingHe’s lips part. They’re chapped on the corners and almost offensively dry. Shen QingQiu’s fingers twitch to reach for the lip balm Qi QingQi gifted him some months ago. What kind of husband is he if he can’t eves take care of Luo BingHe’s needs?

“Shizun,” Luo BingHe calls, his voice cracking and breaking on the edges. There’s hope in his eyes. “Are you—Do you feel any pain?”

Shen QingQiu frowns. Now that he thinks about it—why is Luo BingHe acting like he’s on his deathbed or something? He forces his mind to remember. They went to the Eastern Borders the day before. Luo BingHe was skeptical about letting Shen QingQiu join him. In his eyes, those demons were undeserving of his Shizun’s presence, after all. But Shen QingQiu insisted on going anyway. He wanted to see firsthand what the flora on that side of the demon realm looked like. No matter how vivid Great Master Airplane’s description and Shen QingQiu’s own fertile imagination could be, it’d never beat the real thing.

Oh. A flower. Shen QingQiu remembers now, a cave which floor was covered in blue carpet of flowers and, hanging from the highest point of the ceiling above, a giant white flower. Its petals spread out and downwards like tiny diamonds, oddly reminiscent of the waterfall chandelier that rested right above da-ge’s piano. As though a mockery of that ebony piano itself, a stretch of pitch-black water reflects the flower’s splendor.

One thing Shen QingQiu learned during his years in this world is that flowers, no matter how beautiful and magical, are far more dangerous than the nastiest venom known by man. What he didn’t expect, however, is that the real danger was in that pitch-black pond—more specifically, in the reflection Shen QingQiu saw there. It was him, but not quite, not as he is today, but a reminder of who he used to be.

For a brief moment he fears that BingHe saw that side of him. The thought is immediately discarded for there’s no way his husband would be here, worrying himself to death about Shen QingQiu’s well-being if he did. The sight of a man Luo BingHe didn’t know, the man who usurped the place of the real Shen QingQiu and lived a lie for over a decade, there’s simply no way Luo BingHe would forgive him. Shen QingQiu knows, for he’s sure he wouldn’t be able to, either.

Then, he scoffs at his own foolishness. Of course a hidden paradise would have an equally hidden danger. Something unsuspecting that goes against common sense—the perfect trap to bring down a rival. And, of course, such plot machination was used to set yet another conflict within the original goods harem. Chapter 3983, part one of the sixty-seventh arc, 【The Ephemeral Life Of A Fleeting Blossom】.

Shen QingQiu really, really needs to have another word with Airplane-bro about his horrid naming sense.

But, in all honesty, that particular arc stood out to Shen QingQiu as the best amongst the harem-filled arcs, and it was solely because Luo BingHe spent most of the arc tracking down which wife cast the curse. Seeing Luo BingHe’s thought process and a glimpse at his feelings regarding the whole ordeal was simply fascinating to him. The major downside, however, is that he has no idea of the effects of said curse, nor how it was cured, for the next time the affected wife appeared on-screen she was already cured.

Really, it’s just his luck to be hit by the only curse Great Master Airplane refused to write out and elaborate. He opens his mouth to complain about the situation, Airplane, the stupid headache clouding his mind, anything but—but no sound comes out.

Shen QingQiu shuts his mouth immediately. He swallows. His throat feels too dry. He silently glances at the jar placed on the side table. Luo BingHe kisses the back of his hand before rushing to fill a cup for him. He helps Shen QingQiu sit up and presses the jade cup against his lips. A wave of relief washes over him. He wonders for how long he slept to be this thirsty upon waking up. From experience, it couldn’t be any less than a couple of days.

“Does Shizun feel better now?” Luo BingHe asks, his voice still cracking around the edges, on the thin line between absolute rage and utter grief.

He’s blaming himself. Of course he is. He promised himself he’d never let harm come on Shen QingQiu’s way again, after all. Granted, he failed a couple of times, and Shen QingQiu may or may not have lost count of how many wife plots already hit him (a lie, it was thirteen now) but still. What did Shen QingQiu have to do to make his silly, stupid husband understand that it’s not his fault?

He lets out a heavy sigh. He raises a hand to pat the top of Luo BingHe’s head. Luo BingHe, his sweet if foolish husband, lets his gaze fall to Shen QingQiu’s other hand, now gently caressing his own. His eyes glisten, but no tears fall. Shen QingQiu understood this a long time ago: Luo BingHe never cries when it truly matters.

This Master is alright, Shen QingQiu says as gently as he can, you don’t have to worry anymore.

Except there is a big, very real reason to worry, namely: Shen QingQiu’s voice. Though his lips moved and the words resounded clearly in his heart and mind, his voice just wouldn’t come out. He swallows again. The soft patting on Luo BingHe’s head stops. His hands are far too shaky to continue. Luo BingHe raises his head in silent, broken-hearted confusion. What meets his gaze is the sight of Shen QingQiu’s wide, terrified eyes. He points at his own neck, lips trembling yet unable to form a single word.

Luo BingHe’s breath catches on his throat. He shifts on the bed, with the sole intention of sitting face to face with Shen QingQiu, but all it managed was increase Shen QingQiu’s distress. The bed clearly dipped with BingHe’s weight. His thigh is pressed right against Shen QingQiu’s and yet.

And yet he can’t feel anything. He thought his legs were just numb before, yet he cannot explain this complete and utter nothingness. He tries to move his feet. The tip of his toes. All he receives in return is completely stillness.

Suddenly, he remembers a certain passage from 【Proud Immortal Demon Way】, where Luo BingHe watched through the slightly ajar door as his cursed wife weeped wordlessly on the bed, held in the safety of Ning YingYing’s arms. Shen QingQiu assumed it was out of shock back then, for the betrayal and the pain inflicted on her. It never crossed his mind that she couldn’t speak, and so Luo BingHe had to investigate all on his own.

Shen QingQiu can’t help but sigh inwardly. He wishes Airplane-bro at least gave the betrayer a name. Her plan was definitely worthy of praise. A love rival who cannot walk is certainly disadvantaged in a harem filled with cultivators and demons; a love rival who can’t stand her ground (oh, what a terrible pun it is) and can’t denounce her, then, cannot protect herself at all.

It’d only be a shame if the cursed wife remembered that, hey, she could very well write the name! Honestly, the biggest plot hole in this otherwise perfect arc. A shame, really.

A small, breathless, “Shizun?” snaps him out of his thoughts. Shen QingQiu bites his lip. Seeing the growing terror in Luo BingHe’s eyes, he forces himself to regain his composure. Freaking out won’t help either of them, and distracting himself with the intricacies of the novel’s plot certainly won’t help BingHe calm down. He takes his husband’s hand into his, putting his palm upwards. He lightly writes a name. Luo BingHe purses his lips, but nods.

QingHua.

His footsteps are nearly silent as he leaves the room. It’s unnerving, in a way. Luo BingHe always deliberately makes sounds when he walks near Shen QingQiu. He never said it out loud, but Shen QingQiu knows it’s his way to make sure he won’t be startled again nor retreat to those bleak, old days and mistake his husband for a threat. That BingHe even forgot to do it... Shen QingQiu hands open and close, yearning for something he can’t quite discern.

