Work Text:
My values
When the first sunbeam tinted the delicate flower petals and the cold dawn flooded the City of Ghosts, washing the marble slabs in ashen tones, Xie Lian, who had been awake for a long time, was patiently waiting at a table set with a modest breakfast he had so diligently prepared himself. Two bowls of rice with chicken pieces, two cups of oolong tea, and a couple of sugar lotus seeds—of course, the dishes still had their peculiar taste and appearance, but it was exactly what his San Lang loved. Before him also lay a small, carefully wrapped bundle—a few rare dried herbs he had gathered yesterday on the distant slopes, knowing San Lang loved their aroma in tea. He remembered the vivid delight in Hua Cheng’s eyes when he had first tasted such tea many moons ago. How his eye had lit up with a warm glow, and the soft lines of his lips had melted into a warm smile.
When Hua Cheng finally emerged from his study with a gait that was soft yet firm, his gaze, which usually found Xie Lian immediately and crinkled with joy, slid right past him. The Ghost King’s face was pale, the shadows under his eye seeming deeper than usual. He sat down mechanically. His movements were detached, as if his thoughts were wandering in some other dimension full of invisible thorns, while his body was chained to a chair that weighed like a thousand jin.
“San Lang, did you sleep well?” Xie Lian asked, nudging the bowl of rice closer to his husband. His voice was soft, as always, but with faint notes of concern for his beloved. Hua Cheng flinched, as if snapping out of a stupor. His single eye darted to Xie Lian, and something pained, almost frightened, flashed within it.
“Yes… Yes, Gege. Sorry to have kept you waiting so long.” His gaze fell to the table, swept over the dishes and the bundle, but didn’t register it. When he picked up his bowl, one could notice his fingers trembling slightly.
“Trouble on the outskirts of Ghost City… required special attention this time,” he muttered, looking away toward a small flower in the corner of the room. His explanation sounded flat, devoid of life.
Xie Lian silently nodded, taking his words at face value. He saw the fatigue but decided not to make much of it—managing a place like Ghost City was rarely easy.
“Don’t apologize, San Lang. Eat before it gets cold,” he said, picking up his chopsticks and reaching for a dish. He noticed Hua Cheng’s gaze slide over the bundle again and then immediately dart to his bowl, as if touching a hot coal.
*‘He’s probably just tired and didn’t notice,’* Xie Lian thought. Not a shadow of resentment stirred in his heart. His husband had given him entire worlds; he had given him his whole self; a moment of forgetfulness due to worries—such a trifle wasn’t worth even a fleeting thought.
But for Hua Cheng, it was no trifle. It was a knife plunged straight into the heart of his endless devotion. He had seen the bundle. Seen it and overlooked it, absorbed in yesterday’s chaos with a treaty-breaking demon on the outskirts. And when later, deep in the night, an icy wave of realization had washed over him—that he had ignored a gift—a gift from his god, given with such quiet care—his world had collapsed. Self-recrimination, sharp and merciless, gnawed at him from within.
*How dare I? How could I be so blind, so unworthy? He, who endures my presence, who allows me to love him… and I? I brushed aside his attention like a bothersome fly.* His thoughts swirled in a vortex of self-accusation. He had barely eaten, barely slept, merely sitting in the darkness of his study, clenching his fists until they hurt, imagining the disappointment he had undoubtedly caused, and which simply… wasn’t there in Xie Lian’s calm eyes. This invisible, unacknowledged disappointment was worse than any open reproach.
The days dragged on, growing heavier. Xie Lian began to notice. Not just fatigue, but suffering. How Hua Cheng withdrew, his usually impeccable posture slumping under an invisible weight. How he froze when Xie Lian entered a room, his single eye filling with such agony it seemed it might soon spill blood instead of tears. How he had almost stopped eating, merely pushing food around with his chopsticks. How his famous smile, always ready to bloom for Xie Lian, was now just a pitiful, strained shadow. And most of all—how he avoided any hint of that evening, of that ill-fated bundle which Xie Lian had never presented, putting it away without the slightest annoyance.
One evening, as Hua Cheng sat again, staring into emptiness, untouched dinner before him, Xie Lian could bear it no longer. He set down his chopsticks. The silence in their chambers had become thick, almost tangible, and simply unbearable.
“San Lang.” Xie Lian’s voice was quiet, but in the silence, it rang like a gong strike. Hua Cheng flinched and raised his head. Panic flashed in his eye—that of a wild animal cornered.
“What… what’s wrong, Gege?” His voice betrayed him with a tremble.
“That’s my question for you,” Xie Lian said, standing and walking over to him. He crouched beside Hua Cheng’s chair to be at his level. His golden-brown eyes, usually warm and serene, now studied the demon’s face intently.
“You’ve been suffering. For several days now. And is it… because of me?”
Hua Cheng went still. His entire being shrank into a knot of shame and horror. He wanted to deny, to lie, to hide—but under that piercingly calm, all-seeing gaze, it was impossible. His head fell helplessly, long black hair hiding his face.
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry, Gege…” The words escaped in a hoarse whisper, full of despair. “I… I am unworthy… I… I ignored your gift… That evening… the bundle… I saw it… and paid no mind… like the most ungrateful…” The words now poured out in a bitter, broken stream.
