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Shang Qingua had never been the best with numbers in his first life. Not to say he'd been *bad,* given that he was able to string together rent, ramen, and electricity on a micro-budget when he'd been cranking out thousands of words every other day on Zhongdian, but he'd never been the best. In his second life, he'd had to become much better. No longer needing to push himself to have the basics such as food and shelter, he'd become practically a minor civil deity at working with the twelve peaks of Cang Qiong mountain and covering everyone's budgets with a little left over in case someone decided to get cranky about supplies.
Even so, he still *hated* end of the month. He had to work with twelve people's paperwork—only six or seven of whom turned in items that were legible, complete, and on target throughout the month—and keep everything together when he didn't even have the benefit of coffee. Oh, how he missed coffee. Where was a xianxia Starbucks when it was needed, dammit? He *really* needed to get on those trade links with Africa he'd always been meaning to forge. Sure he'd have to grind his own beans, but they would still be *coffee* beans.
As he silently fumed over the lack of his much-lamented thick, dark brew, he almost didn't notice the knock at his door. It seemed hesitant, not very loud, and was not at all the authoritative knock he was used to from his head disciple. He paused, checking to see if he could sense any sort of cold breeze at all that would herald the arrival of his king, and when he felt none, he called for the person to enter. Shang Qinghua was not at all prepared to see Shen Qingqiu standing in the doorway, one hand braced on the jamb. Seriously? Now?
“Cucumber bro, what brings you here during *end of the mo...*” he trailed off as he noticed how his friend seemed to sag slightly against the door, closing his eyes for a moment before stepping in.
“Airplane, I need your help.”
… Shit. For Shen Qingqiu to admit that he needed help normally took an act of the System, something for which he did not have *time* right now. “Can it wait?” He gestured to his table, where there were piles of papers stacked up in preparation for review. “It's the end of the month...” As Shen Qingqiu stepped inside, it became obvious just how awful the man looked. His complexion was ashen, and his eyes seemed sunken into his head not dissimilar to a cadaver's. He trembled slightly as he stood, eyeing a chair across the desk from where Shang Qinghua normally sat.
“That's why I'm here. It's...” Shen Qingqiu closed his eyes, and he took a stumbling step in. “Without a Cure. It's bad today. Liu-shidi's gone, and can't untangle my meridians. I need a distraction.” He shook his head and it was plain how he *tried* to straighten, tried to bring himself up. “I have a proposition. One of my majors was in bookkeeping. You let me be here in misery without having to have a bunch of overprotective disciples in my hair, and I help you with end of month.”
The words slipped out before he could stop them, before he could even take in the utter strangeness of everything that had just left Shen Qingqiu's mouth. “*One* of your majors?”
“We were rich, I was trapped inside and bored, I took online classes and got three, now will you let me sit the fuck down before I fall down, Airplane?”
Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit. Shang Qinghua practically jumped from his spot and rushed out to help his friend into the chair. It was impossible to miss the wince as Shen Qingqiu settled down and scooted himself closer to the edge of the desk. “You look like shit, man. What about the tea that Mu-shixiong makes? I know it's gross, but--”
“I've had two pots of it this morning already. Any more, and I'll get sick.” Shen Qingqiu sagged into the chair a moment, his mouth twinging to one side. “It took the edge off, but it's still bad.”
“Two POTS? Are you insane?” Two cups would have been enough to knock out a Fuzzy Stone Elephant, two pots should have knocked out an entire herd.
Shen Qingqiu squinted at him a moment, and tipped his head. “Right. You don't know chronic pain.” He sighed. “Trust me, I know what I'm doing. I used to need full-on morphine to cut the agony of my body eating itself alive before the end. As long as it doesn't take away the pain completely, you don't get addicted.” That seemed a bit suspicious, but the thought of addiction was the least of Shang Qinghua's worries at the moment. “I might have to have you pick out a couple snarls, my arm is screaming at me. I need something to focus on, Airplane, something that isn't...” the 'that isn't me sitting in front of a sword mound thinking about what a terrible person I am' went unsaid.
Shang Qinghua sighed. Cucumber-bro could be an asshole sometimes, but he was the best friend to be had in this messed-up world that had gone beyond his own creation. “Okay.” He looked around. “Lemme get you a footstool and a board, yeah?”
“Board?”