He looks at his empty hands and blinks slowly. Oh. It’s his fan, isn’t it? Shen QingQiu glances around nervously, but there’s none within his reach. The only one he can see sits on the vanity on the opposite end of the room. Shen QingQiu clicks his tongue in annoyance.

Like hell I’ll try to get it on my own! Anger flares in his heart at his predicament. Had this been a scene of any dramatic series, the character, still unused to their newfound disability, would reach far and beyond their reach and ultimately have a dramatic fall which sole purpose was bring more sadness and guilty to the protagonist. Now that Shen QingQiu thinks about it, the only series with such a fall scene that actually moved his heart was the last episode of Code Geass. Nunnally really deserved better, the poor girl...

Oh, he’s doing it again. He almost wishes he could hit himself with his own fan. Hiding behind his chaotic thoughts and cross-referencing everything he knows won’t do anything except make him unable to handle the situation at hand. Shen QingQiu wishes there was therapy in this world. That shit really helped him, back then. Maybe it would again.

Then, he shakes his head. Considering who the creator of this world deliberately designed to be Luo BingHe’s living hell is, Shen QingQiu is a little more than just sure there’d be no such thing as therapy. If there was, he’s convinced every single person walking around would attend it.

He’s not sure how much time passes in this dark silence. A small ghost fire approached him at some point. Shen QingQiu found there are quite a few of these in the demon realm, born from the souls of fallen demons who cannot enter the cycle of reincarnation. They do not hold any memories from their past lives, rendered to these lovely, lively and curious little things. Shen QingQiu stretches a hand to the ghost fire, and its purple flames flicker and burn brighter as it takes refuge on his palm. It’s not warm, but not particularly cold either. A small existence frozen in time, yet powerful enough to light up even this silent room. Shen QingQiu  smiles at it. The ghost fire turns a bright shade of red.

The sight of his soft, toothy smile, eyes squeezed into crescents with genuine joy is what greets Luo BingHe. Shen QingQiu isn’t laughing, not quite—even if he was, there’s no voice to be heard. But that sight... It made his tense shoulders relax a little.

He’s safe.

“Shen-shixiong,” Shang QingHua calls low and carefully. He looks extra small in the heavy fur coat he’s wearing. From the way it drags on on the floor behind him, Shen QingQiu is sure the coat is actually MoBei-Jun’s. “Junshang said you needed me...?”

Shen QingQiu motions towards the bed. Shang QingHua takes a fearful glance at Luo BingHe before quickly making his way to Shen QingQiu. He practically disappears amidst the black fabric when he sits down, very much like a small, shivering pet. A pet, huh... Maybe a hamster would fit him well enough.

He then glances at low table Shen QingQiu tends to use to read or grade papers. Sometimes Luo BingHe will use it, too, to go through the paperwork his position as the demon emperor demands. How sad it is, that not even Luo BingHe himself could be saved from the boring paperwork...

His lips curve into a small smile when his husband offers him a sheet of paper and a brush. He nods at him, the closest to a thank you he can afford now. Then, he runs the brush, already dipped in ink, over the paper. His characters are surprisingly elegant for a millennial geek. Perhaps, calligraphy has always been his only real talent, aside from easily remembering things and details others tend to miss—that and his utter incapability to understand other’s feelings.

Do you know Chinese Sign Language? Shang QingHua blinks twice at the unexpected question. He mutters something under his breath; though Shen QingQiu can’t understand what it is, Luo BingHe heard it clearly. His eyes are filled in something akin to confusion. Oh. So it was English again. Shang QingHua’s broken pronunciation really will be the death of him someday.

“I do... I mean, of course. You know how I am.” Someone who learns one thing after the other just for the sake of writing about it—Shen QingQiu indeed knows it very well. He still can’t quite wrap his head around the fact that Shang QingHua really, really dared going to a sex club once for the sake of observation. No wonder his sex scenes were horrifically bad. “Just don’t do it too fast. I can’t keep up if you do.”

Shen QingQiu nods. He notices Luo BingHe’s still looking somewhat confused. He frowns, not quite understanding the reason behind it. Luo BingHe surely should be used to his antics by now... But then he realizes, Luo BingHe isn’t looking at any of them. He’s looking at the paper Shen QingQiu used to write just now, more specifically at the four last characters.

Of course. There’s no such thing as simplified characters in this world and Shen QingQiu mindlessly chose exactly those ones to refer to their standard sign language. Oh, well. He turns to Shang QingHua. He moves his hands, each curve and form refined and elegant. “Explain to him what sign language is.”

Shang QingHua gulps, then nods. He turns to Luo BingHe and the fear in his eyes is back in full force. “This... Shixiong’s using a communication method that’s common to both of us. It uses the hands and the body instead of one’s voice to convey words. It’s called sign language. That’s why he called me here.”

“I wonder, why I never heard of such thing.” Luo BingHe tilts his head slightly. Though his words are shaped like a question, his tone makes it clear he doesn’t really expect an answer. He never does, not when it comes to Shen QingQiu. Luo BingHe learned long ago that expecting answers is meaningless when it comes to his Shizun.

It makes that sense of urgency return twice as strong. Shen QingQiu bites his lip. “It’s not something I have used in years, so it never occurred to tell you about it before. I never taught anyone, either. But if you wish to learn, I’ll teach you.”

This time Shang QingHua relays his message word by word. Luo BingHe’s eyes glisten with something Shen QingQiu can’t quite name but knows is something positive. He turns his attention back to Shang QingHua, his face devoid of any warmth. “Chapter 3983, part one, the curse-inflicted nameless wife.”

Shang QingHua’s eyes widen. His cheeks puff in anger—Shen QingQiu really, really can’t unsee the resemblance to a hamster now—and he opens his mouth before stopping himself. Instead, his hands flail madly. “She was not nameless! It was Jiang LiHua! And holy shit you really had to go and get the worst of them all, didn’t you?!”

Shen QingQiu’s eyes light up. “So you know what the curse is. How do I break it?”

Shang QingHua visibly winces. The reaction catches Luo BingHe’s attention. His glare turns colder and in turn, the fear within Shang QingHua’s heart increases dramatically. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” Shen QingQiu’s signals slowly.

“You don’t know how to fix this?” Luo BingHe asks at the same time, likely picking up clues from their expressions alone.

Shang QingHua bites his lip. “It’s not... That I don’t know...” There’s no way he wouldn’t, after all, being the one to create it. “It’s just probably not the answer you’re hoping to hear.”

“Please explain.”

“This curse affects people differently based on their issues and struggles. Was anything other than your voice affected?” Shang QingHua clearly avoids looking at Luo BingHe.

Shen QingQiu’s lips curl downwards. “My legs. I can’t move them.”

Shang QingHua crosses his arms. It does nothing but make him look even smaller in MoBei-Jun’s coat. He hums thoughtfully. “There are four possibilities as to where this curse may take effect. Eyes, for the ones who cannot face reality. Ears, for those who cannot listen. Voice, for those who cannot speak. Legs, for the prisoners.”

Shen QingQiu swallows at the explanation. He can’t help but feel awed at it, but also a bit angry. All these cool details, why the fuck didn’t they make it into the novel?! But then he realizes—it probably did, in the form of another wife plot, affecting another part of their being, and he just didn’t, couldn’t make the connection.