“You spent time… effort… thinking of me… and I… I was absorbed in some stupid problem not worth your little finger… I insulted you. Neglected your care. I…” His voice broke, his body shuddering with a silent sob. “I don’t deserve to be by your side. You should have cast me out long ago. Or destroyed me. You deserve temples built of pure gold and prayers, not… not a wretch like me…”
Silence hung again, but now it was filled with the tremors of Hua Cheng’s despair. Xie Lian listened, his face remaining calm, but in his eyes, deep as ancient lakes, swirled something inexpressible—understanding, sorrow, an abyss of tenderness. He slowly raised a hand. His fingers, strong and yet incredibly gentle, touched Hua Cheng’s chin, softly urging him to lift his head. Their eyes met—the bottomless agony of one and the quiet, all-encompassing clarity of the other.
“San Lang,” Xie Lian spoke. His voice was a warm scarf wrapped around an icy soul. “You’ve been suffering all these days… because of this?”
Hua Cheng nodded, unable to utter a word. Tears finally broke through the dam, rolling soundlessly down his cheek. Xie Lian gently wiped them away with his thumb.
“You give me entire worlds, San Lang. You gave me a home. You gave me… yourself. Every day. Every moment.” He leaned forward slightly, his forehead almost touching Hua Cheng’s. “A few dried herbs are just herbs. Yes, I gathered them for you. But if you were tired, if your thoughts were occupied with maintaining order in your city, in our home… how could I be upset by that? How could that diminish all that you do for me?”
He saw the words sink into Hua Cheng’s consciousness, saw disbelief mixed with timid hope.
“Do you think I demand perfection? Do you think my affection for you is so fragile it would break from a moment of forgetfulness on a hard day?” Xie Lian shook his head, and a rare but bright spark flashed in his eyes. “I fell for eight hundred years, San Lang. I know the price of human weakness and error. Your only ‘mistake’ is chastising yourself for them too harshly. Surely you don’t think you’re unworthy of something, San Lang?” he asked quietly. “Of my love? My presence?” He leaned slightly forward over the low table. “You built a temple for me in your heart long before you built one in stone. You kept the faith when the whole world turned away. You gave me not just shelter, but a home filled with… you. How can a few forgotten herbs outweigh an eternity of that devotion?”
He embraced Hua Cheng. Tightly, securely, like a rock against which all storms break. The demon froze, then clung to him with a force that seemed to fear the very ground would vanish. His body shook with suppressed sobs.
“I wasn’t angry, San Lang,” Xie Lian whispered into his hair. “Not one bit. I was worried. Because I saw you suffering. I saw you pulling away. That pains me. Not the forgotten bundle, but your suffering over it,” Xie Lian continued, his voice gentle but with unexpected firmness. “Your fault isn’t in being distracted, but in deciding for me what I should feel. In deeming yourself unworthy without asking me. Haven’t I earned your trust? Trust that I will speak the truth about my feelings?”
The words cut Hua Cheng deeper than any blade. He lowered his gaze, feeling the heat of shame rise to his ears. He had been so afraid of seeing disappointment in his god’s eyes that he had invented it, projected it, blown it up into a catastrophe. And he had locked himself in a tower of fear and self-abasement, causing Xie Lian pain with his withdrawal—a pain far more real than the imagined neglect.
“I… I didn’t think…” he mumbled, gripping his bowl so tightly the porcelain might crack. “I was afraid… I would see in your eyes… what I deserve. Distance. Coldness.”
“And instead you saw worry,” Xie Lian corrected him softly. He removed his hand, but his gaze remained fixed on Hua Cheng’s face. “You saw me anxious for you. You saw your suffering wounding me. Because I love you, San Lang. I don’t love you for a flawless perfection that doesn’t exist. I love all of you. With your fury, your devotion bordering on madness… and with your habit of taking all the blame and torturing yourself alone.”
He pulled back just enough to see his face again.
“Promise me. Promise that next time you think you’ve offended or disappointed me… you’ll just tell me. Like now. You won’t hide and gnaw at yourself alone. Alright?”
Hua Cheng looked at him, his single eye, still wet, reflecting a universe of reverence and love. He nodded, forcing out the words with difficulty: “I promise, Gege. I pro… promise.”
Xie Lian smiled. It was a warm, sunny smile that melted the last shards of guilt in the demon’s heart.
“Good. Now…” He stood and held out his hand. “Come. The herbs didn’t go anywhere. I’ll brew us tea. You will drink, and I will watch your cheeks regain their color. And if you refuse,” he added with a barely perceptible but genuine chuckle, “I will use force. Bury you in blankets or lock you in the cellar with a teapot. Choose.”
Hua Cheng laughed. It was a choked, raspy sound, more like a sob, but it was laughter. And in it was hope. He took the offered hand, his fingers closing around Xie Lian’s wrist with a familiar, but now panic-free tenderness.
“Gege… you’re terrible at threats,” he muttered, but he stood up, obedient.
“But effective,” Xie Lian retorted, leading him to the tea table where that very same, undelivered bundle lay. He unwrapped it with his usual care. “Look, San Lang,” he brought a bunch of fragrant leaves to his nose. “It smells of sun and mountains. Just what’s needed to dispel the autumn chill… and all other unnecessary shadows.”
He began to brew the tea, his movements ritualistically calm. Hua Cheng sat beside him, watching. The gnawing guilt hadn’t vanished completely—it was too deeply woven into the fabric of his devotion. But it no longer choked him. It was softened, disarmed by the warmth of the hand that had touched him, the warmth of the words he had heard, the warmth of the presence of a god who did not demand impossible perfection, but simply… loved him. Even when the flowers of his attention momentarily wilted, the sun of his forgiveness continued to shine. And that, Hua Cheng realized, sipping the fragrant, warming tea and stealthily touching Xie Lian’s sleeve, was more than enough. For all the eternity to come.