“When I felt like shit, I could never sit at my cinderblock desk. I needed to recline a bit and put my laptop on a board that was slanted. Sitting forward hurt like a bitch.” He turned, spotting a stool he tended to use to reach that damnable top shelf that was just barely out of his reach. “We can't use anything like an easel because ink is thinner than paint, but I have a board I use when I'm writing in bed sometimes...” It took moments to procure both items and set them up. “There.” A beat. “So. Where should we--”
A shuffle of movement and a hiss of pain, and Shen Qingqiu produced his qiankun pouch to pull out the paperwork for his own peak. “Here. It's complete this time.” A frown took the corners of his mouth, and it was obvious he was thinking that it had always been complete when Luo Binghe had been the one filling them out. “It's... it's how I figured out this would be a decent distraction.”
Shang Qinghua took the papers and looked over them, eyes widening at the detail in the ledger transcriptions. “Hang on, you bagged HOW many Black and Red Pygmy Rocs??”
“That was the joint hunt with Bai Zhan, Xian Shu, and Qing Jing.” A small smile touched Shen Qingqiu's face at the memory. “I... I still have the feathers. I took the money for them out of my own account, as you can see there. I hated sending anyone out to kill them, but they'd been stealing far too many livestock. They were majestic—their wings gleamed so much in the sunlight. I still have the drawings in case I get to publish a bestiary before--” He cut of the sentence and swallowed, but then picked back up. “Well. Before. They were so huge. I don't think I'd be able to ride one, they weren't quite that big, but they were bigger than the eagle owls that nested on the roof of the next apartment building over. You wrote such a world, Airplane; why'd you have to fuck it up with all the papapa?”
Something inside Shang Qinghua settled to hear his friend complain; it was a tiny prick of normality in this strange pocket of weirdness. “Had to eat, dude. So.” He couldn't suppress the grin as he checked over the inputs again. “Four Red and Black Pygmy Rocs, payment for the feathers deducted from your account... full market value, no less--”
“I'm no thief! Agh, damn,” A wince as Shen Qingqiu hissed in pain from jerking in his seat.
“No, no, I wouldn't dare suggest.” Well, their transmigrations notwithstanding. “I see you've been working with Bai Zhan and Qian Cao a lot more. How is it we're getting more income from these carcass components?”
“Bai Zhan wouldn't know the expensive bits if they jumped out and bit them on the asses. My students know the value of these things, and I have made it clear that they are to insist on the correct prices accordingly. No wholesaling of carcasses. You should probably consider putting at least one person from An Ding or Qing Jing on any of Bai Zhan's outings. I don't teach haggling, but my kids know the value of the haul.”
“Stop having good ideas. You've met your quota for today, and it's only ten in the morning.”
“Piss off and hand me some paperwork, you hack.”
Shang Qinghua laughed and helped set Shen Qingqiu up with some expense reports to review, settling into his own seat after a few minutes. There was the occasional soft hiss from across the desk as they worked, trading papers here and there and double-checking some entries in the ledger. It had been nearly a sichen when Shen Qingqiu yelped, the brush falling from his hand.
“Gah! God, fuck, *damn!*” Ink dripped on white robes as Shen Qingqiu pulled his right hand up to his chest, fingers curling into a fist as the limb shook. “Sonofa—fucking flareup!”
When he'd written this particular poison into the world as a way for the original Luo Binghe to bag yet another wife, he'd given absolutely no thought to what the long-term consequences to such a thing would be. Why would he when the target was going to be cured by the protagonist's, er, tender love and care before it could really even hurt her? Now, though... Cucumber was the only other transmigrator in this world, the only one who really had even a smidgen of a chance to understand him, and this pain the guy was in was all his fault. It gnawed at his gut to see how much his friend hurt.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Hands on wrist. Qi. It's in my elbow. Fuck, it's... I need it untangled, and I can't do it.” Shen Qingqiu bared his teeth as he hunkered in on himself, fighting through the obvious pain. “I can't move.”
Shang Qinghua scrambled from behind his desk and hovered over his friend for a moment before reaching into the well-established personal bubble to get his fingers on the curled up wrist. “I've never done this before. What am I--”
“Send a thread out like you're looking for something. You'll know it when you find it. It's like a giant spiky-ass rock inside the damn meridian, and it's cutting everything in there.” He broke off for a moment to pant. “You gotta—you gotta like drill at it, make it break. And then break it again and again and again until it's just dust.”
This type of treatment did not sound any sort of pleasant, but Shang Qinghua did as bid, sending a tendril of energy out into the shredded vessel until he could reach the blockage. He wouldn't have described it as a rock, more like a pissed-off sea urchin that was trying to breakdance its way out. “Sonofabitch, bro. I got it. Hold on.” He closed his eyes and poked at the obstruction, trying to break off its metaphorical spines and dull it before going onto the main body. He didn't seem to be very good at it, judging by the way Shen Qingqiu kept making aborted jerks in an effort to stay still, but he was eventually able to crumble the sharp edges and focus on fracturing the core of it. It reminded him of something he'd seen once on Youtube, about some old British guy taking a stone and whacking flakes off a flint to make a tool. Only, instead of trying to make something useful, he was trying to crumble the blockage to tiny little pieces.