“Shizun isn’t a prisoner,” is the first thing Luo BingHe says. There’s a hint of anxiety in his voice that betrays his fear. Fear that it’s just as Liu QingGe always says, that he’s a monster no sane human would choose, that Shen QingQiu didn’t want to be with him.

Shang QingHua gently reassures, “He indeed is not. Shixiong would never be with someone he does not love.” There’s a smile on Shang QingHua’s lips. Shen QingQiu quickly averts his gaze, face burning. He really, really wishes he had his fan right now. “It’s often just a metaphor. For example, someone who can’t let go of their past is a prisoner of said past. Vices, addictions, hatred—those kind of things can also make people prisoners.”

Shen QingQiu nods mindlessly. He thinks of the memory that assaulted his mind earlier, the face of his mother and the familiar white walls of a hospital. A prisoner to his past... He thought he had let go of that life already, but that’s obviously not the case. To consciously avoid even thinking about it, running away from everything that reminds him of what he lost that day... He supposes that does, indeed, make him a prisoner.

He sighs. “And how can I get rid of it?”

“I mean, working on those issues will pretty much do the trick,” Shang QingHua answers matter-of-factly. So, therapy. Or actual communication. Got it. Shen QingQiu’s expression darkens. Shang QingHua groans. “See, I told you you wouldn’t like it! The other way is to wait for it to wear off... A year from now.”

Shen QingQiu grimaces. He speaks slowly, “I’ll kill you.”

***

Unfortunately, he did not kill Shang QingHua that day. A shame, really, but he didn’t want to set MoBei-Jun off. His husband already had too much bullshit to deal with as is. Losing his right hand man certainly wouldn’t help him.

Shen QingQiu releases a small, shuddering sigh. It’s a beautiful day, as beautiful as a day inside the demon realm can be. Above him, an endless blood-colored sky meets his eyes. The rocky mountains surrounding Luo BingHe’s palace let out a faint, pink-colored glow that reflects gently on Shen QingQiu’s silver wheelchair.

Unlike the wheelchair the Huan Hua Palace Master once used, this one is a lot closer to the ones Shen QingQiu saw in the other world. He thought he’d feel more bummed about being tied to one of these again but, really, he is not. It’s just painfully familiar. And, as weird as it may sound, he’s grateful his arms are at least strong enough to move the chair around. This fact alone makes him freer than he used to be back then.

“Shizun,” Luo BingHe calls gently.

Shen QingQiu’s gaze falls on his husband. His hair is tied in a low ponytail today, and his clothes have more silver than red, tighter around his body than usual. Combat robes, especially tailored and imbued with protective spells he only uses when there’s conflict within his territories. Since the news of Shen QingQiu’s condition spread, many demons have been wrecking havoc around, convinced Luo BingHe’s hands are too full of his husband to deal with them. Unfortunately for them, Shen QingQiu refuses to be a burden, and the desire to be as much with his husband as possible only makes Luo BingHe deadly efficient.

He smiles. His hands move swiftly, “Welcome back.”

It’s only been some weeks since the start of everything, but Luo BingHe is a surprisingly fast learner. He could pick up most of the basic things within the first hours, and in the weeks that came he all but mastered sign language. He didn’t ask how nor when Shen QingQiu learned it in the first place, something Shen QingQiu is rather grateful for.

Luo BingHe smiles back, placing a small tray on the table between them. A couple of steaming rice buns, two cups of tea and a sweet demonic snack that’s oddly alike the taste of chocolate compose their evening tea.

“Did you make this?” He asks despite already knowing the answer. Luo BingHe nods. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” Luo BingHe says. He takes seat on the chair across Shen QingQiu, who’s still maneuvering the wheelchair to face him properly. Luo BingHe’s smile is a little tight, like he’s holding back from standing up and helping Shen QingQiu himself. The fact that he doesn’t is another thing Shen QingQiu is grateful for. “Shizun knows I’m always happy to serve.”

Shen QingQiu knows. It’s still a little mind-blowing, if he had to be honest. He may have been pampered growing up but in the end all efforts could be tracked back to blood bonds and familial ties. A responsibility and an obligation, if one will. He doesn’t remember ever being in the receiving end of such selfless and endless devotion. If only...

He swallows. Despite his shaken core, his hands don’t tremble. “I’ll always be thankful for everything you do. You don’t owe me anything.”

Luo BingHe’s brow crease slightly. “I do what I want to do, Shizun. It’s not a repayment for anything.”

“And that’s why I don’t deserve you.” Oh. Shen QingQiu was convinced he’d be able to hold his feelings better now that he lacked a voice. It turns out that speaking through his hands makes it a lot easier to let this kind of things slip through.

There’s no answer for a while. He doesn’t dare look at Luo BingHe, instead occupying himself with the food. It’s delicious. It makes something deep inside him warm and a little fuzzy. Shen QingQiu is happy. Happy that he’s alive, happy that he can taste this, happy that Luo BingHe is so close to him. No amount of awkward silence or cold dread can dampen this feeling.

Really... He just has lot to say thanks for.

“Shizun,” Luo BingHe calls suddenly. It takes Shen QingQiu slightly aback. He tilts his head, waiting for his husband to continue. “Can I take you somewhere?”

“Of course,” he replies immediately. He trusts Luo BingHe, perhaps even more than he trusts himself. Shen QingQiu has no doubts that he’d go to the ends of the world with this man if he needs to—and he’d do so with a smile.

Luo BingHe stands up. With a flicker of his hand, the table is empty once again. Shen QingQiu follows his movements with his eyes until he has to strain his neck to see him.  The push handles aren’t as tall as the wheelchairs Shen QingQiu’s used to, and the headrest is narrow enough he can easily reach for Luo BingHe’s hand. Perhaps it’s on purpose. Perhaps Luo BingHe made it so that Shen QingQiu could feel at ease, to diminish the distance imposed by their current position, where Shen QingQiu can’t even see his face.

He gently squeezes that cold hand. This is all he could have wanted.

They pass through many doors and gates. Demons of all shapes and forms bow towards them and some whisper their well-wishes to Shen QingQiu. He smiles back at them. It took a very long time to have these demons warm up to him, but now that they did it feels more like having a very big family. Even Sha HuaLing, who’s always distressed at the sight of him. She reminds him far too much of his own meimei for him to ignore it easily.

Luo BingHe guides him to the deepest parts of his palace, places that not even Shen QingQiu had the courage to explore yet. Not because they’re forbidden—Luo BingHe made sure he knew everything he had, every place he ruled over, also belonged to Shen QingQiu—but out of a sense that it’s not meant to him. Not yet, not when he doesn’t know if Luo BingHe wanted him there. But those insecurities are gone now that he can feel his husband’s presence right behind him.

Shen QingQiu looks right and left, up and down with his eyes wide in awe. The dark obsidian walls are now replaced with glowing, transparent crystals. The whole world seems to be pale white and for some odd reason he can’t quite pinpoint, Shen QingQiu feels at peace here. The crystals go from entire pillars to smaller, skillfully crafted objects: bamboo shots, trees, a small house, wild animals, a carriage and even the replica of a crater that’s far too familiar to Shen QingQiu’s eyes.

This place isn’t a replica of their place at QingJing Peak, but rather a representation of all their memories. Oh, there is the water prison! Shen QingQiu can’t help but flinch at the sight of it. A small, humored chuckle sounds behind it. “Something the matter, Shizun?”

