Chapter Text
Liu Qingge doesn’t exactly know what it is he’s found. It doesn’t seem dangerous at all, and he feels no demonic qi.
The plant’s base is like any other, he supposes. It’s green with some broad leaves, a sturdy stalk. Completely unremarkable. But the flower is something much different. It’s pleasing to the eye— the petals bloom in a geometric spiral, perfectly coiling inwards. It’s a geometric marvel of nature, triangular petals arranging themselves in a precise circle. The tips of the petals form intersecting lines and shapes. There must be hundreds of petals on the bloom, but it still stands upright, proudly lifting its head. The coloration is beautiful— crisp white stark against dark green. There’s something about it that he can’t quite place his finger on.
Normally, Liu Qingge would not stop and stare at flowers, of all things. He is a busy man— the Bai Zhan War God. He must always be ready to fight, to defeat the newest terror and raze battlefields with his might. There’s never time to waste on such frivolous things (Shen Qingqiu’s amused voice echoes in his mind— shidi should take his time and smell the roses).
But there’s something about this flower that draws him in, entrancing like a siren’s call.
It’s ridiculous. It is a flower. Still, he finds himself crouching in front of it, carefully brushing a finger against its pale petals. As soon as he does, he pulls away and curses at himself. It is a fool’s actions to touch unknown plants, especially with the amount of aphrodisiacs that exist within the realms. The amount of times he had been sent to Qian Cao as a disciple and… overheard the results of aphrodisiac poisonings really should have been enough to stop him from doing something that would land him in that position too. He tenses and waits for any symptoms to roll in— gradual or fast, either way, he needs to be ready.
Thankfully, he doesn’t feel a tell-tale heat rise in his body, or a cloud of irrationality that blurs his thoughts.
Rather, the white petals glow, a soft illumination.
He relaxes, tension bleeding from his shoulders. There’s no reason to do so, but Liu Qingge carefully uproots it. The roots are thin, strands of silk embedded into dark earth. He rummages deep into his qiankun pouch before finding the pot shoved deep into the space. He unceremoniously dumps out the healing herbs that Mu Qingfang insisted that he carry from the pot— not like he needed them anyways, he thinks. Instead, he packs in some of the soft soil from the ground, still damp from the rain. He adds the flower to the pot, making sure it’s stable in its new home.
The flower still glows, even as he carefully lowers it into his qiankun pouch.
“For you.”
Liu Qingge unceremoniously thrusts the flower, pot and all, out and into Shen Qingqiu’s face. It’s an odd specimen— probably one that he’s wanted to study, knowing the other. His knowledge of different flora and fauna is truly impressive— and helpful in avoiding certain types. The well-worn bestiaries and botanical studies on Shen Qingqiu’s shelves are in constant use. Plus, Shen Qingqiu’s current project, an in-depth guide on the natural world, would benefit from having another entry. There’s no doubt that if there were to be anyone who would be able to identify the plant, it would be the scholarly Qing Jing Peak Lord.
The flower has changed since he uprooted it, but it doesn’t bother him too much. Plants are usually rather delicate, and the change in climate may have shocked it into changing. Rather than the pure white it once was, the edges of the petals blush with a lavender coloring. Perhaps it is a trick of the light, but the petals still seem to glow, light radiating from the core.
Shen Qingqiu lets out a small gasp and flushes deeply at the unexpected gift. The bright red stains his cheeks, unfairly lovely. He greedily drinks in the sight— if Shen Qingqiu had this kind of reaction to flowers, then he’d uproot a whole meadow and bring it to him.
“Shidi— for me? You… Truly?”
Shen Qingqiu looks intensely at him, as if he’s searching for an answer to a long-awaited question. Liu Qingge doesn’t know what exactly he’s looking for— but when has he ever known? Shen Qingqiu has always been one thought ahead of him and even now, he puzzles over the Qing Jing Peak Lord’s odd words.
“Who else would it be for?”
