Chapter Text
There was something different about his A-Yuan.
After the qi deviation, he woke up dazed, which was expected. It was similar to that one time Shen Yuan had one too many of those calming teas from the healing peak, although this time he seemed to be also visibly confused in a way that went deeper than any lingering medicinal fog.
Oh, A-Yuan hid it well, and were Shen Qingqiu a Bai Zhan brute, the widening of those green eyes might have passed unnoticed. Shen Qingqiu, however, was the Qing Jing Peak Lord, chief tactician of the Cang Qiong sect—the day he failed to notice such obvious signs of horrified realization would be his last.
He wasn’t stupid. He did check for possession—inconspicuously, of course. And when the talisman revealed nothing amiss, he tested for memory loss instead, probing gently, circling the truth from different angles. The results were… inconclusive.
A-Yuan knew his name. He moved with the same familiar mannerisms, blushed in exactly the same way, and still looked away when trying to evade a question.
Still, prudence dictated that faith was a liability when it ran counter to one’s interests. Thus, Shen Qingqiu gave nothing away of his suspicions, while generously providing clues if only to watch A-Yuan sag with relief, convinced his childish con had worked.
It might not be the exact same Shen Yuan he took from the streets, grew up with, escaped the Qiu's clutches, and climbed the sect hierarchy in less than a decade. Maybe that was for the best?
A clean slate, a fresh start—wasn’t this what he wanted?
This A-Yuan might not be his exactly.
But he could be, will be.
And Shen Qingqiu would take responsibility, all while gauging the full consequences of his previous impatience.
He leaned into A-Yuan’s space, already anticipating the inevitable flinch.
“Wha—” Shen Yuan started, recoiling on reflex.
The sharp, scorched scent of black pine resin burst into the air—raw, untempered, still carrying the acrid edge of instability. Shen Qingqiu’s mouth flattened, the expression hidden as he snapped open his fan with a practiced flourish. Tiny talismans etched into the ribs shimmered faintly, filtering the worst of it.
So the instincts remained, even stripped of memory.
Unfortunate.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Shen Qingqiu asked calmly.
The contrast between his unbothered tone and A-Yuan’s reaction made it seem as though the younger man was the one in the wrong. Pale cheeks flushed, colour spreading as Shen Yuan corrected his posture, hands knotting anxiously in the sheets.
“I…” He bit down on his lower lip. “I just got startled.”
“A-Yuan has a delicate constitution,” Shen Qingqiu said mildly, clicking his tongue. “Especially after the last qi deviation. Some confusion is only to be expected.”
He lowered the fan, gaze heavy, intent.
“Still, that doesn’t mean A-Yuan should make things difficult for his Jiu-ge when he’s only trying to help.” His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing in consideration.
“Unless,” he drawled, “A-Yuan’s memory is worse than he claimed—and he’s unhappy with the treatment methods?”
Shen Yuan swallowed. His fingers left deep creases in the bedding as he shook his head slowly.
“No, J-jiu-ge. I’m thankful for your help.” He winced at the stutter, shoulders loosening when Shen Qingqiu hummed, apparently satisfied.
The air felt lighter—though the underlying tension remained, some nameless biological imperative tightening Shen Yuan’s muscles as Shen Qingqiu leaned in again, slower this time.
Soon, A-Yuan wouldn’t need to worry about such useless things.
“I’ll give you a hand this time,” Shen Qingqiu said pleasantly, “since it seems A-Yuan is still having trouble staying put.”
Bony fingers closed around Shen Yuan’s chin, restraining any movement. Shen Qingqiu leaned in, cold nose touching the heated skin of his disciple's neck, as he moved down to the dip of the shoulder. The body beneath him shivered, muscles pulled taut.
Shen Qingqiu was running out of time. With a last brush of skin against the borders of the scent gland, he moved away just before Shen Yuan managed to talk himself into pushing him away.
Slow and steady.
“See? It wasn’t that hard, right, A-Yuan?” The younger cultivator shook his head hesitantly.
“Good boy,” Shen Qingqiu patted the soft cheek, watching amused as it heated under his hand.