He could tell he'd succeeded when Shen Qingqiu let out several short, sharp little breaths and began to slump, sagging back into the chair. Sweat beaded up on his face and ran down his neck, and Shang Qinghua found himself reaching up to pat it off with the sleeve of his robe as he stared at the ashen face beside him. It was about time for lunch anyway, perfect for a break. He took a moment to open the door and call for a disciple to bring an easy meal for two, and then returned to the room. Shen Qingqiu had managed to sit up a bit, and was massaging his elbow.
“Jesus, bro, is it always this bad?” He moved to pull up a teapot and hit the heating talisman painted onto it, warming the water inside. “How do you--”
“Live with it?” A weak, mirthless chuckle made him look up at his friend, who was starting to catch his breath again. “I don't have much of a choice, Airplane. I didn't before, and I don't now. It wouldn't be so bad if it... if I hadn't come here without it. I felt it once for a while here, you know--freedom. When I first came, when this body healed from the qi deviation. I could walk without hurting, and run without getting winded. I could fly. I could dance and fight and nothing hurt—nothing at all! Like... I have no idea how to express what that's like. It was magic, more magic than what we do here. I mean, I was shoved into this world so I was in hell, but it was also heaven to just *exist* without having to worry about my stamina or my joints or anything at all. And now...” Shen Qingqiu looked down at his hand as he flexed his fingers. “Now, it's just like before. All the System has to do is trigger another goddamn Punishment Protocol and I'm in agony once again. I should be getting points for it, dammit.”
Not knowing what to say, Shang Qinghua felt himself droop a bit before reaching out to the newly-warmed teapot. Lost in thought, he pushed up his sleeves to keep them out of the way only to hear an indrawn hiss of breath that clearly had nothing to do with pain. He hid a wince, choosing to keep his movements smooth and pretend that what had caught his friend's attention didn't actually exist.
“Airplane...” Shen Qinhgua's voice was harsh and dark, and he knew if he looked up, he would see Shen Jiu's eyes flashing at him in anger rather than Shen Yuan's normal softness.
“Hm? It's good tea, bro--”
“When?” It came out more a statement than a question, but he still couldn't quite face it.
“Don't worry about me; I stumbled and fell--”
“Onto Mobei-Jun's fucking FISTS? What the hell? Why is he hitting you? Why are you *letting* him?!”
“What am I supposed to do, ask him to politely knock it off?” He set Shen Qingqiu's teacup with an audible clink, and chanced his own look up into—yup, there was the same steel anger that the former occupant of that body had used to glare out onto the world. “I'm trying to keep from getting murdered, dammit! Getting knocked about is better than being dead again! Besides, you're one to talk; you're always hitting me!”
“Never enough to leave bruises! Not after that first time when I didn't know I was doing it!” Shen Qingqiu had shifted forward, nearly leaning off his chair in agitation. “You're a sellout, but that doesn't mean you deserve to be abused like this. Hell, this whole *world* could be considered to be abuse enough to us both.”
Shang Qinghua stared at his friend in confusion, trying to figure out how that chain of reasoning even worked. Then again, Shen Yuan, when he had still been living under that name, had had a family, didn't he? Maybe this was something in the way siblings thought, that it was all right to scrap if someone didn't leave bruises... not that he ever would have known, being an only child who was shunned for not fitting what his parents had wanted him to be. Their stareoff was broken by a sharp knock, upon which Shen Qingiu sat back in his chair and Shang Qinghua stood up to answer the door. It was their requested meals, which he brought to the desk.
“You're in my office, Cucumber; you're going to eat this whether you like it or not.” He busied himself setting up a bowl of rice and vegetables for his friend.
“Everything tastes like ash now. Why bother? I can practice inedia just fine.”
“Because you look like a fierce corpse, and I will so go tattle to Yue Qingyuan on you if you don't.” He looked over at the weakly defiant expression he knew would meet him. “I will narc on you in a silver rush mouse's heartbeat, I swear.”
“Fucker,” Shen Qingqiu muttered, tucking in.
***
Shang Qinghua didn't bother to look up at the knock at his door. End of month was finally over, two months after the Paperwork Incident, as he tended to think of it now, and he had finally gotten to sit back and rest for a moment. “Enter.”
The doors swept open, and Shen Qingqiu strode through, haler and more hardy than he'd been the last time he'd come by for a visit. “Good, you're still here.”
He looked around pointedly. “It's my office; where else would I be?”
