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“Thank you for having me.”
Shen Qingqiu's thin smile makes it obvious how welcome Yue Qingyuan really is. He does not falter in his task of pouring Yue Qingyuan a cup of tea, yet pulls back a moment too early, leaving the cup underfilled. “It’s no trouble,” he simpers. “Anything for our new Sect Leader.”
Yue Qingyuan’s shoulders drive up, and for a moment he considers abandoning his mission right this moment. But—no. He’s spent such a long time psyching himself up for today that he doesn’t think he’ll be able to do it again if he leaves things unsaid now.
“It’s much appreciated,” he says, responding on rote. He has to do it now. There’s no telling how long this thin veneer of politeness will last. He should—
“Qingqiu-shidi,” he says. “I was hoping that I might be able to speak to you about something.”
So far so good.
Shen Qingqiu does not react. Yue Qingyuan has started too many conversations this way for him to expect that today might be different, that today he might finally get the answers he’s so longed for. “Do tell.”
“I—” The words get stuck in his throat. He tries again. “I wanted—”
A spark of interest in Shen Qingqiu’s eyes. “Yes?”
“When I—” He tries to force his tongue to move, but it lays limp in his mouth. “Back when—” His hands curl into fists, nails digging into the palm of his hand.
“Shidi,” is all he manages to get out before something within his chest near-audibly cracks. He feels himself fix on an affable smile and hears himself say, “I wanted to mention once more how much I appreciate your role in the organisation of our ascension ceremony. It was invaluable, and everyone—”
The light within Shen Qingqiu’s eyes extinguishes, his attention lost. “Spare me your thanks,” he interrupts, sounding bored.
It all degrades quickly after that.
Yue Qingyuan walks out on suspiciously stable legs that turn to jelly the second the door gets slammed shut behind him. His breath speeds up again from its former immaculate rhythm. When he looks down, his hands are shaking.
That wasn’t…
That wasn’t him, was it?
He tries again the next day. He ends up telling Shen Qingqiu that he’s been wondering if Qing Jing’s cooks are anywhere near as bad as the ones on Qiong Ding are.
Shen Qingqiu scoffs and walks away.
His hands freeze on the knots of his robe, chosen to be easily discarded to reveal the scars laid underneath. The rougher fabric irritates the healing scratches on his arm.
He is thankful his brand new Head Disciple isn’t here to overhear him telling Shen Qingqiu that he worries she will be stifled in her increasingly watched and regimented position. He knows she’s up for it, but nonetheless the pressure isn’t something easily disregarded.
His shidi watches him blunder through his confession, silent. She will adjust, Shen Qingqiu eventually tells him, before sweeping away without waiting for a reaction.
It’s the day that he accidentally confides in Shen Qingqiu about Shang Qinghua’s worrying bruises that he starts debating with himself if it’s ethical to continue trying to confess if it does indeed pose a risk that he might reveal secrets not his to discuss.
He keeps trying.
He keeps trying.
He keeps trying.
He keeps throwing himself at the wall with the futile thought that this time, this time he might break through. (At least it’s metaphorical this time, hah! Hah…)
It never works.
Well, that’s only a half-truth.
Out of all the tests he’d run on different people, one late evening half out of his mind on a strange cocktail of fear and an almost foreign indignation, the whole story had managed to leave his mouth one time. With Mu-shidi.
Yue Qingyuan had already told Mu Qingfang before, though. Long ago. He had to know, in order to prepare him to provide Yue Qingyuan with adequate care after the ascension ceremony.
But even then it had been his Shizun to tell the other of his failures, his mind whispers insidiously. Yue Qingyuan hadn’t said a word, had he? He’d been silent, moved around like a prop as he obediently bared his scars for his shidi.
“Qingqiu-shidi,” he begins one day. With a strange mirth, he wonders what secret he will confess today. Sometimes he surprises even himself. “I don’t know how long I can keep doing this.”
For no more than a split second, Shen Qingqiu looks stricken—and then he visibly regathers himself, face relaxing into aloof dignity. “A while longer yet, I hope,” he says coolly. “At least have the decency to train a successor before you decide you’ve had enough of us.” Of me.
Yue Qingyuan breathes out. He tastes iron. “Of course,” he says. “I wouldn’t leave you all alone.” Shen Qingqiu twitches at the phrasing.
