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On what is his 834th birthday, according to Hua Cheng's math—who else would keep count?—Xie Lian wakes to a strange phenomena.
It isn't unusual for him to wake to strange phenomena. Ghosts, spirits, demons, monsters, creatures, energies, deities—all of them seem drawn to Xie Lian in their own ways, whether to bash themselves like waves against his martial prowess, or to cling to him like algae or barnacles to gentle, slow-moving whales.
There has, however, been a decided uptake in the PLEASANT variety of strange phenomena in the past two decades. San Lang's good luck touches on pieces of Xie Lian's life he'd long forgotten could be anything but unpleasant.
For instance: Just last week, Xie Lian realized that he had not sprained a joint in nearly a decade! He realized it right as he sprained his ankle, but that was to be expected. So often the absence of something unpleasant is only noted upon its return!
Still, he'd commented happily upon it to San Lang as he was carried back home through the streets of ghost city, and it had helped ease some of the stress out of his sweet ghost's expression.
"Still," San Lang had joked after hearing Xie Lian's revelation, "after seeing my god so wounded, this San Lang thinks it would be wise to ban all small rocks from Ghost City."
"Only small ones? That seems unfair, don't you think Chengzhu?"
"En, gege has it right. No more rocks at all. I'll have them destroyed at once, your highness."
Xie Lian had snickered first, small and secret. He always snickered first, these days. And then, like always, he'd remembered. No one would be annoyed. No one would be disturbed.
He laughed, head thrown back, safely cradled in San Lang's arms as his ridiculous special someone made increasingly violent plans on how those bold enough to harbor rocks in his city would be executed.
It's a nice thought to look back on, after how the rest of that night had gone.
With Feng Xin blaming Hua Cheng for the injury; with Mu Qing turning cold and cutting about Xie Lian's weakness; with Hua Cheng's sharp, dangerous edges exposed and turned on Xie Lian's oldest friends...
Ahh, it was enough to make a man wish he hadn't suggested his ex-best-friends-now-sort-of-friends stay over for the weekend before his birthday! It was only that there was such a nice festival in Ghost City surrounding it, and he'd wanted so badly to share.
"Regret," intones the orb of floating light.
Right! The strange phenomena.
“Only a little,” he says, flapping a hand at the orb, “nothing important. Since you can speak, do you mind if I ask you what this place is?”
"Where Royals May Dream," the orb pronounces. "Oh you of the dead kingdom, make your wish."
"Oh, no thank you!" Xie Lian says. "I don't really want anything except for my friends to get along anyway, haha!"
"GRANTED" glows the orb.
Xie Lian blinks awake. The bed is cozy and warm, and pressed up against him—
"San Lang," he sighs warmly, around a mouthful of black hair.
"Mmmnnnn, gege, too early."
Hua Cheng is flopped on top of him—a heavy, solid reality of pointy collar bones and soft, squishy muscle. Xie Lian frees one hand to pull his beloved's hair out of his mouth.
"Oh?" He wraps his freed arm around Hua Cheng's back, squeezing him even tighter together, until he can almost pretend they share one pulse. "Didn't San Lang say his gege could have anything he wanted today?"
A guttural, tortured groan answers him.
"If gege wishes his follower to suffer, of course this devoted servant shall obey."
If Hua Cheng weren't already fully awake and playing it up, Xie Lian's wild laughter would have woken him the rest of the way, jostling him with every guffaw and squeezing him so, so close.
"No suffering allowed!" Xie Lian declares through the gales of laughter. "Not for my San Lang!"
Hua Cheng bites down on his shoulder in reply, cushioned by the fall of his sleeping robe. The bite is a harsh sting, but it was followed by a heavy, cold sigh, and the feeling of San Lang going boneless against him—every inch of tension draining out of his long form as he mouthed lazily at the fabric of Xie Lian’s sleep robe.
“One kiss,” he bargains in a mumble against the fabric.
“Two, at least.” Xie Lian contends, cradling the back of his beloved’s neck and head.
So often it’s in the small details of him that he loses himself. The reality of the fine, soft hairs sprouting from his scalp obsesses him. He cards his fingers through them, and feels that long-sought peace sweep over him. He is in his body—he is home and safe.
Hua Cheng tilts his head against him, nestling into the crook of his shoulder. He loves to press his lips against Xie Lian’s pulse. Xie Lian loves to feel the subtle movements of his prayers, hidden there with the thrum of his heart.
A thunderous sound makes them both jump, bodies clacking uncomfortably together--their sleepy puddle suddenly all joints, bones, and stiff muscle.
“Your highness!” Feng Xin calls in. “It’s well past sunrise! Are you unwell? ARE YOU IN DANGER?!”
“No, no, no!” cries Xie Lian, fumbling his robes closed as Hua Cheng slumps boneless into their bed, groaning like he’s been stabbed. “I’ll be right out! Right out!!!”
“Three kisses,” Hua Cheng hisses in demand, his face shoved into their blankets and his naked body curled up like a shrimp under the blankets.
“Five at least,” Xie Lian promises, sliding his hand up the stark curve of his beloved follower’s spine. Each knot and knob he has lavished love in their precious, endless nights twined together in paradise manor.
In return, Hua Cheng has covered every inch of his body with his worshipful tongue, lathing over unworthy skin over and over, pressing bites and kisses along his path, until there was no piece of Xie Lian left unloved—as if he’d been carved anew by his follower’s adoration.
“Are you sure?!” Feng Xin calls from outside. “Is Crimson Rain in there with you?! What are you doing to him, you—!”
“Nothing is happening!” Xie Lian squeaks, his face heating despite himself. “I really will be right there!”
“...Alright!” Feng Xin calls through, still too loudly. “I’ll know if he hurt you, though!”
Hua Cheng outright growls, narrowing his eye. There’s a yelp from outside, and Xie Lian smiles as one of the butterflies materializes inside the room, flitting down to flirt with him rather than terrorizing Feng Xin.