He stood up, posture straightening, effectively halting any offended rebukes from his disciple.
“Now rest, I’ll come back with your daily medicinal tea soon.”
The next few days were quite… illuminating.
It became apparent that progress came easier under the umbrella of treatment and vague cultivation-related concerns than it ever had through direct correction.
A-Yuan was knowledgeable in many areas—capable of holding long, thoughtful conversations over tea or meals, his insights sharp when given room to wander as expected of a senior disciple—but the qi deviation had left him uncertain about certain cultivation fundamentals, surprisingly including his own biology.
It was as if the Heavens themselves had given their blessing, and who was Shen Qingqiu to disregard it?
Just in case—as fates were fickle when mortals were concerned—Shen Qingqiu made a point of removing most texts that addressed such sensitive topics from the Bamboo House. It was a minor inconvenience at best to him, with a massive payout. In their place, he supplied beast compendiums, flora and fauna essays, treatises on spiritual geography—safe subjects, interesting ones. He watched with satisfaction the way A-Yuan’s face lit up when presented with each new volume.
The younger man wore his excitement and happiness openly, completely unashamed by his weakness being exposed.
Shen Qingqiu loathed it.
He despised the thought that anyone else might see his A-Yuan like this—the way his eyes brightened, lips parting in wonder before settling into a small, grateful smile, thank you, gege spoken in that soft tone that made something unpleasantly tight coil in his chest.
It was intoxicating.
A-Yuan needed a routine—Shen Qingqiu provided one easily.
He usually woke first, arm stretched across the bed, a faint tendril of irritation curling through him at the absence of another body beneath the sheets.
Just a little longer.
Shen Qingqiu dressed with care—five layers, suitable for a day of paperwork—and selected a few additional robes before making his way to A-Yuan’s room, idly calculating how many days it would take before the bed could be removed altogether. An art space would suit him better.
His senior disciple slept messily, one leg exposed beneath the silk inner robe, only partially covered by the heavy blanket. Shen Qingqiu allowed himself a moment to take in the sight before stepping closer.
His fingers slid into loose strands of dark hair, scratching lightly at the scalp.
“Wake up, A-Yuan,” he murmured.
A faint whine answered him instead.
Shen Qingqiu tugged the hair just enough to prompt movement.
Soon, Shen Yuan stood before the bed, eyes heavy with sleep, body swaying slightly as though reaching for a few stolen moments of rest.
“Arms up.”
A-Yuan complied without hesitation.
The sleeves slipped down as Shen Qingqiu adjusted the inner layers with practiced efficiency, fingers lingering at the waist as he smoothed the fabric—three layers of silk in pearly whites and bamboo greens.
A-Yuan shifted, then stilled when Shen Qingqiu’s hand remained at his side, thumb resting just above the hipbone.
“The sash is crooked,” Shen Qingqiu clicked his tongue, stepping closer under the pretense of correction. His fingers traced the length of the fabric, tightening it with precise care before he stepped back.
From top to bottom, A-Yuan wore his colours—his clothes. Even the usual abhorrent scent of pine lay muted beneath Shen Qingqiu’s sandalwood and bamboo, woven deeply into the fabric.
Satisfied, Shen Qingqiu placed a guiding hand at the small of Shen Yuan’s back and led him to the chair to manage his hair. With near-clinical efficiency, he gathered the dark cascade into a half-up style, securing it with a silver pin.
Now fully awake, Shen Yuan studied his reflection, surprise flickering across his face.
Their gazes met in the mirror.
“Thank you, Jiu-ge.”
Meals arrived twice a day, delivered by Shen Qingqiu’s head disciple.
Shen Qingqiu always took the trays himself, timing it so A-Yuan never encountered unfamiliar faces. He joined his didi only once they were alone.
A-Yuan sat opposite him as Shen Qingqiu prepared the medicinal tea, watching Shen Yuan eat with a faint, thoughtful frown.
“Is something wrong with the food?” Shen Qingqiu asked calmly, setting the kettle down to steep.
A-Yuan hesitated, searching his face before answering. “It’s just… a little bland.”