“You look awful,” is what one day leaves his mouth. He cringes back slightly at Shen Qingqiu’s incredulous look, before bravely soldiering onwards. There’s no use being cautious. There’s nothing he can say that he hasn’t said before, or will end up saying in the future. “You should visit Mu-shidi. I promise he is the height of discretion.”
“Oh, I bet he is,” Shen Qingqiu mutters nonsensically.
The setting sun throws the deep shadows underneath his shidi's eyes in deep relief. Even so, he looks beautiful under its golden hue. Yue Qingyuan’s ensuing speechlessness is refreshingly mundane.
He hopes it will work eventually.
Wait— does he hope that? It doesn’t feel like there is this wellspring of belief inside of him, no expectation that one day things will change. Instead, it just—it feels empty inside, a hollow thing where his heart should be.
He contemplates it for a brief moment.
Ah. The only reason he still tries is that he has never learned when to admit defeat—and that after his Shizun went through all that effort to teach him!
That’s it. Nothing more than that.
Alright.
He keeps trying.
The next day finds him once more in front of Shen Qingqiu. The man looks more imposing than usual, dressed to the teeth and untouchable. He looks at him like he would look at the audience for one of his musical performances—not truly at, but through.
Yue Qingyuan is tired and worn down and is trying to fight back a pre-emptive flinch for when that feeling of detachment will take over again. His chest hurts. It hasn’t stopped hurting in days. “Qingqiu-shidi,” he begins. Shen Qingqiu watches him struggle like a silent, uncaring deity.
“Shidi. Shen Qingqiu.” He knows himself too well to deny he’s trying to delay his own execution. It can’t last forever. Shen Qingqiu will lose his patience soon. “I—”
Before he manages to force himself to talk through the dread, the cold melts away from Shen Qingqiu. “It’s… kind you want to tell me yourself,” he says. “But really, it’s unnecessary. I already know.”
… What?
“What?” Shen Qingqiu echoes playfully, mockingly. “I have known for a while, really. I’m not sorry that I haven’t told you before; it was funny to see you squirm.” His eyes squint shut in seeming pleasure, recalling Yue Qingyuan repeatedly debasing himself these past few weeks. “You had to have known you couldn’t keep something like that a secret from me.”
He doesn’t understand.
“Quite tragic, wasn’t it,” Shen Qingqiu muses. “But not all that complicated to figure out. I laid out a timeline, interrogated everyone I could, and before you know it… Really, it’s strange no more people figure it out!”
He can’t breathe.
“You can’t bury something like this, not really.”
Oh. Oh god.
“You know,” he croaks out.
“I know,” Shen Qingqiu confirms mercilessly. He looks amused as he waits for Yue Qingyuan’s poor struggling mind, lagging several sentences behind, to catch up.
Eventually he loses patience and shakes his head. “So just—quit your self-torture, will you,” Shen Qingqiu says, orders. “Trying to force your lying mouth to speak the truth… It is exhausting to watch. It's not worth it. You’re not telling me anything new.”
“I’m not?” he can’t help but ask.
“You’re not.” Shen Qingqiu shakes out his sleeves. “Though I would still have you tell me yourself,” he adds offhandedly. “To fill in the gaps. Maybe it will be easier for you now that you know there is no pristine reputation left to protect.” There is something heavy in his gaze. “None of that waffling about that you’ve been doing lately. Just be silent if you have nothing useful to say.”
“I can try,” Yue Qingyuan says, not daring to promise more.
And so he does.
After all this, it’s strange to actually have to think about what to say. For so long he hasn’t needed to think beyond the very start of it all, knowing he’d never get to the later parts, that he’s left floundering when he has to find the words for—most of it, really. His desperation when he first realised he was never going to be allowed to leave Qiong Ding, the weeks he spent preparing to sneak on to Wan Jian, the shouted conversations happening above his head while he writhed in pain.
He skips over his time in the caves. Shen Qingqiu already knows. No use lingering on it.
Shen Qingqiu stays silent all throughout the long tale. Yue Qingyuan hasn’t seen him this controlled since he was first brought up to meet the Qing Jing Peak Lord, not a single twitch hinting at his thoughts.
“—more weeks until they let me leave,” Yue Qingyuan says. “You know what I found then. I returned here without even thinking about continuing my search.” His throat is dry. He doesn’t know how long he’s been talking. “I was allowed to work to regain their trust. I’m grateful for that.”