So his husband is in the mood to tease? Shen QingQiu’s lips curve into a small smile he quickly wipes off his face. “That hurt.”

Luo BingHe hums thoughtfully. He seems to know exactly what Shen QingQiu is referring to—those infernal, gut-wrenching, period-inducing blood gu that still make their way into Shen QingQiu’s nightmares sometimes. Luo BingHe’s voice sounds oddly detached when he speaks next, “I never apologized for them, did I?”

“You don’t need to.” Shen QingQiu deserved it. He pushed Luo BingHe into the abyss and ignorantly kept hurting him time and time again upon his return. If anything, he’s thankful Luo BingHe didn’t outright kill him back then, for he had every right to do so. “Besides, they saved me.”

Luo BingHe never said so, but Shen QingQiu’s always suspected that it was his blood within Shen QingQiu’s body that allowed him to locate him back when TianLang-Jun captured him.

He can practically hear Luo BingHe’s frown. “I hurt you. Of course I should apologize.”

“Nonsense. And it’s all in the past, anyway. Why bother now?” Shen QingQiu shakes his head in exasperation. They stop in front of a flight of stairs. Shen QingQiu can’t see where they lead to, not with the darkness engulfing the descent. He tries to turn towards Luo BingHe. He can only barely see his husband’s shoulder. “I can’t go down.”

There’s no way this wheelchair can make it down the stairs. Hearing—or rather, seeing his words, Luo BingHe’s frown deepens. “Do you wish for a new chair? I’m sure we can make one that can do it... Perhaps one with spider legs...” Shen QingQiu really, really wishes the idea of a mechanical spider serving as his legs didn’t sound this appealing. He wants to say no, unwilling to trouble Luo BingHe any more, but his husband is already nodding to himself. “I’ll ask MoBei-Jun about it. We could make it with ice, and power it with your spiritual energy. You’ll be able to go anywhere you want, until this curse wears off.”

Wears off. Not until it’s broken, but until it wears off. Luo BingHe knows Shen QingQiu won’t make it, not with the curse’s demands. And instead of being angry or yelling at him for it—which, honestly, he has all the right to given the circumstances—he’s still thinking of ways to make things easier for him.

This man, Shen QingQiu... He really doesn’t deserve him. He blinks a couple of times. His eyes burn for some reason he can’t quite pinpoint. Luo BingHe kneels before him. His eyes are gentle, albeit anguished. He holds Shen QingQiu’s face between his hands. The touch is light and careful, as if afraid to break him. Shen QingQiu leans into the touch.

“Besides, if Shizun allows me, I still want you to see... What lies beyond here. Let me be your legs, even if just for this moment,” he asks, the tone of his voice betraying the underlying urgency deep within his heart.

Shen QingQiu didn’t quite like being carried around. It made him feel both powerless and a burden. But now, hearing Luo BingHe’s whispered plea, how can he deny him? Even more, can he even feel powerless if he’s doing something his husband yearns for?

He nods, and something lights up in Luo BingHe’s eyes. He presses his lips to Shen QingQiu’s forehead before taking him into his arms. Luo BingHe’s body feels as strong and reliable as Shen QingQiu remembers. He leans his head against his chest, listening to his husband’s heartbeat, and lets the realization that it’s been so long since they’ve been this close slowly sink in. He can’t truly remember when was the last time they lied together, not simply to sleep, but as husbands. Shen QingQiu’s always wailed so loudly about his husband’s size, his roughness and so many other things he can’t even remember them all, and yet those moments, that intimacy is everything he yearns for now.

His clutches at Luo BingHe’s robes. The sword on his hip makes a tiny sound with each step. This sword is familiar, too. Shen QingQiu remembers the day they returned to QingJing Peak, when he unburied the broken remnants of Luo BingHe’s old sword and returned it to its rightful owner. Luo BingHe never mentioned the sword grave, nor did he express his feelings regarding the newfound knowledge that his Shizun did, in fact, mourn for him during those three years. Perhaps it was just too much for him. Perhaps he didn’t feel it worthy of mention. It didn’t really matter, not as long as Luo BingHe didn’t hate him—as long as he loved him.

Could he still love him if he knew the truth?

“Here we are,” Luo BingHe announces. He speaks in a low voice, but his words reverberate loudly within the small cave. His words prompt Shen QingQiu to look around. There’s barely any light, and what’s left of it comes from cracks across the dark stone. He can’t see it well, but he knows for sure it’s neither the beautiful obsidian that makes Luo BingHe’s palace nor the crystals that made the floor above. It’s more like—volcanic rocks.

He frowns. His hands twitch, but he doesn’t dare start signaling. He’s not sure Luo BingHe can see it anyway, so there’s no point in trying. Luo BingHe takes a few more steps forward, edging closer to what’s possibly the largest crack. No, not crack, it’s a crater, with a dark rock sticking out from the middle of it. Though the lava doesn’t burn anymore, it certainly glows as though it’s alive.

Luo BingHe sits on the edge of it, Shen QingQiu safely nestled against his chest. He rests his chin on top of Shen QingQiu’s head. The weight is surprisingly familiar and oddly reassuring. He sighs, a sound born out of helplessness and exhaustion. Shen QingQiu bites his lip. Again, this sound, because of him...

“This place is where XinMo used to rest,” Luo BingHe says. Shen QingQiu’s eyes widen in shock. He double checks the crater. So that lonely rock is where XinMo used to rest before Luo BingHe found it. Looking more closely at the cracks across the walls and the ground, Shen QingQiu realizes something that makes his hairs stand on end: they’re not cracks, but scratches. The desperate attempts from the souls XinMo imprisoned to leave, leave and find peace, leave and finally rest. He swallows. Luo BingHe’s hand runs gentle circles on his back. “This place is a lot more peaceful than it used to be. The wails stopped when XinMo was destroyed... So I guess it’s safe for Shizun, now.”

At least, he won’t go insane with those sounds. Shen QingQiu can’t help but wonder how badly those sounds hurt Luo BingHe. Could he hear them, even after they got together? When they came here? Did those wails follow him, whispering in his mind even when he wasn’t? Could he hear them from QingJing Peak, from their cottage in the mountains? The possibility terrifies Shen QingQiu. Luo BingHe possibly went through a living nightmare and he was clueless about it, safe in the knowledge that they were free from the System’s clutches.

A small, choked sob echoes in the room. It takes a moment too long for him to realize it came from him. He can feel the shock in Luo BingHe’s silence. Shen QingQiu only cried once in this life—when he realized how stupidly powerless he was to protect Luo BingHe, a pain far greater than the plants sprouting from his own skin.

Luo BingHe feebly started to wipe his tears away. His own fingers are trembling. “Shizun, Shizun please don’t. It’s gone now. I’m free. And I’m happy. Like you said, it’s all in the past, so why bother?” He presses a kiss to one of Shen QingQiu’s dampened cheeks. “I did not bring you so you’d feel guilty, either. None of it is your fault, after all—” Shen QingQiu instinctively opens his mouth to retort, before remembering that he can’t. “—and you can say whatever you wish, but we both know you didn’t want any of it to happen either.”