The dream rises to mind, only briefly. Granted, the specter had said. If only it were so…
“I’m sorry, San Lang,” he murmurs as he slides out of bed.
“Five,” Hua Cheng commands, lifting his hand from the covers, all fingers extended. The red thread burns bright and familiar on his bloodless finger.
Xie Lian rounds the bed to settle beside him, taking that hand in his own. He presses a soft kiss to Hua Cheng’s fingertips. A second to the red thread. A third to the delicate inside of his wrist, usually covered by those bright silver vambraces. The fourth he tucks like a secret into the joint of his elbow. Finally he slides his cheek up his love’s forearm, pressing into the palm of his hand before turning and kissing those palm lines he once pretended to read.
Hua Cheng whines, pouting up at him with his dark eye liquid with want. He wiggles his other hand out of the blankets, and taps against his lips, looking every inch the betrayed and bullied maiden.
“Gege missed,” he scolds.
“Gege fulfilled the terms of our agreement,” Xie Lian returns, patting Hua Cheng’s head like a child and standing again, wandering away from the bed. “San Lang should be more careful about making bets.”
“Cruel, so cruel,” Hua Cheng mutters behind him, but what should be a complaint drips with adoration.
Xie Lian has no doubt that even with his back turned, Hua Cheng can see the pleased flush, reddening his shoulders from fully across the room.
“What can this San Lang do to be gifted a kiss on the lips, then?” Hua Cheng muses, shifting audibly in the bed without rising. “Will standing be enough? Or must I dress completely? Or will gege hold such kisses as rewards for letting his servants live another day?”
“Hm,” Xie Lian glances back, then quickly looks away again. San Lang is indeed sprawled out on the bed, but he’s kicked the covers off, displaying his full self without shame.
“You, um,” he stutters, trying to re-catch his stride, “you can’t earn it at all!”
“Oh?” Hua Cheng asks.
The butterfly flits around, hovering innocently before Xie Lian, though he knows very well that his beloved is using the little creature to keep an eye on him. To check for any real displeasure—to make sure this is still a game.
Xie Lian lifts a hand so the creature can rest properly, and smiles when it lands, fearless, on his finger.
“En,” he agrees, gazing into the butterfly’s eyes the same way he would gaze into his beloved’s. “Those I’ll only give when I want to.”
There’s a beat of silence as the butterfly fans its wings. Then a quiet shuffle of sheets fills the air before Hua Cheng’s strong forearms wind around Xie Lian’s waist from behind, squeezing him close. Hua Cheng hunches to prop his chin on Xie Lian’s shoulder, speaking in a low rumble.
“When will gege want to?”
Feeling his chin digging into his shoulder with every word makes Xie Lian’s heart flutter. There’s no telling why. Just like his hair, and his palm print, and the knobs of his spine, it shouldn’t be anything special, but it is. It’s unspeakably precious, and it fills Xie Lian with a warmth he’d once thought lost to him.
“Who knows?” Xie Lian sighs, before tilting his head, twisting to catch Hua Cheng’s lips.
He must lose track of time again, though, because in what feels like mere moments of kissing Feng Xin is back and hammering on the door once more.
“So!” Xie Lian says over breakfast, “Mu Qing, you got to decide on today’s entertainment, right?”
It’s a desperately redundant question, but the silence over the breakfast table is nearly unbearable. Hua Cheng is pouting and poking at his breakfast, apparently uninspired by the genuinely delicious meal the Paradise Manor cooks have put together. Xie Lian is tempted to check in with him, but he knows he’ll just say ‘ah, nothing compares to gege’s cooking’ or something, and then Feng Xin and Mu Qing will spit blood and start yelling and…
Well. The previous day of their visit had more than enough of that! Good news, though, in that the imps who did the kitchen’s cleaning had been perfectly happy to eat the leftovers covered in god blood.
Truly, Ghost City was such an efficient ecosystem!
“He cheated,” Feng Xin asserts again, with no evidence and a heaping dose of bitterness.
“Sore loser,” Mu Qing huffs, casting a cold glance at Feng Xin.
“Gege, we could still ditch them and go do something actually fun.” Hua Cheng offers, very much out loud and not in their private array.
But instead of yelling, something strange happens.
Mu Qing smiles.
Not a nice smile, particularly—really it’s quite bitter and a touch wicked. But it looks so out of place on his cold face that Feng Xin’s mouth drops open, and even Xie Lian forgets to actually bite the delicate dumpling he’s holding up to his mouth.
“By all means,” Mu Qing says, waving a hand. “There’s no need to put yourselves out. I only followed the legends of a vicious spirit, previously contained beneath a vast and heavy mountain which only recently broke free. Though it has yet to do harm, there is no doubt that it will soon enter nearby cities and wreak havoc. Indeed, thus far it has evaded all pursuit. Truly, to catch it would require a unique and gifted hunting party…”
Xie Lian has been sitting further and further forward through the explanation, despite himself. He can feel his eyes widening, his grip tightening until his chopsticks split the poor dumpling in two, sending it back down to his plate. His heart thunders. How long has it been—how long since they hunted together, like brothers, running wild through the woods, testing their skill, pushing their experience—
Hua Cheng heaves a heavy sigh and cracks his knuckles. “I’ll fetch you a sword, gege. Which would you like?”
“Is the spirit elemental?” Xie Lian asks, with the eager energy of a child. Then he catches himself, clearing his throat and sitting back. “If, that is, the information is worthwhile.”
“Unknown,” Mu Qing says, inclining his head. “Powerful enough to leave even Pei Ming reeling and give him the slip, spiritually attuned enough that the Rain Master withdrew before beginning to fight, citing unusual powers over the mind and memory that made her recall her ascension and threw her off pace.”
Xie Lian grabs Hua Cheng’s sleeve, tugging on it in excitement as Mu Qing speaks, his smug smile still in place.
“A well-balanced blade, then!” he agrees, fighting the urge to leap straight to his feet and head off right away. “Perhaps Pi Chuang? It’s been a while since I took it out for an adventure!”