Really, his best guess is that Shen Qingqiu wanted to confirm the flower was for him. Odd though– after all, didn’t he present it to Shen Qingqiu, and only Shen Qingqiu? It’s not like he goes around and gives flowers to all of his martial siblings anyways (it’s only Shen Qingqiu that he indulges like this, and if the man knows it, then neither of them ever acknowledge it).
“I see.”
Liu Qingge looks up in time to catch a dazzling smile on that handsome face— his eyes sparkle, and Liu Qingge’s breath is punched out of him. Shen Qingqiu’s hands brush against his as he gently takes the pot, and Liu Qingge tries not to jerk back in surprise. They linger for longer than necessary— or is it his imagination? Either way, it feels like time slows to a grinding halt in that moment. Shen Qingqiu cradles the pot in his arms, almost reverent.
“It’s beautiful, shidi. If you had said earlier… Of course, I accept.”
Shen Qingqiu tenderly caresses the flower’s petals, his touch soft. His fingers, fleeting in their touch, ghost over the bloom. The movement is enthralling and Liu Qingge freezes for just a split second.
Shen Qingqiu carefully sets the pot on his low table— a place of pride, he notes with satisfaction. The flower seems to glow, like a dimmed night pearl. But he doesn’t particularly care, not when Shen Qingqiu stands in front of him with that look— soft, soft, soft, he notes in a daze. It’s a flower, and nothing more. But Shen Qingqiu looks at him like he’s brought the greatest gift of all.
Shen Qingqiu clasps his hand in his, a thumb gently stroking the roughened skin.
“Won’t you stay? I’ll make it worth your time.”
Any time spent with Shen Qingqiu is worth it, he thinks. He agrees without a second thought.
Shen Qingqiu returns with a tray of tea, still steaming. Liu Qingge’s eyes narrow, because it’s not the normal tea set— pale green, simple and unadorned— that he usually serves tea in. Cranes wrap around the cups and teapot, set against the dark blue of the glaze. He doesn’t know why exactly Shen Qingqiu has brought out what is clearly an expensive tea set to serve him, of all people. Still, his heart beats just a bit faster in his chest.
There’s some meaning to it, he’s sure. Shen Qingqiu has always hidden meanings behind the gentle tilt of his head, the movement of his fan. Every move has always been carefully calculated. He’s the peak strategist for a reason— his attention to detail and tendency to show countless layers of meaning using simple means have always left him dizzy.
He blinks as Shen Qingqiu sets the tray down, because there’s new additions to the tray. Shen Qingqiu is a generous host— he pours cup after cup of tea like water and sets thoughtful and delicate snacks aside, but never this.
There’s a small bowl, a paring knife. But the strangest addition is a punnet of strawberries, freshly washed and glistening.
Shen Qingqiu doesn’t bring it up. Liu Qingge’s learned, over time, that the best way to get an answer out of the puzzling man is to just wait. Shen Qingqiu pours their tea (black tea, today) leisurely, graceful. As they wait for the tea to cool slightly, Shen Qingqiu picks up the paring knife. One hand dips into the punnet of strawberries and gently extracts one. It’s red and ripe, the contrast of pale skin against rich red enticing. Liu Qingge’s eyes follow, tracking each movement like he’s on a night hunt, anticipation tracing down his spine.
Shen Qingqiu’s hands have always been steady, precise and careful. It reflects in his guqin playing, his steady calligraphy and detailed paintings. He sees it now too, as Shen Qingqiu expertly slices the stem of the strawberry off. He pushes the knife through the flesh of the fruit, one smooth stroke that perfectly halves it in two.
Shen Qingqiu gives him a dizzying smile, and he struggles to remember how to breathe. He pops one half of the strawberry in his mouth, and hums happily. Liu Qingge doesn’t mean to stare— but the smooth pink of his tongue, the flash of white closing over that perfect slice of ruby red fruit is too much. His shameless thoughts flush his ears with heat. But Shen Qingqiu says nothing of it, and instead he holds out the other half. An offering.