Shen QingQiu bites his lip. He doesn’t find it in himself to deny it. He really didn’t. Hell, he’d have willingly burned all his B-points if it meant Luo BingHe could have had a safe, happy life. If only—if only he wasn’t such a selfish coward. The truth was that he didn’t want to die that night. Not again, not when he didn’t know what’d be of Luo BingHe afterwards. Not when he feared his precious disciple would go insane with the target of his greatest hatred was gone.

Another kiss is pressed to his forehead. “I don’t know why Shizun made the choices he did, or why he knew so much he shouldn’t, or why everything about him always felt out of place, but I realized... We all have our secrets. I never told you about this place, and didn’t speak of my feelings until it was too late. There are many things I still can’t say, even now. So I thought it’s not my place to demand answers you cannot give. It’d only be unfair and selfish of me.” His hold on Shen QingQiu tightens slightly, the reflection of the chaotic feelings deep within his heart, “Nothing you did or didn’t do would make me love you any less. You’re not undeserving, and your pain shouldn’t be dismissed, either. To allow you to go on with these stupid ideas... I refuse to fail you like this.”

Shen QingQiu’s heart hurts. It’s not a bad a kind of hurt—it’s freeing, in a way he can’t quite describe. He doesn’t need to fear anymore. Luo BingHe won’t hate him. He loves him. He loves him despite everything... Perhaps, because of everything. He loves him and Shen QingQiu feels happier than he did all his life.

Still, he takes Luo BingHe’s hand into his own. His finger traces characters on his palm. He needs to confirm, if only so the shadow of his fear can be gone for once and all. “Even if I am not who you think you am?”

“Are you the Shizun who gave me medicine back then?” Luo BingHe asks. Shen QingQiu nods. He can hear Luo BingHe’s smile. “Then you’re the only one I want.”

***

“Bro, that’s gay,” is the first thing Shang QingHua says upon hearing—or rather, watching?—Shen QingQiu’s story.

Shen QingQiu narrows his eyes at the not-Shang-QingHua’s outer robe, the jewelry adorning the man’s hair and his icy-cold husband standing some good hundreds meters behind them, falsely paying attention to the noble demons striking conversation. He signals slow and very, very eloquently, “You are the last person who can say anything.”

Shang QingHua shrugs. He’s all but engulfed in MoBei-Jun’s clothes again, the damn hamster. “Still. That’s gayer than anything I’d write. Disgustingly sweet, too. Is he even my protagonist anymore?”

“He is better than that,” Shen QingQiu says. He can’t help a small smile as he catches sight of his own husband, also resolutely ignoring the nobles trying to curb his favor. “He is real.”

“Bro,” Shang QingHua mutters in utter astonishment. He shakes his head after a while. “Well, it’s good he did, though. It lifted part of the curse.”

Shen QingQiu sighs as he glances at his own legs. The day following their conversation at XinMo’s old bed, Shen QingQiu woke up to the striking realization that he could feel his legs again. Turns out, he wasn’t as much a prisoner to his past as he was to the fear of not being enough for Luo BingHe. In all honesty, he was bummed. He really wanted that mechanical spider to carry him around. Luo BingHe only managed to make his discontentment die down after promising to make a spider carriage for him instead.

Truly, he doesn’t—Shen QingQiu shakes his head. No, that’s not right. He does deserve Luo BingHe, just as Luo BingHe deserves him. They’re exactly where they want to be.

“I want to ask you something, actually,” Shen QingQiu signals. It’s the sole reason he pulled Shang QingHua all the way here, after all. Shang QingHua lifts an eyebrow and hums in interest. Shen QingQiu continues, “Does he know?”

He doesn’t need to say who or what for Shan QingHua to understand the meaning of his words. His smile turns somewhat sad. “No.”

Shen QingQiu breathes out in relief. So it’s not only him... Shang QingHua’s afraid, too, that this happy, peaceful life will crumble if the truth comes to light. He swallows. “I want to tell him. Everything.”

Shang QingHua’s eyes widen in surprise. He stutters, unable to form cohesive words. Then, “Are you sure?”

A nod is all the answer Shang QingHua gets. Seeing the way his pseudo-friend’s shoulders slumped, Shen QingQiu adds, “No matter how it ends, I’ll make sure it doesn’t reach MoBei-Jun. Don’t worry about being exposed.”

It takes a moment, but Shang QingHua nods. He doesn’t say anything else, for two people join them immediately after. Shang QingHua smiles at MoBei-Jun, sheer delight on his face. Shen QingQiu, having nothing else to say, hides his face behind his fan, but doesn’t shy away from the arm Luo BingHe puts around his waist. He can feel eyes on them, pure envy dripping from those demon ladies who only want Shen QingQiu to disappear.

He smiles, satisfied to an almost amusing degree. This, this is perfect.

***

“For Heaven’s sake, BingHe!”

Although silent, Shen QingQiu’s excited flailing hands could as well be a scream on its own. His eyes are wide with pure glee and his cheeks hurt with how wide his smile is. He doesn’t keep the pretense of aloofness anymore. Who cares about elegance when a fucking two-meter tall, icy-silver, eight-legged carriage stands right in front of them?! Shen QingQiu certainly doesn’t!

Luo BingHe’s own smile is wide and proud. He’s leaning against the carriage, his pitch-black robes standing out against the ice. “I promised I’d make it for Shizun,” he says almost serenely.

Shen QingQiu really, really wants to kiss him. And he does, because there’s nothing stopping him.

“I take it that Shizun is happy?” Luo BingHe murmurs against his lips. Shen QingQiu bits his lower lip, but doesn’t answer. He knows himself well enough to know he’ll try to deny it... And he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to hide behind this facade anymore. And until he can say the words directly, Shen QingQiu hopes BingHe will understand the value in his silence. Luo BingHe buries his face in the curve of Shen QingQiu’s neck. His breath feels hot against Shen QingQiu’s skin. “That’s good. I want to make Shizun happy.”

Shen QingQiu’s breath hitches. He reaches around BingHe, and writes over the clothes on his back. The arms around his waist tighten slightly and Luo BingHe’s breath hitches with it.

You already do.

A small pause. A nod. Luo BingHe presses a gentle kiss to Shen QingQiu’s cheek. It’s a gentle touch that makes something inside Shen QingQiu soften. There’s a certain relief in Luo BingHe’s eyes, the kind of reassurance that comes with having your greatest fear proven wrong. Shen QingQiu takes the hand that’s offered to him. Luo BingHe helps him onto the carriage and joins him immediately afterwards.

The carriage isn’t big enough for two grown men. Their sides are pressed together and the edge of the seat pokes into Shen QingQiu’s hip. Luo BingHe shifts on his side, and the arm that was pressed against Shen QingQiu’s is now wrapped around his waist. They’re even closer now, embarrassingly so, but Shen QingQiu doesn’t mind. It’s comfortable, and safe. He unconsciously leans into Luo BingHe’s embrace. Shen QingQiu can’t see the way Luo BingHe’s smile softens at the gesture, but he can feel in his heart that he did the right thing.

Luo BingHe gently guides his hands to the side of the carriage. He whispers a couple of words into his ear and Shen QingQiu nods, the slightest tinge of red dusting his cheeks. He pours his spiritual energy into the carriage. One by one, the legs stir and rise, and drawings he couldn’t see before light up on the icy surface. They’re words of a long-lost kingdom, most likely from the earliest generations of demon kings. To be able to see it with his own eyes, Shen QingQiu can’t help but feel blessed.