He turns to look at his beloved, and hesitates. Hua Cheng is frowning, a deep, actually unhappy frown that makes Xie Lian’s heart sink. He hesitates, tempering his excitement, only for Hua Cheng to catch his eye and perk up at once.
“Gege this servant will gladly prepare your weapon.”
He winks, tilting his head to differentiate it from his usual blinking, then rises from the table.
“I can’t believe your big plan is to make him work on his day off,” Feng Xin mutters as Xie Lian watches San Lang walk, bells jingling, from the dining hall.
“It’s not work,” scoffs Mu Qing. “It’s a hunt. And besides, that’s not my gift.”
“It’s not?” Xie Lian asks, blinking at him. A hunt is a pretty perfect gift in his opinion, nevermind Feng Xin’s objections.
“I’ll take care of the paperwork,” Mu Qing proclaims, chin lifted, and Xie Lian feels himself brighten impossibly further.
“I’ll draw us a transportation array,” Feng Xin says, standing from the table with a loud scrape of his seat.
“Ah, San Lang could—” Xie Lian begins, but Feng Xin grimaces.
“I’ll draw one!” he insists, stomping over to the closed door that would slide open to reveal the kitchens.
“Try to use straight lines this time,” Mu Qing drawls, rolling his eyes towards the sky then… Cutting a glance at Xie Lian? Is he nervous, perhaps? Or hopeful? Trying to tease Feng Xin together?
Aiya, Xie Lian cries in his heart, he truly has never been able to read Mu Qing’s intent well! He’ll just go with offering him sincerity and hope it works!
“This is very exciting,” he says, simple and happy, “and I’m grateful. Thank you, Mu Qing!”
The sour-faced god jumps in place, then averts his eyes abruptly. Color floods his cheeks, and his lips move without sound, as if he’s trying to get his stuttering out quietly before anyone can hear him.
Ah, Feng Xin teased him too much about the ‘f-f-friends’ declaration! If he’d kept the teasing to himself, they might have gotten to hear many more cute, stuttering admissions!
The forest is wild and ancient. Xie Lian loves it instantly. He gazes around at the gnarled, enormous trees, stronger and stranger for their long lives, and thinks that some of them may be even older than he is. It makes his chest feel light, to be surrounded by these silent elders. He reaches out and tugs San Lang’s sleeve, as if the man were not already aware of the fact that there are trees in a forest.
Of course, Hua Cheng steps closer and lays a hand on Xie Lian’s back at the invitation, though when Xie Lian glances at him he finds, as usual, Hua Cheng is ignoring the scenery and only staring at him. Oh well!
“Feng Xin,” he says, turning to find his friend already stringing his bow, “You’re the most experienced hunter among us! Will you find us the trail?”
He doesn’t really need help. He could do it pretty easily. But the point of this isn’t to just do a fight and go home! It’s to hunt together like they used to! And Feng Xin always used to lead the way, young shoulders thrown back with pride at being trusted to find their prey and his fluffy eyebrows drawn severely together with concentration.
He glances over in surprise, then smiles. It’s a bright, genuine look—one Xie Lian sees so rarely these days.
“Of course, your highness!” he agrees at once.
“Don’t get us lost,” huffs Mu Qing, crossing his arms and shifting his weight.
“It’s fine if they get lost,” Hua Cheng purrs into Xie Lian’s ear. “Gege, don’t you think this forest would be perfect for—”
“NOT ANOTHER WORD!” Feng Xin cries, slapping his hands over his ears and turning away.
“Degenerate,” spits Mu Qing, glaring harshly at San Lang before turning and storming into the forest.
Xie Lian can feel Hua Cheng smirking without even looking. He sighs, and puts a hand to his forehead, then rocks against his beloved’s body.
“Maybe later,” he whispers, blushing despite himself. It might be nice! And the area is secluded enough! And once they kill this beast, there definitely won’t be anything strong enough to give them any trouble…
Feng Xin must not have covered his ears very thoroughly, though, because he makes a strangled noise, and hurries after Mu Qing.
“You would think they’d be used to it by now,” Hua Cheng rumbles, always pleased to disquiet his least favorite of the many gods he despises. “Or at least that they would respect you enough to accept your choice.”
“Ah, accepting things isn’t either of their strong suits,” Xie Lian agrees, shrugging with one shoulder. “Let’s hurry, alright? I don’t want to miss the fight because they got huffy!”
They proceed mostly in silence. It isn’t, he has to admit, entirely unlike their hunts from his youth. Back then, Feng Xin and Mu Qing could hardly be expected to exchange words without fighting, and Feng Xin would bristle at questions about his choices as if they were personal attacks, and Mu Qing used to get so frustrated by their casual disregard for propriety…
Though with the grace of distance, Xie Lian can recognize now that it wasn’t propriety he was worried about, really. It was that he was the one who’d have to mend his robes if he tore them open climbing trees, or scrub out the sap.
He fights the urge to offer to wash all their robes after this trip. They’re gods, after all. Neither of his friends do their own laundry these days.
(He does, when they stay at their house on Mount Taicang, but only if he can get to it before Hua Cheng! They often engage in intricate, unarmed battle over the basket of robes to be washed—dodging, blocking, evading, and attacking their way down to the river, only to end up washing it together, often while soaking wet.)
“Strange,” Feng Xin mutters, hesitating in his path.
“Did you find it?” Xie Lian hurries closer, peering over his friend’s shoulder in an attempt to find what he’s spotted.
“Well,” Feng Xin says, gesturing at the prints, “yes, but…”
“Too easy,” Mu Qing says, stealing Feng Xin’s thunder with the ease of long practice. “This thing is no simple beast we're hunting, to leave such a clear trail. It’s a trap.”
Feng Xin glares at his fellow god in anger and betrayal, as if Mu Qing just stabbed his mother. Honestly, he should be used to it by now! There’s never been a dramatic declaration Mu Qing wouldn’t jump on the chance to reveal.