Shen Qingqiu’s emotionless mask finally breaks. “Grateful?” he repeats. “You were grateful to be allowed to bend your back for that—that wretch of a man?”
Yue Qingyuan blinks, nonplussed. “I did attempt to steal a Sect treasure—”
“Was it him too? That cursed you not to speak of it?”
“You know about that?”
“Do I—of course I know!” Shen Qingqiu scoffs. “What, do you think you hid it well?”
I didn’t think you’d care. Wisely, Yue Qingyuan keeps that thought to himself. “I thought it might be easy to miss,” he instead says diplomatically.
Shen Qingqiu stands up, towering over Yue Qingyuan’s kneeling form. He leans over, and Yue Qingyuan stops breathing when Shen Qingqiu takes his chin in his hands. His thumb slides over his cheek, lingers at the soft skin of his throat. “Look at me,” the man orders, eyes piercing.
Yue Qingyuan swallows. All words have left him.
“That’s one of the stupidest things I’ve ever heard you say,” Shen Qingqiu says slowly, and Yue Qingyuan doesn’t think he is fooling himself when he says it almost sounded fond. “Yue Qingyuan. You looked like you’d drown on dry land every time you opened your mouth! A blind man couldn’t miss that.”
He sits down again, next to Yue Qingyuan this time. He looks achingly within reach.
“I realise you might not—maybe you didn’t think I’d follow up on it,” Shen Qingqiu says delicately, and oh, his silent words hadn’t gone unheard, hadn’t they? “I can’t imagine I’ve always given you the impression I…” A breath. “Look. You didn’t—deserve that. Even if the lying and secrecy had been of your own accord, you still wouldn’t have deserved that.”
“Qingqiu-shidi…”
“And every time you’d—you would keep—fuck!” Shen Qingqiu closes his eyes, jamming his face in the crook of Yue Qingyuan’s neck. Whispered so close to Yue Qingyuan’s ears that the hairs on the back of his neck start to raise at the low sound, he declares with frightening sincerity, “If your Shizun had still been around when I discovered who had done this, I’d have killed him myself for this.”
Perhaps it hasn’t only been Yue Qingyuan who has had a horrible few weeks behind his back. Unsure of his welcome but certain he needs to try, Yue Qingyuan wraps an arm around Shen Qingqiu’s back. When he doesn’t get hissed at for his troubles, he dares to put some pressure behind it, pulling Shen Qingqiu in for a hug.
“It’s over,” he promises to Shen Qingqiu, to himself. “You know.”
Shen Qingqiu breathes out against his skin. “I know.”
(“What are you thinking so hard about?”
Yue Qingyuan blinks, turning to catch Shen Qingqiu as he throws himself down next to him with more instinct than real thought. “Security issues,” he answers. “Would you tell me what path you took to figuring out the truth of it all? Maybe there is something I can do to patch up some of those holes.”
“Oh, it’s quite simple,” Shen Qingqiu says, unlacing his booths. “I asked a fool and he told me everything.”
“Who?”
“You did.”
His hands freeze in the midst of untangling Shen Qingqiu’s hair from his crown. “I did?” he repeats cautiously.
Shen Qingqiu turns around. He looks smug. “You did,” he repeats. “You don’t need to worry—there are no leaks anywhere I could find. Nobody who would tell me even the slightest. Fucking. Hint.” The memory frustrates him as much as it invigorates him. He’s proud to have managed to discover it regardless. “The curse was obvious. The rest… the only thing I could find is that Mu Qingfang was an exception to your restrictions, likely because he already knew of it. That’s how most of those kinds of curses work.”
“You know a lot about them, then?” Yue Qingyuan asks.
“Everything that is mentioned about them in our libraries and then some,” Shen Qingqiu says. There is steel in his eyes—stress-tested. “It gave me a clue as to how to play the confrontation. First I tried approaching Mu Qingfang though. Useless—a waste of my time. I’m not sure if it’s a curse of its own or merely misplaced loyalty to the previous generation, but he told me nothing regardless of how hard I pressed him.”
So that was why Mu Qingfang hadn’t been able to look Shen Qingqiu in the eye this past month.
“And then,” Shen Qingqiu shrugs, “then I tricked you.”
Yue Qingyuan smiles. “Easy as that.”
The corner of Shen Qingqiu’s mouth twitches. “Not complicated at all.”)