“Where are we going to?” he asks. The carriage seems to recognize his presence and follows his commands as swiftly as possible despite him using both hands to sign.

“I don’t know. Where does Shizun want to go?” Luo BingHe smiles indulgently.

Where does he want to go? Shen QingQiu thinks for a moment. The carriage rotates its position completely before diving into a run. Only Luo BingHe’s arm keeps Shen QingQiu from falling. The world around them becomes no more than a blur; a needless, all of them. Shen QingQiu has everything he needs right here.

The red skies of Luo BingHe’s territory quickly turn dirty yellow. What few, strange-colored plants there were are now no more than sickly sticks pretending to be trees. It’s a pitiful sight. It reeks of death. And precisely because of that, it’s exactly where Shen QingQiu wants to be.

“Shizun,” Luo BingHe says in a low, nervous voice. Shen QingQiu can’t blame him. The last time they came here was nothing short of a nightmare. Shen QingQiu can’t help but shiver as he reminds the sensation of having plants growing out of his skin.

He frowns. As if being hit with wife plots isn’t enough, he was also hit with torture plots—hell, he even met the king of torture himself during his punishment. Maybe, just maybe, he should poke the System sometime to demand his compensation. Yep, he definitely will. That and yell at a certain author who thought this would be a good idea at all. Damn Airplane!

“Shizun,” Luo BingHe calls again. The hand on Shen QingQiu’s hips tightened slightly during the travel, and Luo BingHe pulls him closer now that the carriage’s starting to slow down. “Why?”

Shen QingQiu looks at the place before them. Seeing the Holy Mausoleum again after so long feels weird. Mostly because he didn’t exactly have the time to reflect on its appearance, both inside and outside. Weird. For some reason, Shen QingQiu thought it’d be a little more fancy.

“I just thought it was a shame we didn’t have the chance to explore this place properly,” he says, the words blooming with each movement of his hands. Shen QingQiu bites his lip, and adds: “Besides... No one will be able to stop us from dreaming here.”

Luo BingHe’s eyes widen slightly. The line of his jaw looks stiff and his shoulders go tense at the implication of Shen QingQiu’s words.

The carriage stops. Luo BingHe steps out first, raising both arms to help Shen QingQiu down. If this was a month or two before, Shen QingQiu would’ve gone on a fan-hitting tirade for the sheer audacity. Now, he simply smiles and indulges his husband as he wishes. They walk hand in hand right into the main gates of the Holy Mausoleum. Luo BingHe makes a small gesture with his hand, and the doors open before them.

Shen QingQiu can’t help but feel a hint of pride in his heart. He remembers how Luo BingHe once had to invade this place with an army of Black Moon Python Rhinoceros—all for Shen QingQiu’s sake, a desperate attempt to save and bring him back home. All it takes for the Mausoleum to bend itself to his wishes now is a wave of hand. This is the proof that Luo BingHe is the true emperor.

“What’s wrong?” Luo BingHe asks with a small, curious frown.

Shen QingQiu hides his growing smile behind his fan and writes on the back of Luo BingHe’s hand: you fulfilled your promise. Luo BingHe blinks. Shen QingQiu adds: you’re the strongest now. As if hit on the face, Luo BingHe immediately averts his gaze. For a moment Shen QingQiu wonders if he really didn’t hurt BingHe in some way. That redness couldn’t just come out of nowhere, right?

“It’s only thanks to Shizun. I wouldn’t have made it without you...” Luo BingHe’s expression is engulfed by darkness as the doors of the Holy Mausoleum close behind them. Still, Shen QingQiu can’t help but feel he’s smiling. “You also fulfilled your promise.” It’s Shen QingQiu’s turn to look at him—or rather, at his silhouette—in confusion. Luo BingHe chuckles, the sound of it light and almost teasing, “Nothing will happen to you even if I have to die. I’ll protect you even if you don’t improve yourself. Were those not Shizun’s words?”

It takes a moment too long before he realizes that, indeed, he was the one to say those words. He can’t quite remember what he was feeling back then, but he suspects it was the same thing he feels now: love, for this unruly, cheeky demon, the lotus that colored his life even before he existed in Shen QingQiu’s life.

He bites back a sigh. Even though he promised those things, Shen QingQiu knows he failed. Luo BingHe fell into the Abyss. He suffered for years on end, enough to be driven into madness and trying to destroy the world. Shen QingQiu allowed that to happen... How could Luo BingHe say he kept his word in the end?

Though he does not voice the question, Luo BingHe answers with somewhat of a sigh. “You protected me from the Skinner. You got Without-A-Cure to protect me. When Meng Mo came, you saved me from myself. The Immortal Alliance, you defended me from MoBei-Jun. At Jinlan City, too... Shizun, why are you shaking your head like that? It’s all true. You gave me the means to get power, and every time my life was at risk, you protected me. Every time I needed you the most, you were there for me. How could it not be that you kept your promise?”

Shen QingQiu opens his mouth only to close it again with a frustrated grunt. He can’t help but wonder if this is what er-ge felt back then, this certain frustration of being unable to keep up with everyone and everything he wanted to do and say. All of a sudden, Shen QingQiu feels even more sympathy towards that older brother of his.

There’s light, now: those fire spirits Shen QingQiu so painstakingly tried to hide from all those years ago. They illuminate the whole corridor and their figures, but no matter how big their flames get, they don’t dare come closer. The joys of walking beside the Demon Emperor, Shen QingQiu realizes.

“You’re the worst,” he deadpans.

Luo BingHe snorts. “And yet you married me.”

“I know I have flawless tastes. No need to remind me.” Luo BingHe’s smile widens at those words. “But I still feel cheated.”

“Oh? How so?” Luo BingHe raises an eyebrow in curiosity.

“We’ve been together for years now, yet I never heard word of forming a family... Could it be that my husband isn’t interested in raising brats with me?” Though his smile is mischievous, Shen QingQiu’s hands tremble slightly. He can’t believe he really managed to say it... Or accept the thought, that hidden desire altogether.

Luo BingHe stops in his steps abruptly. His eyes are wide and his mouth hangs open; still, there’s a hint of uncertainty underneath the shock and surprise that makes Shen QingQiu press a finger against his lips. Luo BingHe obediently swallows whatever he was going to say, whether an answer or an objection.

“You can answer in the morning... When everything is done.”

He nods, albeit shakily. Luo BingHe resumes his walk before taking a turn. They walk into a room very familiar to both of them. The wall is covered with the image of a laughing woman. The jewels that were broken back then now are replaced with a new pair. An old coffin lies open on the corner, where TianLang-Jun first met Shen QingQiu.

Shen QingQiu remembers his own fruitless attempt at incapacitating TianLang-Jun to sneak out with Luo BingHe only to end up outside with a ZuZhi-Lang in his grip. The anger and powerlessness he felt back then are still true that day. He sighs. “Sorry, for that time. It must have hurt.”

Being left behind after breaking into this small piece of hell with nothing but an edge lord of a father, Shen QingQiu knows that must have hurt Luo BingHe. And, as if it wasn’t enough, he’s sure the painting’s scream sure as hell hurt.