“Hmm,” Xie Lian puts a finger to his chin, feeling the joy of the game spark under his skin again. What would he have done back then, he wonders? But ah, it was never really under consideration. He knows exactly what he would have done.
“Well, it won’t be suspecting us,” he says brightly, a hand resting on the sword at his hip and a bright grin lighting his face. “Let’s play along for now, and then it can see its trap reversed!”
Feng Xin lights up in enthusiasm. Mu Qing rolls his eyes so hard it looks painful.
“Gege,” Hua Cheng says, a note of caution in his voice. “I could scout ahead—”
“No no,” Xie Lian flaps a hand at him quickly. “San Lang would just have all the fun before the rest of us could get there!”
Hua Cheng pouts a little, crossing his arms and kicking at the leaf litter. His kick, entirely on purpose, reveals the pale sweep of bone. Xie Lian only nods. He’s already noticed the lack of forest inhabitants. Though the spirit hasn’t yet reached a human settlement, there’s been nothing living in the forest for miles already.
Feng Xin leads them still, though the trail is evident. Hua Cheng sticks close to Xie Lian’s side, E-Ming quivering now and then at his hip. Xie Lian pretends not to notice the butterflies peeling off of him and flitting into the dark forest, scouting out the surroundings.
He thinks, for a moment, of Yushi Huang. She isn’t at all a battle-inclined god. Why would she fight this creature? Then of what Mu Qing said, that Pei Ming was left reeling. Were they together at that time? Or was his retreat unrelated to the Rain Master's? Should he have looked more closely at that information? They were both well, weren’t they? Surely Mu Qing would have mentioned if either of them had been badly hurt. He was a bit cold towards his fellow gods, but not because he would have been happy for them to come to harm.
Actually, thinking of it, Xie Lian should try to introduce Mu Qing to Yushi Huang properly! They would almost certainly get along well, especially with the opportunity for quiet instead of being shoved into a battlefield together.
“Gege,” Hua Cheng says, abruptly stopping.
Xie Lian stops as well, turning back to him. His ghost king is glaring up ahead, not even at Feng Xin or Mu Qing. He shakes his head, tight and small, then turns his gaze to Xie Lian.
“Don’t go there,” he whispers, his voice strange. Haunted. Butterflies are limping back to him through the forest, silver wings tattered as they anxiously flutter.
“San Lang?” Xie Lian asks, taking a half-step forward.
Then there’s a yelp from behind him. By the time he turns, only Feng Xin is there, already leaping to the place where Mu Qing was a moment ago.
“HEY!” Feng Xin barks, barreling forward without thought.
Xie Lian turns to sprint after him, but a strong hand catches his wrist. Hua Cheng clings, shaking his head, his face pale and drawn.
“Don’t go,” he chokes. “Gege, don’t go there. Don’t go. Come away with me. Now.”
“San Lang,” Xie Lian whispers, shocked into stillness by the earnest distress on his beloved’s face. He lifts his free hand, stroking over Hua Cheng’s drawn brow in confusion. What could have startled him so badly? What could have—
Another shout from behind him, and his heart lurches.
“I can’t,” he whispers, then slips Hua Cheng’s grip, turning to sprint towards his friends.
“Dianxia, NO! ” Hua Cheng screams behind him, giving chase at once, but Xie Lian can’t oblige him this time. He adores San Lang—loves him with all his heart—but if his friends are in danger—
Mist clouds the way all at once, like walking into a wall of fog. And when he pierces through, he—
He is in a temple.
The ruins of one.
His own statue, broken, before the altar.
A hollow building that—
That will fill with bodies, will fill with innocents, will—
Their bodies, twisted with—
He will—
They—
Arms wrap around him, and Xie Lian gasps in a breath. The person holding him heaves him backwards, but his feet won’t budge. It’s as if he’s fixed in place. It is a fixed point in the universe, his feet on this ground.
“Please,” gasps a voice he knows so, so well now, though once he didn’t recognize it at all.
Xie Lian swallows, and lets out a slow, controlled breath. He knows that voice. He knows the arms around his waist. He lifts his hands, resting them against the cold silver wrapped around his beloved’s forearms.
“It’s okay,” he whispers. “I’m alright, San Lang.”
“No, no, no, no,” Hua Cheng mumbles, tugging and pulling, straining against the force holding Xie Lian here, before the gaping maw of the temple where he was eaten alive.
His arms are shaking, his fingers digging painfully into Xie Lian’s sides. Xie Lian swallows down bile and fear, looking forward with what boldness he can muster.
At the foot of the altar, Mu Qing and Feng Xin have been dropped, one to each side, like silent attendants. Both silent and unmoving. Xie Lian can’t divine their state from this distance.
He won't be able to stay at this distance anyway. He can feel it pulling. Tugging. He will go there. He will be on that altar. There’s no escaping it. It’s already too late.
“San Lang,” he whispers, “you should go back.”
A face he knows so well presses against his shoulder, still mumbling desperate pleas. Shaking prayers. His poor San Lang…
“Go back,” Xie Lian whispers, sliding his hand along Hua Cheng’s forearm until he can press his own hand over Hua Cheng’s, feeling his straining tendons, and his white knuckles and his trembling, bruising fingers.
“My ghost fire,” Xie Lian whispers, “you don’t have to stay.”
For just a moment, Hua Cheng clings tighter. Then the face pressed against Xie Lian’s back nuzzles him, taking a deep breath, and the fingers clawing at his sides soften, though they don’t release.
“I will never leave you.” Hua Cheng whispers.
Xie Lian takes a step forward. He doesn’t want to, but he does. He walked into the temple. It is known. It happened.
Hua Cheng digs his heels in, fighting every step, but his poor ghost, he was never able to stop this. At least this time Xie Lian is enough himself not to threaten him. At least he knows better than to try forcing him away. It will never work, even if it would be better. Even if it would be kinder.