Shen Qingqiu regarded him for a moment.
“As soon as A-Yuan’s condition improves, I’ll see about adding more flavor.”
Shen Yuan blinked, clearly surprised by the easy concession, before his eyes crinkled into a smile. “I can’t wait.”
“I’m looking forward to your recovery as well,” Shen Qingqiu replied, mouth curling slightly.
Spices will certainly help mask the taste, he thought idly, already considering the most convenient moment for the next step of the plan.
“Thanks, Jiu-ge.”
Late afternoons were Shen Qingqiu’s favorite.
At first, A-Yuan had been difficult. A misplaced sense of bodily self-consciousness made him reluctant to undress with Shen Qingqiu in the same room.
That, however, proved easy enough to rectify.
Now, when they entered the bathing room, A-Yuan was already unclasping his sash, hurriedly shrugging off the first layer as though eager to be done with it.
That wouldn’t do.
Shen Qingqiu moved closer, halting the motion with a light touch. Shen Yuan froze mid-movement, gaze dropping to the floor as he waited—quietly—for judgment.
“You’re wrinkling your clothes, A-Yuan,” Shen Qingqiu said, mildly chiding. “If you needed help, you only had to ask.”
He didn’t wait for the flustered rebuttal. Instead, he took over, removing the layers one by one, each carefully folded and hung over the changing screen, until his disciple stood in nothing but a thin, pearl-white inner robe.
A-Yuan crossed his arms over his chest, shoulders curling inward.
Shen Qingqiu sighed, the sound heavy with exaggerated patience.
“Give me the robe, A-Yuan,” he said. “You’ve got nothing I haven’t seen before.”
“Maybe,” Shen Yuan muttered, stubbornness tightening his mouth, “but we’re adults now. It’s… weird.”
Two steps forward, one step back.
“Where did these sudden prudish sensibilities come from?” Shen Qingqiu asked, tone edged with genuine puzzlement, as though the thought truly troubled him.
Shen Yuan swallowed, uncertainty flickered across his face as he took a moment to try to find a way to refuse before he yielded. He took off the last piece of fabric with hands trembling only a little, as he passed it into Shen Qingqiu’s grasp.
The man turned his attention to the bath, testing the water temperature and granting him a brief reprieve.
“Come, A-Yuan,” he said at last, extending an arm, palm up.
After a moment’s hesitation, Shen Yuan took the offered support, and stepped into the tub, a quiet, involuntary sound of contentment escaping him as the warm water closed around his legs.
Shen Qingqiu followed, rolling up his sleeves with unhurried precision. He knelt beside the tub, fingers testing the water once more before gathering a ladle.
“Lean back,” he instructed.
A-Yuan obeyed, resting his forearms along the tub’s edge. His hair spilled down his back, dark strands already dampening at the ends. Shen Qingqiu poured the first ladle slowly, letting the water soak through rather than shock.
The younger man’s shoulders loosened.
Shen Qingqiu worked methodically, fingers combing through silk-dark hair, separating strands, ensuring the water reached the roots. He was careful not to pull. When he applied the cleansing paste, he did so with practiced efficiency, thumbs pressing into the scalp in small, deliberate circles.
A-Yuan inhaled sharply—then exhaled, tension draining with each pass.
“You’re doing well,” Shen Qingqiu murmured, voice pitched low. “Just relax.”
His fingers lingered at the exposed nape, tracing the base of the skull. He rinsed slowly, letting the water run down the curve of A-Yuan’s neck, following the line of his spine.
Next came the warmed fermented rice water. Shen Qingqiu poured it carefully, letting it flow through the damp strands. Under the guise of gathering a stray lock, his knuckles brushed bare skin—collarbones, smooth and too easily reached.
He felt the subtle shift immediately: the faint stilling, the way A-Yuan held himself, waiting.
Enough.
Shen Qingqiu stepped back.
“I trust you can finish the rest yourself,” he said lightly, already turning away as he set the empty bowl onto the shelf.
He did not look back.
The relieved sigh that followed from behind the closing door tugged unpleasantly at his chest.
Soon.