Luo BingHe smiles, “I know Shizun only wanted to help. And if anything, I’m still amazed by Shizun’s knowledge.”

Shen QingQiu smiles ruefully. “You won’t be so pleased when you know.”

Not if, but when. Luo BingHe certainly didn’t miss on the wording choice. He smiles. “As long as it’s the truth, nothing else matters.”

Shen QingQiu closes his eyes. As long as it’s the truth, huh...

Without another word, he pulls Luo BingHe towards the next room. And the next, and the next, until they arrive at a room that’s only familiar to Shen QingQiu. He stares at the half-open coffin.

It’s time to dream.

***

Luo BingHe has met and fought many demons in his life, each of them weirder than the last. They never scared before. They were no match to his strength, after all. And yet, he can’t help but freeze at the sight of a large demon, made of white iron and something that smells like burnt leather. There’s some sort of talisman drawn on the beast’s side, one that looks like a cow. Weird. Is its purpose protection? Perhaps he should ask Shizun—but Shizun is nowhere.

Instead, Luo BingHe’s surrounded by roaring iron beasts and buildings that reach the sky. They’re not made of a wood, but something akin to stone. He wonders, how many centuries did it take to polish all those stones into shape? Luo BingHe knows it’d take several generations even within the demon realm to reach this level of perfect smoothness. Oh, and the people, they’re all dressed in strange clothes. He can’t help but worry for the girls who cross his path. Showing their bodies like this, what’ll be of their future? Where’s their decency?

He takes a deep breath. The sun shines bright above him and the heat wave distorts the scenery, something he can only see clearly due to his demonic inheritance. Despite that, the weather does not bother him. Not even the wind makes his hair flutter. It’s then that he realizes this is not reality—at least, not his reality, and definitely not the present either.

“Hahaha, meimei is really the best!”

Luo BingHe heard many voices so far, most of them saying words he couldn’t fully comprehend, but that voice, that bell-like laughter—he can’t help but turn towards the voice. There are three people on the edge of the road or, at least, what Luo BingHe surmised to be a road. Two men stand side by side, in tight clothes that Luo BingHe feels must be elegant in this reality’s standards. Their faces are incredibly handsome and rather similar to each other. Brothers, perhaps? Luo BingHe doesn’t dwell on that for long, for his attention is drawn to the third person.

The first thing that catches his attention is the man’s eyes, round and gentle despite being lined with dark bags. His skin is pale, but not in a healthy way. His hands hold onto a fluffy object Luo BingHe has no idea of the origin or purpose; those hands have long and elegant fingers, but the bones are uncomfortably prominent. The clothes, albeit strange, hang loose on the man’s frame. His hair is short and apparently soft to the touch; the longer strands press against the back of the man’s wheelchair, one oddly similar to the model Shang QingHua provided him with months ago for Shizun.

Everything about this man tells Luo BingHe of the sickness that certainly affects him, and yet... And yet this man laughs and smiles without a care in the world.

The man behind the wheelchair starts walking. Luo BingHe rushes to follow them. He can hear the man’s voice over the constant noises surrounding them. “She only listens to you, though. How can she be the best like that?”

The man on the wheelchair shakes his head in amusement. “Don’t be like that, da-ge. Meimei is trying her best. Besides, don’t you two also dote on me all the time? Look at all those gifts!”

Luo BingHe notices the man on the wheelchair gesticulates while he talks, a pattern familiar to Luo BingHe. Sign language. The second man watches the signs intently, before adding, “It’s rare that we can celebrate — together. We should make the most of it.”

“You mean, I’m the one who’s never at home.” There’s a sad tone in the man’s voice that makes Luo BingHe wonder whether it’s this sadness or the carefree laughter that’s unusual in this man’s life. He turns to the second man, as much as the chair allows him, at least. “Thank you, er-ge.”

“No, thank you for being here, A-Yuan.”

A-Yuan. So that’s his name. Luo BingHe blinks, and the whole scenery changes. He’s not outside anymore, but in an ample room with cream-colored walls. There’s a tree on one of the corners. It’s covered in small lights and round balls. Luo BingHe frowns. Just—why?

“Yuan-ge!” A young girl’s voice echoes through the room. Luo BingHe turns around in time to see a beautiful maiden dash into the room with a big, colorful box in her hands. The one she’s calling looks up from the opposite corner of the room, a black-and-white cat on his lap. “Merry Christmas!”

A-Yuan smiles brightly at her. He accepts the box, and proceeds to tear through what looks like a skin-layer. Luo BingHe edges closer to him, curiously peeking into the box. What lies inside is a pile of books. Surely, they’re thicker and more colorful than any book Luo BingHe saw before, but even he can recognize a book in any reality.

“I can’t believe you actually got them... These are the limited edition!” Luo BingHe’s heart skips a beat at that smiles, the glee filling his voice. He feels breathless all of a sudden, unable to stop looking at this man’s face, the delicate features that make him lean closer into the beautiful rather than handsome category. “Really, all of you spoil me too much.”

“You commissioned a dress with my dream designer for my next birthday, bought a new piano for da-ge and went above and beyond to get er-ge those new hearing aids. Aren’t you the one who spoils us too much?” Meimei crosses her arms.

“The dress won’t be ready in months,” A-Yuan retorts. He glances at a small package on the table to his left, and says in a fake uninterested tone, “This, though...”

Meimei tears off the package within seconds. With only a golden piece of a paper left in her hand, her eyes go wide and an excited scream leaves her. She runs off just as fast as she appeared in the first place, the words Yuan-ge is the best! echoing in Luo BingHe’s ears.

A-Yuan’s gaze softens. He puts the box with the books on the floor and takes a deeper breath. Immediately after, his upper body curves forward as a coughing fit shakes him. His nails dig into the armrests of his wheelchair and he heaves for oxygen. His hands are paper-white and his face looks somewhat purple.

Luo BingHe’s heart fills with panic at the sight, but before he can even think at what to do or anyone comes back, A-Yuan is straightening his back again. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand and lets out a deep sigh. On the table next to him, a single object lies. Luo BingHe’s suspects it’s a cup, though he never saw any like this, transparent and reflecting the light. A-Yuan reaches for the cup. His hand shakes almost uncontrollably. The cup falls.

The shattering sound sends Luo BingHe to another place. White walls and the infernal beeps of some kind of small monster. A-Yuan is lying on a bed, countless—ropes? Chords? Luo BingHe isn’t sure—connected to his arms. A woman Luo BingHe never saw before weeps on the bedside. She’s small and delicate, her features very much like A-Yuan’s. His mother, perhaps?

“I’m sorry,” she says amidst sobs, “I’m so sorry.”

Luo BingHe doesn’t quite understand why she’s apologizing, but A-Yuan does. He doesn’t smile, his face filled with resignation. The face of a man who knows there’s nothing more to be done; that, no matter what he does, the result will be the same.

“It’s not your fault,” A-Yuan says, his voice low and weak, every bit reassuring and gentle despite his own obvious pain. “A-Niang did her best.” The woman cries even harder at his words. A-Yuan sighs. “I only have one thing to ask.”

“Of course,” his mother replies right away. There’s something skin to hope in her eyes—green, unlike those of the natives of this country.