It is a tragedy in the making, and yet if not for the pain Hua Cheng is clearly in, Xie Lian would be laughing. Ah, the one thing he’d managed mostly to run from…
Except for the dreams, he never thinks of it. He likes to pretend that’s a success, and not the instinctual flinching of a dog from hands that have beaten it before.
He should accept it. He should shut down. Lock his mind away like he learned to in the coffin. Wait for it to be over, and San Lang’s voice to call him back to safety. But there is something here—something making this happen—and the others are in danger too.
It isn’t until his hands are gripping the edge of the altar, trying desperately to keep himself off it, that he realizes he’s been fighting. Every step, every inch, he’s been—
He isn’t screaming, but San Lang is. Maybe it’s that, that wakes the others. Maybe it’s whatever creature trapped them here. Reached down inside Xie Lian’s throat and pulled out this knotted mass of terror that will tear him apart again, it will tear him apart, until he isn’t even human, until he—
“Where…?” Mu Qing’s voice rasps, his eyes blinking open and his hand reaching automatically for his saber.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” Feng Xin cries, leaping to his feet at once and grabbing Hua Cheng’s clinging arms.
“Don’t!” Xie Lian gasps, feeling the pressure increase, dragging him to the altar, to his death, to his suffering, to his rebirth to his—
He chokes back a sound, and Feng Xin freezes, staring at him. Whatever he sees, it makes him take a step back in shock. His brows lift, his eyes going so wide they’re ringed in white. Mu Qing rises more slowly on the other side of the altar, glancing around the room.
“This is one of your temples,” he observes, eyes narrowing. “How did we—”
“Listen,” Xie Lian chokes, “both of you, get out. Run. Staying here, you’ll both—”
He wants to say ‘be in danger’, but the words get gummed up in his throat, because what he really wants to say is ‘you’ll kill me.’
They’ll hurt me, they’ll turn on me, anyone would, anyone given a sword and a body, and simple instructions to save themselves. Anyone—anyone—
Feng Xin shoves back into his space, pressing both his hands to Xie Lian’s chest. He pushes, and Xie Lian chokes in a desperate breath. It isn’t enough to gain him even an inch, and that terror he’s been fighting redoubles. Triples. Breeds inside him like butterflies.
Mu Qing is staring at them, eyes flicking from Xie Lian to the altar and back. He draws his saber and swings it towards the offering table and the statue, aiming to destroy what Xie Lian cannot avoid.
His saber passes through it like smoke, despite the fact that Xie Lian’s hands are white knuckled against it, and Feng Xin is pressed against it in his effort to hold him back.
Xie Lian blinks back tears, and struggles to accept this. This is going to happen. It’s going to happen. It isn’t a surprise this time. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
“Okay,” he whispers aloud. “Okay. This is… This is going to happen.”
“No!” Hua Cheng barks with a tone that would be petulant if it weren’t so sickeningly filled with his desperation and terror.
“Feng Xin, Mu Qing, you shouldn’t watch,” Xie Lian chokes, “and I’d appreciate it if you could try to get Hua Cheng to leave too.”
“No, please, God!” Hua Cheng wails, and it breaks Xie Lian’s heart more than any sword could.
Behind them, he can feel the phantoms filling the space.
“What is this?!” Mu Qing demands, turning in place to take in the situation.
“It’s only a memory,” Xie Lian rasps.
Something gives. Maybe it’s him. This is happening. He’s on the altar, and then he’s bound. He isn’t surprised, but he is…
His heart thunders inside the cage of his chest, aware that soon its protection will be broken. Soon, the ugly wet sounds of the sword moving in and out of his body. Soon, the endless screaming, animal sounds erupting from his own throat. Soon—
Above him, a cry-smiling mask tilts, gazing down on him like a fond parent.
Xie Lian’s body wants to struggle. He closes his eyes, and breathes through his nose.
“You!” screams Feng Xin, leaping at the man looming over Xie Lian. He goes straight through the phantom of Bai Wuxiang, just like Mu Qing’s saber before.
“Gege, please,” chokes Hua Cheng, and now Xie Lian can see him. Can see his beloved, struggling against his ties, and managing only to claw at Xie Lian’s skin, desperate and wild-eyed. He is falling apart, and Xie Lian’s heart can’t take it. He can’t take it. Torture for himself, fine, but his San Lang…
“I’m okay,” Xie Lian whispers. “San Lang, look at me. I’m okay. I’m okay.”
“What are they doing?” Mu Qing asks, shifting uneasily closer to Xie Lian and Hua Cheng.
Xie Lian doesn’t look away from Hua Cheng’s face. He’s finally caught his beloved’s eye, and Hua Cheng is staring at him, fixed in terror. His clawing hands tangle in Xie Lian’s hair as he shakes his head—a silent plea Xie Lian can’t grant him.
“What are they doing?!” Mu Qing repeats, more loudly, and Xie Lian knows. Though the phantoms are silent, he knows. The sword will be in the first one’s hands, and he…
“Move,” he whispers to Hua Cheng. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
But Hua Cheng shakes his head, silent and despairing, quaking like a leaf in a hurricane, and throws himself around Xie Lian’s bound body, trying to shield him with his own form.
Over his shoulder, Xie Lian sees the young man with the sword. He used to pretend he could never remember who struck first, but he does. He did. He could never forget that face. He wants to look away. He wants to hide his face in Hua Cheng’s shoulder. He only stares, and stares, as the man works up his nerve and—
A rush of black robes, and Xie Lian sucks in a breath as Mu Qing throws himself in front of the sword, but thank goodness, thank goodness, the phantom passes straight through him. Straight through Hua Cheng. As if they were smoke.
The sword slides into Xie Lian’s chest with a sick sound of violence—not enough force to pierce him through, but more than enough to kill a fellow mortal. Xie Lian seals his lips shut to hold the blood in his mouth.
“Highness!” Feng Xin and Mu Qing cry out in terror, almost lost in the wail that Hua Cheng lets loose.