His desire threatens to swallow his rationality whole, but he just barely holds strong. The shameless part of his mind wants to lean over and lick Shen Qingqiu’s hands clean of sticky juice. He refrains and gently takes the other half of the strawberry, its juice running down their hands.
It’s sweet.
Shen Qingqiu hums in satisfaction (his cheeks are red like the fruit he’s just sliced, when did that happen?), and turns his attention back to the punnet of strawberries. He picks up another strawberry, and carefully slices it. One by one, half by half, they eat each one.
Liu Qingge leaves Qing Jing that evening, fingers and lips stained red. The taste of strawberry lingers on his tongue. His thoughts are dazed with the intimacy of the evening, the low rumble and hum of desire still coursing through his veins. Shen Qingqiu bids him goodbye, but not without an odd statement—
Let’s make up for lost time.
Now that Liu Qingge reflects, ever since he brought that mysterious flower, Shen Qingqiu’s changed.
Not in the way that his qi deviation did, thank the heavens. He doesn’t know what he would do if Shen Qingqiu (kind, gentle, unbearingly sweet and just plain attractive) returned to that venomous and harsh man he was before. This time, the change brings a new kind of tension to the air— not unwelcome though. There’s the smallest hint of anticipation, like a cat eagerly awaiting the next move of a swinging ribbon. He doesn’t know why it’s there (what about that flower had brought about this change?) but to Shen Qingqiu’s credit, he hides it very well.
With perfect timing, Shen Qingqiu brings out a plate of mandarins.
It’s become a new addition to their routine now. It’s wholly unnecessary for Shen Qingqiu to even entertain Liu Qingge this often (once a week became twice, then three, and now he visits Qing Jing as often as he can while still maintaining propriety), and yet he does with a smile. He gamely talks about his day, and Liu Qingge offers his stories too. Despite his bland and uninteresting stories, hampered by his short and undescriptive sentences, Shen Qingqiu still pays rapt attention to him.
They still converse over tea, yes, but Shen Qingqiu has taken to also procuring fruit for his visits.
All of the fruits are sweet, ripe and juicy. They taste as if they’re fresh off of the tree, like Shen Qingqiu had personally picked them off the branch and come straight to Cang Qiong to share them with him. Of course, he knows that’s not true. Still, it doesn’t stop Liu Qingge from eating them.
Shen Qingqiu holds a wedge of mandarin out to him.
“Here, shidi.” Gratefully, Liu Qingge accepts. When he bites it, the juice of the fruit spreads on his tongue, tangy and sharp in all of the best ways. There’s the edge of sweetness that just barely lingers on his tongue, addictive.
It’s a welcome addition, but there’s just some things that puzzle him about this new arrangement. Rather than simply handing the fruit to him, Shen Qingqiu takes it upon himself to prepare it for the both of them. Perhaps it’s because the fruit is better when freshly prepared, but it still doesn’t explain his biggest question.
Shen Qingqiu takes a wedge from the same mandarin and pops it into his mouth.
Perhaps it is something that signifies Shen Qingqiu’s respect for him as an always-welcome guest, or maybe Shen Qingqiu is trying to make up for lost time as he had mentioned, but Shen Qingqiu always evenly splits the same fruit between the two of them. Liu Qingge tries not to feel too affected by it— Shen Qingqiu respects him, likes him as a friend, appreciates his presence and relies on him as a shidi— but he can’t stop the way that his heart erratically beats when Shen Qingqiu offers those perfect fruit pieces to him and then eats from the same fruit himself. It doesn’t matter what the fruit is. Cherries and plums, oranges and apples. No matter what, it’s always some for him, and some for Shen Qingqiu.
And the second part to this routine— sporadic and not always present— is something of Liu Qingge’s own doing.
“Thank you.” Liu Qingge opens his qiankun pouch. “This is for you.”