A-Yuan looks back at her with equally green eyes. “After the recovery period of the surgery is done, I want to move into our vacation house. No, A-Niang, don’t cry—just listen, please? Just this time... I want you to remember me while I’m still capable of smiling. When I can still believe in things like hope and miracles. Meimei, especially... Please.”

To be remembered at his brightest moment, Luo BingHe can’t help but feel sympathetic towards that wish. If he were to die once day, dragged from the world of the living as nothing but a shadow of himself he, too, would rather live his last moments alone.

A-Yuan forces a smile through his own building tears. “Hey, it won’t be farewell. Remember the doctor said there’s a chance I’ll be cured after the surgery, as long as I stick to the treatment? I’ll do my best to come back to all of you... So, please, let me go... And wait for me.”

Luo BingHe averts his gaze from A-Yuan, lying on an iron bed, surrounded by blades and men in white and light blue. The smell of blood still reaches his nostrils—and with it, a sudden urge to pray that Luo BingHe didn’t feel in a very long time, not ever since he lost his mother’s GuanYin pendant.

He can’t look away from A-Yuan, clad in simple, comfortable clothes, holding onto iron bars and forcing his body to move forward. The raw fierceness in his face, the strength born out of one’s will to live, to outlive others’ expectations. Captivating. Heartbreaking. Luo BingHe reaches for this man, yearns for for those green eyes to look at him.

A-Yuan makes progress. More often than not, he walks on his own legs with the help of a crane instead of relying on his wheelchair. He’s not ashamed of using the wheelchair when he needs, though—if anything, he looks proud of himself for using it, for making his own life easier for himself. Luo BingHe can’t help but nod at his retreating back, a small, proud smile on his lips.

If he could see his own image on the mirror, he would have realized this smile is the exact same smile Shizun gave him many years ago, when Luo BingHe defeated Sky Hammer Elder.

“We’ll go visit you soon!” Meimei exclaims through a magical window. A-Yuan smiles at her, and Luo BingHe smiles at A-Yuan’s smile. “Don’t forget to get your sunbath! And eat well. And—And!”

“I think he got it, meimei,” da-ge laughs through the magical window. “But really—we’re proud of you and all the progress you made.”

I am, too, Luo BingHe thinks to himself. And, surprisingly, he really is.

A-Yuan shakes his head. “I can barely walk from my room to the front door. It’s nothing to be proud of, really.”

“Silly A-Yuan... Even if you made no progress at all, we’d still love you.”

“That’s right! If you can’t take care of yourself, we’ll take care of you. It’s what family does!” meimei agrees fiercely.

Their words, the sheer love and support, the reassurance that it’s okay to just be—all of it makes a lump form in Luo BingHe’s throat. Maybe because they’re way too familiar, maybe because he now knows they weren’t words born out of a whim. No, the sentiment was true, passed down to him through the love of family.

The magical window changes from the siblings’ smiling faces to a certain image Luo BingHe saw many times by now. After finishing reading the books meimei gifted him, A-Yuan seemed to find joy in the books contained in that magical window. He usually sat down to read them with him and more often than not the stories within were downright ridiculous and upsetting. A-Yuan seemed to think the same, often writing up critics to said works. One thing Luo BingHe noticed, however, is that no matter how harsh his complaints may sound, they always came with at least one thing he liked about it. Perhaps it’s part of his kindness, to show both the good and the bad and help others’ find ways to improve. Luo BingHe can’t help but like this man even more.

It’s on one such reading nights that A-Yuan finds a particular story that makes Luo BingHe’s breath get caught in his throat. 【Proud Immortal Demon Way】. The cover is that of a man sitting on a throne surrounded by women, his smile arrogant and rather evil-looking. It’s Luo BingHe’s face.

He reads through the whole thing by A-Yuan’s side and shares in his joy and frustration, his hatred and adoration. He thinks of the other him he met once—he now understands why that version of him was so desperate and bitter about life. He wonders whether it was Shizun’s desire to save him, if he could. No, it’s not an if, but a certainty. Luo BingHe’s very existence is proof of it.

There’s one thing he forgot over the time he and A-Yuan read that story, and that is how fragile human life can be. One moment, A-Yuan was there, raging against the stupid future that Luo BingHe faced, his siblings’ visit on the next day on the back of his mind. One moment, he was alive, proud of everything he made, of everything he still could do. One moment, he was A-Yuan.

And then, he is choking, unable to force his body to cooperate, to swallow that bun and go on with life. Luo BingHe watches all of it with wide eyes. He sees A-Yuan extending his hand, reaching for something behind Luo BingHe. His family’s painting, the familiar, smiling faces of his siblings and his parents. His own smile, from a time where he could still smile without pain.

Luo BingHe takes that hand within his own even if he knows A-Yuan can’t feel his touch.

The scenery changes. Luo BingHe’s standing in a rather familiar place, one he grew to love and cherish over the years. Sect Leader Yue sits on the edge of a bamboo bed, silently watching over the one sleeping in front of him. Luo BingHe kneels by the bedside. The person’s eyes open—a flash of green quickly replaced by the pitch black of Shen QingQiu.

Luo BingHe breathes out, “Shizun...”

***

The sunlight doesn’t reach the coffin where they both lie. This time, Luo BingHe lies on the bottom, and Shen QingQiu lies on top of him. Shen QingQiu stirs awake. His eyelashes are thick and wet, silent tears he didn’t allow to fall. He swallows. The memories are fresh and raw, far too much for him to know what to do with his feelings.

When he woke up in Shen QingQiu’s body, he did his best to suppress those feelings. He used the System’s threat as an excuse—if he didn’t act perfectly, he’d die. He buried everything, his name, his origins, in the back of his mind, never to be touched again. He did it all, for he knew he would break if he thought about it too long.

He can’t stop thinking of da-ge, who was hellbent on taking him to another shopping spree. Of er-ge, who could only use sign language to talk to him. Of meimei, who was excited to show him how the dress turned out. His parents, who never stopped blaming themselves for Shen QingQiu’s fragile body and the countless surgeries and treatments he went through his whole life. He wonders which of them arrived earlier the next morning, which of them found his lifeless body and forced themselves to tell the others through the tears.

A large, warm hand wipes the tears from Shen QingQiu’s face. He looks at Luo BingHe. His husband’s eyes are filled with too many emotions to be discernible. Shen QingQiu leans into his hold, allows himself to be held until his shoulders stop shaking.

“Shizun,” Luo BingHe whispers. His voice sounds hoarse. Shen QingQiu’s breath catches on his throat and waits for his husband’s judgment. What comes next takes him completely off-guard: “Peerless Cucumber? Really?”

If Shen QingQiu’s shoulders were shaking with tears before, now they’re shaking from laughter. And what a laughter it is, genuine, loud and clear like a bell. Luo BingHe looks at him with eyes wide with awe and his lips quiver into a shaking smile. Finally, he can hear Shizun’s—A-Yuan’s laughing voice again.

He kisses Shen QingQiu’s forehead. “About what you said yesterday... I think we should have four. To take care of each other even when we aren’t there anymore.”

Shen QingQiu trembles under the love contained in that gentle kiss. He closes his eyes and parts his lips. “Can you... Just once... That name...?”

Luo BingHe holds him tighter. And, for now, that’s all Shen QingQiu needs.

“A-Yuan.”