His power is unfurling. Xie Lian can feel it buffeting against him. He tilts his head, nuzzling against his beloved—the only comfort he can give him, bound like this. He tries to swallow the blood so he can speak.
“I’m okay,” he strangles out. “This is probably the last time I can talk, though, so please listen.”
Hua Cheng clings tighter to him, quaking. His spiritual power flickers into Xie Lian, the butterflies flocking, trying to heal him. Feng Xin hurries forward, hovering with his hands half-extended. Mu Qing seems frozen in place, turned back towards him from where he tried to take the strike on his behalf.
“This is going to be bad,” Xie Lian whispers. “And it is going to take some time. I need you both to focus on finding the source. Ignore me as best you can. I’ll try to keep quiet.”
“No,” gasps Hua Cheng into his shoulder.
Xie Lian kisses him softly under his ear—the only place he can reach.
“I’m not expecting you to fix this,” Xie Lian assures them all. “It’s already happened. I’ll be okay after, I promise. But please, keep San Lang from burning himself out trying to heal me, if you can.”
Feng Xin’s eyes turn from him to the room. To the crowd of faces gathered there, trapped for the moment in silent screaming and arguing between them.
Xie Lian sees him realize what’s coming. Sees it flush him red with rage—the fury building in his eyes.
Mu Qing, though. Mu Qing looks to Bai Wuxiang, and then to his hand. Xie Lian follows that gaze, up to the blazing, desperate ghost fire held there in the cage of a calamity’s hand.
Please, he begs internally to his sharp-tongued friend. Please, just this once, don’t make this worse. Please don’t fight. Don’t scream. I can’t stand it if you break too. I can’t stand this already. I can’t stand it if you make this harder for San Lang, if you—
“We’ll take shifts,” Mu Qing announces. “One stays and helps Hua Cheng heal you, one searches for the core of the spell. Feng Xin, you’re the hunter, you take first shift looking for a way to break this.”
Feng Xin looks on the edge of exploding, his hateful gaze scanning the faces of the crowd. He looks back at Mu Qing’s declaration, then nods firmly in agreement before storming out into the sea of people slowly devolving into panic.
Mu Qing, though, steps closer, and sits on the altar. He places a hand on Xie Lian’s back, and a trickle of fresh energy joins the butterflies’ frantic attempts.
“You’ll get blood on your robes,” Xie Lian whispers, blinking eyes that suddenly feel too hot.
“As if I care about that,” Mu Qing scolds. “Hua Cheng, you’re bruising him.”
“He’s okay,” Xie Lian objects, but Hua Cheng’s arms release at once, clinging into his robes instead of into Xie Lian’s skin.
“He is,” Mu Qing agrees, “but he doesn’t want to hurt you, so I’ll remind him. Deal?”
Xie Lian frowns, but against his shoulder Hua Cheng is nodding. He’s silent, hunched, trembling— broken, vulnerable— but he holds on as gently as he can.
“Don’t hold back,” San Lang begs softly. “My god, my god, cry out if it hurts.”
“Shhh,” Xie Lian whispers, tilting his head against Hua Cheng’s. “I’ll be okay. Stay with me, San Lang. Talk to me. I always want to hear you.”
“I—” Hua Cheng strangles out, but his words choke off as the sword…
Xie Lian expected it. He still makes a high whine in the back of his throat as the sword slides between his ribs. Spiritual energy pushes immediately into place—hot and cold, god and ghost. Xie Lian clamps his mouth shut, struggling not to—
“Spit,” Mu Qing orders. “Don’t hold it in. Crimson Rain of all people won’t be upset about getting blood on his robes.”
“Don’t be rude to him, this is your fault!” Hua Cheng snarls, twisting tighter into Xie Lian, as if he could encompass all his pain—as if his body could guard him against this.
“It is,” Mu Qing agrees.
“Mn—” Xie Lian objects quietly.
“But right now, he doesn’t need us to fight about that. What does he need, Crimson Rain?”
Hua Cheng swallows hard. Xie Lian can hear it, clicking in his throat. Then Hua Cheng’s lips are against his pulse, kissing softly there, and starting to speak:
“What does gege want to hear?”
“You,” Xie Lian whispers, blood sliding past his lips. He keeps his eyes open. It won’t change anything to close them. He just won’t know when it's coming, and he’d rather see.
“Tell him about you,” Mu Qing instructs, voice soft. “Something new. Give him something to focus on.”
Usually, Hua Cheng would balk at being instructed by anyone but Xie Lian. Now he follows the suggestion with the eager energy Xie Lian loves so much in him. Against Xie Lian’s pulse, he whispers:
“Gege, it’s embarrassing so I never said, but would you like to know how Ghost City was founded? You’ll laugh at me for it, but this Chengzhu truly only rules now because of a misunderstanding.”
The sword strikes again. Xie Lian leans against Hua Cheng’s hold, and breathes through the pain, feeling the pitch and speed of Hua Cheng’s words falter and warble at the strike. Healing energy rushes to soothe. Across the room, through the spirits, Xie Lian can see Feng Xin prowling.
“There was this annoying rabbit ghost following me,” Hua Cheng is struggling to say, “it had been for years.”
“What was its name?” Mu Qing asks, leading and low.
“I have no idea,” Hua Cheng says, and Xie Lian chokes out a wet, bloody laugh, his lips curving upwards despite the pain. “Gege, it’s true! I have no idea at all. It may have introduced itself, but I didn’t care.”
He sounds better, Xie Lian thinks, gratitude blooming in his heart, like a flower growing up through the stonework of his terror and pain. He hums, not trusting himself for louder noises, but wanting this to keep going. Wanting the comfort of his low, familiar voice, speaking into the pulse in his neck.
Time stretches and tugs against him. He can’t focus on Hua Cheng’s words. The sword comes again, and again. Sometimes twice, when they miss. He remembers. It hurts, but it’s only pain. The screaming terror burns in the back of his mind, threatening to swallow him, but…
But there’s a hand at his back, warm and safe. There’s a body wrapped around him, cool and comforting against his fever-hot flesh, not flinching away from his hot, awful blood. Hua Cheng talks, and talks, and talks, and Xie Lian hums his attention in between strangled sounds of agony.