Shen Qingqiu glanced toward the north wall where there was a snowfall tapestry, a sort of gift from his king a few weeks before.
“Okay, fair, but I'm still here.”
“And, as I said, good.” White and green robes swooshed as Shen Qingqiu stepped closer, and as he approached, something metallic dropped down to swing from his hand. “Put this on.”
Uhoh. It didn't... well, it didn't *look* like it was one of the many amulets he'd written to get some random wife-to-be in trouble, but he knew to be quite circumspect when it came to Millenials bearing gifts. “Wh-what is it?”
“A present. Open your hand at least, willya?” His eyes glinted, and the entire bearing was of someone who'd found the absolute best and most appropriate (*gulp*) gift ever for a friend. “Put it on and never take it off. Ever. Especially when you're... out.” Shen Qingqiu glanced at the tapestry again, then back. “If I knew how to do tattoos, I'd get you drunk and—can we even get drunk? I've never tried.”
Needing to stop the worrying flow of words coming from the other man, Shang Qinghua opened his hand and allowed his friend to drop the item in it. He waited a moment, checking for any strange symptoms that might come from holding it.
“Oh, come on. I was touching it myself. It can't be dangerous.”
“That's what you said about the Spotted Three-Eyed leopard cubs you rescued--”
“They were cute!”
“--and the Goldfin Minnows--”
“Cleared the algae out of the bathing pools.”
“--AND the purple swans you brought back for Xian Shu!”
“Excuse you, Qi Qingqi and Liu Mingyan adore those things! They keep Bai Zhan out even when they manage to bypass that giant fence. I've been thinking of getting some for my cold pond, too.”
“Of course you have.” Shang Qinghua glanced up toward the ceiling, halfway hoping for divine assistance. “No, seriously, though, what is it?”
“A talisman. I have been working with some disciples of Wan Jian and the Artifact Peak to develop it.” He pulled it from Shang Qingghua's hand and dropped it over his head to rest against his chest. “No more bruises.”
Shang Qinghua blinked. “W-what?”
Rolling his eyes, Shen Qingqiu hefted his fan and cracked it across the back of Shang Qinghua's head.
“Ow, bro, what the hell?”
He then brought it down with a speed and a strength that should have broken Shang Qinghua's nose. Instead of the crunch of bone and nerves screaming in pain, he felt his head rock back a bit as if being pushed, and a slight head rush like he'd chugged down an energy drink. Blinking, he stared up at the triumphant, slightly manic grin that looked quite out of place on Shen Qingqiu's face. He brought one hand up to tentatively touch his nose, finding neither pain nor blood. “What... what did you do?”
“Those disciples definitely passed their finals with that. It's a defense talisman, works based off intent. I mean, it won't shield you from everything, that's not possible, but if someone tries to actually hurt you, it will give you a boost instead. The front of the amulet is a talisman that absorbs the force of the blow, and the back channels it. It can heal you, replenish your qi, or give you more energy depending on what you're in most need of at the time. They're now trying to find a way to make the talisman hidden so it can be sold and not be copied. It'll bring us in a mint!”
Shang Qingua's head spun as he watched Shen Qingqiu talk animatedly, waving his hands a bit as he enthused. Cucumber bro... had made a talisman for him? Because of the bruises? “Wait, wait, wait. Seriously, wait. Did you just make me an invincibility talisman because you don't like that my king hits me? Did you really spend weeks working on this? For me?”
Shen Qingqiu stilled, and he got to witness a rare moment of a startled Shen Yuan peeking through, blinking as though he hadn't fully considered all the implications of what such an endeavor, such an effort entailed. It was over quickly, a snap of the fan to splay out and cover pale cheeks which had started to pinken, and Shen Qingqiu turned his head away, resolutely studying the wall. “... No?”
Warmth spread through him, and he jumped up to hug his fellow Peak Lord. “Aw, bro! Bro, it's wonderful!”
“Ack! Ack, get off!” Shen Qingqiu half-heartedly batted him over the head with his fan while his other arm curled around his torso, holding him up and in place in a covert return of the embrace. “No hugging! I am not a hugger! Bad touch!”
“I am SO sorry, bro. So sorry I ever created Without a Cure, and so sorry that I created half the wifeplot bullshit in this world. It was supposed to be a story; nobody real was ever supposed to be hurt. Now it's real, and half the time, I don't know what the hell to do because even though I wrote it, I don't want it. I'd un-write it if I could.” He pulled back and looked up, staring Shen Qingqiu in the eyes. “I swear, if I could, I'd retcon the everloving hell out of it all. You know that, right?”
A small smile tugged at the corner of Shen Qingqiu's mouth, the type he usually hid behind his fan. “I believe you, didi. Thanks.”