He hands over a new fan to Shen Qingqiu. He’s given Shen Qingqiu many fans by now, in all kinds of colors and woods. This time, there’s no design on the leaf itself— it’s a simple, but elegant dark green. The dark ebony ribs of the fan are simply carved too. Rather, it’s the guards of the fan that made him think of Shen Qingqiu. It’s the first time he’s seen such a design; down the guards run elegant carvings of guqins. It’s a simple design, but it reminded him so strongly of Shen Qingqiu that he had bought it without a second thought, pocketing it and securing it in his belt.
(And that’s new too; for a reason he doesn’t dare to say aloud, he had taken the time one night to messily hand-sew a fan holder into his belt).
Shen Qingqiu does not need new fans. His collection is extensive, carefully displayed in a place of pride in his bamboo home. He tends towards the same themes— plants and cranes, sloping mountain peaks and sprawling landscapes. They range from expensive commissions to cheap fans sold on the street. They are all displayed equally, and Shen Qingqiu rotates between them so they all get used as his carried fan at some point.
Despite this, he always receives the fans that Liu Qingge buys with a smile.
“It’s beautiful.” Shen Qingqiu smiles as he runs his fingers over the carvings. With one last longing look, Shen Qingqiu carefully tucks it away. And if Liu Qingge knows Shen Qingqiu, then his daily fan will be swapped out for this one, soon to be lost somewhere on Qing Jing Peak or left behind in a sect meeting. It’s never intentional, but it makes Liu Qingge’s heart beat in anticipation. A lost fan is a reason to come to Qing Jing and coming to Qing Jing means an opportunity to spend extra time with Shen Qingqiu.
More time to spend time with the man who has unknowingly caught his heart.
“Shidi, come here. I’d like to show you something.”
Without waiting for him, Shen Qingqiu begins to walk deeper into his house. It’s a little rude, but Liu Qingge’s never cared for politeness anyways. He follows Shen Qingqiu and they step into the man’s study. The desk is covered in papers, the bookshelves filled to the brim— as expected from the scholar. Shen Qingqiu’s dedication to his work means that he spends a majority of his time in the study, and it shows. There’s a pot of half-drunk tea, floor cushions everywhere. It looks messy and chaotic, but that’s not important. What’s important is that Shen Qingqiu leads him to his beloved fan display case. Despite the sheer number of fans inside, there’s one eye-level shelf that seems bare compared to the others (of course, it’s not actually bare. But the other shelves are crammed to the brim with fans, close to bursting).
“Look here.” Shen Qingqiu urges him to look closer, tapping at the glass. And upon a closer inspection, Liu Qingge realizes with a jolt that all of the fans displayed on the seemingly-bare shelf are gifts from him. Plum blossoms and rabbits, tigers and lakes. Shen Qingqiu carefully opens the glass doors, gently opening his newest gift and placing it among the others. After a beat of silence, Shen Qingqiu closes the doors as well, the gentle clack loud in the silence. He turns to Liu Qingge, eyes shining in the light of the night pearl. His cheeks are painted with a splash of red. “Shidi’s gifts are always appreciated.”
“Mn,” he grunts. There’s a pin prick of pride that shoots through his chest. Shen Qingqiu has always taken his gifts gratefully, but to display them there— his face warms, because Shen Qingqiu takes pride in his collection and has made the conscious choice to place his gifts where it would be the first thing he’d see— is something else. “I will bring you more.”
As soon as his overly eager words drop out of his mouth, he nearly winces. It’s a ridiculous promise. Shen Qingqiu has enough fans to stock a stall. His fondness for them has not gone unnoticed— from hopeful suitors to starry-eyed disciples, he constantly receives them as gifts. Why promise to bring another fan? And yet, Shen Qingqiu flushes deeper at the promise and Liu Qingge’s heart stutters at the look on his face.
“I look forward to it, then.”
The words would feel flat and disingenuous from anyone else, but somehow, it sounds like nothing but genuine sincerity and anticipation from Shen Qingqiu.