“Come here,” Mu Qing says, and Xie Lian blinks his eyes open to see Feng Xin hanging back, a look of horror on his face. “Hand on his back, feed him spiritual power. Slow and steady. Don’t overwhelm him. Help keep him distracted. It’s helping.”
Feng Xin swallows hard, then nods. For just a moment, Xie Lian’s back feels cold. Then there’s a rough, warm hand there, pressing even more firmly, the spiritual power flowing from it abundant and soothing.
“What are we talking about?” he asks, rubbing his hand up and down Xie Lian’s back, careful to avoid Hua Cheng’s clawed hands.
“Anything gege wants,” Hua Cheng rasps in reply, sounding so, so small. “But—”
“Ah, so it’s just talking about you, huh?” Feng Xin asks, struggling to be teasing, and nearly making it.
Xie Lian hums his agreement. Behind him, he can hear Mu Qing starting to repeat Feng Xin’s inspection, hunting the source of the spell.
“He met you again on Mount Yu Jun, right?” Feng Xin asks. “What were you doing there? Does Xie Lian already know your part of that story?”
Hua Cheng shakes his head. Then he speaks, low and tender, his lips and words shaking, shuddering, when Xie Lian takes another blow. Feng Xin rubs his back in comfort, and when Hua Cheng falters, Xie Lian tries to swallow down enough blood to speak, only for Feng Xin to say:
“You’re doing really well. He likes hearing about you so much. Did you know that every time you tell him something new about yourself, he gushes about it for weeks after? He’s always so proud to show you off.”
The sword slices through Xie Lian’s throat, and Hua Cheng flinches, gasping around the splatter of blood. Feng Xin’s arms are an immediate, answering warmth. At first, Xie Lian is afraid he’s pushed Hua Cheng away. Then he realizes the ghost is crushed even closer, trembling in his hold, as Feng Xin hugs them both tightly, his spiritual energy a warm wash of comfort against the pain.
“Dianxia,” Hua Cheng is praying, lips smearing blood against Xie Lian’s neck. “Dianxia—”
I’m here, Xie Lian wants to tell him. I’m okay. This is helping. This is so much better than…
His throat is slit. He cannot speak.
“Your highness, remember that time we came across that sick slow loris out in the Xianle markets, and you insisted on bringing it back to the mountain? You must have been…What, fifteen or so?”
Xie Lian looks over at his friend, and sees the stress in his brows. The worry on his face. The way he’s pressed in close, as if he could hold Hua Cheng and Xie Lian both together.
He summons a trembling smile, and nods.
“He saved it?” Hua Cheng whispers in a tiny voice against Xie Lian’s blood-soaked, ruined robes.
“Of course he did,” Feng Xin says, his voice low. “And I’ll tell you all the embarrassing details, because even though you kept insisting it was embarrassing, I know you were proud, your highness.”
Xie Lian tries to huff a laugh. Only blood comes out, but he knows Hua Cheng can feel his smile from the way the man presses another soft kiss to his throat.
He drifts again, this time to the sound of Feng Xin talking, and Hua Cheng quietly demanding details. When his throat is healed enough, he goes back to humming. The sword falls over and over, but without despair—without the sick horror of the moment—pain is only pain.
“Highness,” Mu Qing murmurs.
Xie Lian didn’t hear him approach.
“Crimson Rain,” Mu Qing says too. “I think I know the source. It’s feeding off your memories.”
“Fuck,” Feng Xin whispers, hugging them both closer, as if he could protect them.
“Will you let me put you both to sleep?” Mu Qing asks softly. “Feng Xin and I can take down the spirit ourselves. I promise.”
Xie Lian blinks bleary eyes. He can’t seem to focus them. He feels a shift, and one of his anchor points in the universe slides and changes. He blinks again, and Hua Cheng is gazing into his eyes, his palms against Xie Lian’s cheeks. He thumbs through the blood pouring from his lips, and Xie Lian tries to smile for him.
“Do it,” Hua Cheng whispers. “Quickly.”
There’s a soft touch at the back of Xie Lian’s neck. And then there is nothing at all.
Xie Lian wakes to a strange phenomena for the second time on the same birthday.
“Oh you of the dead kingdom,” the orb says, “rest peacefully now, your wish granted.”
It fades, slowly, from his sight. For a moment, he is alone in the dark. Then Xie Lian blinks his eyes wearily open, gazing up at the familiar lacquer black ceiling of their room in Paradise Manor, and a face with serious brows deeply furrowed—fluffy as caterpillars, and so, so precious. There’s a gentle touch on his chin—damp and cool. Cleaning him up.
“Feng Xin,” he whispers, and feels a brief thrill of joy. His voice works again.
Feng Xin blinks, his eyes flying up to meet Xie Lian’s gaze.
“You’re up,” he breathes. “Your highness—”
Xie Lian swallows, watching Feng Xin’s words falter and fade to silence. He tilts his head to the side, the small motion stinging all the way through him.
Beside him on the bed, Hua Cheng lies pale and senseless. Mu Qing stares back at Xie Lian, a bloodied cloth in his hand that he must have been using to wipe the blood off Hua Cheng’s pale face.
“Why are you up?” Mu Qing demands in a sour hiss. “Go back to sleep!”
Xie Lian’s lips tilt up, but he shakes his head—a small motion that aches. He can only be grateful for the pain, small as it is. Thank the gods it only hurts that much, after—after—
“Shhh,” Feng Xin breathes, putting a hand carefully on his chest. “You’re okay. Crimson Rain will be too.”
“I’m sorry,” wheezes Xie Lian. “M-my fault…”
“If you apologize again, I am going to throttle you.” Mu Qing hisses.
“Hey!” Feng Xin snaps back, his voice barely lowered at all, “don’t threaten him!”
“So what, I should let him apologize for that?!” Mu Qing responds, his own voice rising in annoyance.
“No, but would it kill you to be nice about it?!” Feng Xin yells, and oh, now they’re screaming, but not at him. They’re just…They’re… They…
Xie Lian chokes, and both of them freeze, attention flying to him. Xie Lian is smiling so hard it hurts. He knows there’s still blood on his teeth. He can’t taste anything else. But he’s laughing, and he’s crying, and he’s home, and they stayed.
“Gege,” breathes a voice he knows so, so well, cracked and ruined with grief and terror.
“San Lang!” Xie Lian cries, so bright and loud it stings and aches, but he wouldn’t change it for the world—not for anything at all. “San Lang, San Lang, it’s over, it’s over, it’s—”
He chokes on the words, and a cold, familiar body wraps around him—cradles him impossibly close, and holds on so, so tight. He feels San Lang spasm around a silent sob, and scrambles to hold him in return. His arms aren’t bound. He can hold his beloved. He can squeeze him back just as tight.
Behind him, Feng Xin places a hand on his shoulder. Behind Hua Cheng, Mu Qing sighs, but it sounds more like relief than disgust this time.
And for a long, long time, there’s only that. Right up until Xie Lian’s stomach gives a long, mournful growl. Hua Cheng jolts at the sound, then snorts, his back shaking.
“Ah, San Lang, is it so funny?” Xie Lian whines softly and playfully, stroking his beloved’s dark hair.
“En, gege,” Hua Cheng chokes out past his sobs. “It’s funny.”
Under Xie Lian’s fingers, the little hairs sprouting from San Lang's scalp feel like a wild indulgence of sensation free from pain.
“I can cook,” Mu Qing says softly. “You stay here.”
But Xie Lian shakes his head.
“I’d like to move some,” he whispers. “If I can. Last time…”
“We’ll take it slow.” Feng Xin agrees.
Xie Lian closes his eyes, and breathes through the memory of meeting Feng Xin after... After. When a punch to his face was his greeting, and a voice angrily telling him it took two months to put himself back together.
“How long was I…?” he whispers.
“It’s only been a few hours,” Mu Qing says. “So you’d better not push yourself, or you’ll make Crimson Rain cry.”
“En,” Hua Cheng whispers, pulling stiffly away and wiping his eye. “This follower will wail like a child.”
“So will I, probably,” Feng Xin says with a one-shouldered shrug, his eyes brimming with tears already.
“Pft.” scoffs Mu Qing, as if he weren’t roughly wiping tears off his face.
Xie Lian smiles up at them all, then breaks into a beaming grin.
“Ah, what a bunch of crybabies!” he teases, and watches it make Hua Cheng laugh, at last, even as Mu Qing splutters and Feng Xin turns red.
He has to walk very slowly, in small, shuffling steps. Hua Cheng keeps one hand on his back, and one gripping his hand, helping him down the halls towards the kitchen. Once there, Mu Qing herds them all to sit, and starts rifling through the supplies, muttering to himself.
Hua Cheng spreads a hand over Xie Lian’s stomach, the other staying on his back, feeding spiritual energy between them, soothing the lasting pain.
“Here,” he directs, patting his hand over Xie Lian’s shoulder blade, and Xie Lian blinks, thinking it’s him he’s speaking to.
Then Feng Xin’s hand—warm and rough, takes the place of Hua Cheng’s fingers.
“Soothe his muscles,” Hua Cheng orders before going back to focusing his cooling energies to the burning pain.
And rather than arguing, Feng Xin spreads both his hands on Xie Lian’s back, and his power—warm and gentle—flows through his aching muscles.
Slowly, the air fills with the smell of ginger, herbs, and rice. Xie Lian hasn’t eaten Mu Qing’s congee in years, but even now he knows the smell of it.
Soon, they will want answers. Soon, he will tell them about the ill-fated wish he didn’t want to make. For now he hears Mu Qing murmur: “he still likes mushrooms, right?” and Hua Cheng answer with a quiet: “En, very much.” and Feng Xin sigh: “well, no one can be right all the time.”
On his 834th birthday, Xie Lian eats dinner with the three people most important to him. Their hands are gentle and caring. Their words are soft and soothing. An ancient, aching wound in him feels, strangely, like it’s scabbing over. And after dinner, when Feng Xin hesitates and fidgets, and Mu Qing has turned his eyes away, Xie Lian takes a deep breath.
“You were already gone, Mu Qing.” he whispers, the words aching. “Feng Xin, you were trying to keep my parents alive. And San Lang, you were so small then. None of that was your fault.”
Silence answers him, and he aches with it. Hua Cheng leans against his side. Feng Xin’s eyes are shut, his face drawn, no doubt realizing the timing. Mu Qing looks sick. But Xie Lian…. He has one more thing to say.
“For a long time,” he whispers, “I spent all my time wishing I hadn’t survived it. But now I’m glad I did. I’m really, really glad.”
Feng Xin squeezes his eyes shut, and at last those burning tears fall. Mu Qing takes a sharp breath, and looks to him as if he’d been stabbed as well. Beside him, Hua Cheng turns his head, burrowing his face against Xie Lian’s neck, lips to his steady pulse.
“Thank you all,” he whispers, wrapping one arm around Hua Cheng and offering his other to his friends.
Feng Xin tucks himself in first, pressing close to Xie Lian and shamelessly wrapping his arm around Hua Cheng again as well. Xie Lian keeps his eyes on Mu Qing, waiting, until the man hesitantly approaches, settling at his side and leaning quietly against the huddle of them.
On what is his 834th birthday, according to Hua Cheng's math, Xie Lian falls asleep like that. His stomach is full, and his body is warm—held safe by three people who would have given anything to spare him pain. He aches, but he accepts it. He suffered, but he accepts it.
Body in the abyss, he thinks fondly for the first time in many, many years.
Heart in paradise.