Chapter Text
࿐ ࿔* :･ﾟ
“Qingxuan.”
He hears the voice as if it's underwater, and even if he has not heard it in so many years, not since that day, Qingxuan knows who it belongs to, he recognizes the tone, recognizes the urgency.
His eyes won't obey him when he tries to open them to look into what he knows will be a pair of deep black and gold orbs.
He tries to move his hand, to open his mouth, also to no avail.
There is lead weighing him down, a thick veil of molasses molding around his body where there should be air.
Qingxuan realizes he has not breathed in a long while, and he panics a bit, but only internally since he can't seem able to even react enough to gasp.
“Shh.”
A cold hand touches him and it stays there, tendrils of cool spiritual energy reaching for him until Qingxuan calms down. But there is no need for him to be comforted.
He has no heartbeat.
Nothing inside his chest slows or rises in tempo, no air fills his lungs. He would be rattling if he could, and his mind races with the residual feeling of the past weeks, wanting to cough and spur. But his body remains as still as it is. Cold.
Dead.
“Qingxuan...” The voice rings clearer, closer, perhaps.
It's all the same to Qingxuan, he can't do anything to respond to it right now.
“You are safe. Rest.”
࿐ ࿔* :･ﾟ
He Xuan waits.
He was ready for a vigil of 800 years or more, but as it happens with humans, his waiting takes less than two decades.
He follows Qingxuan whenever he can, shrouded by darkness, concealed in the shadows like an eel lurking inside its cave, waiting for its prey to enter its domain unknowingly. But unlike the eel, He Xuan never attacks. He simply awaits in silence, watchful and invisible, like the ghost that he is.
He awaits because he knows it will happen eventually, and his patience is rewarded by him being present when it does.
The whizzing started during the mild but long winter that took many humans. Qingxuan had braved through it well enough until the night the temperature dropped abruptly, making the snow stick to the ground permanently for days on end.
It started as a simple cold.
Before spring had its chance to shine on his face, it got worse. The wheezing turned into a cough, and the cough became a full body weakness, rattling his frame with every breath Qingxuan tried to take. It was quick work from there.
He Xuan could hear the liquid building inside lungs and the gurgling of sick blood, so he waited. Not three days later, he smelled the change.
Approaching death has a very distinct scent, cloyingly sweet and rotten, like spoiled almond oil and sweet wine spilled over a moist, fallen tree, ideal only for growing fungus and housing insects.
Within the next day, Qingxuan passed.
It was uncomfortable to watch his frail body giving up and hear his last ragged breath being drawn as he laid in the dirty alley, unmoving and frostbitten. Alone. Well, almost alone…
When He Xuan felt the right precise moment arise he stepped from the shadows, and calling for him, took him away. He also picked that empty shell and rose with it, its weight being even less than what he expected.
“Shh.”
The little wisp tried to run free for a moment, but He Xuan cradled it in his palm, pushing the little thing back inside the body in his arms, sensing its confusion. “Qingxuan…” He then put more power behind his command, and soon felt the little wisp settle.
“You are safe. Rest.”
It wanted to move, compelled to go on, but He Xuan would not allow it.
Instead, he brought it home.
Once inside the room he prepared, He Xuan softly placed the little wisp in an adorned silver urn, sealing it with spiritual power, and started to tend for the body.
It would have no other purpose but to burn and become his ashes, so that once Qingxuan was strong enough he would be able to decide what to do with those, but for now, it would also remain under He Xuan's care.
The body was malnourished and bruised, pale and so filthy under the frayed robes, He Xuan felt only sorry for him, not the disgust he had anticipated.
Slowly, he undressed it and started to scrub it, inch by inch, meticulously cleaning it to perfection. He drained the murky sludge from the sponge, and applied clean spring water next. He shaved the sparse hair on its face, then cleaned inside ears and under dirty bitten nails, inside its blood stained mouth and around closed eyes. He brushed the hair with fragrant rose oil and embalmed the body in jasmine oil, then he dressed it in ceremonial robes, adorning the now brushed hair in the waves and little braids he remembered him wearing.
He never had the opportunity to do that for the family he lost, so as he cared over Qingxuan, He Xuan allowed himself to grieve for them too.
At one point the servants came to deliver him the flowers and the coffin.
He gently laid Qingxuan’s body inside the wood enclosure, arranged the flowers around him and, giving one last look to a sunken cheek, closed the lid.
Outside, the pyre burned high, and He Xuan stood by its side for hours with the urn secure in his hands, unblinking and unmoving until all the embers had gone cold.
Only once all the ashes were safely stored inside the urn, did he look at the floating wisp.
Qingxuan glowed on the sunset with a pale blue light, not allowed to roam away by He Xuan's influence. In this form it had no power and very little will, so no more than a look was enough to contain it.
He Xuan walked inside his room, carrying the urn, the little spirit floating around his shoulders silently.
“You will stay here, for now. Tomorrow we begin, but you must rest, and I must strengthen.” He told Qingxuan, putting him down on his bedside table by the urn, sealing the room as he left, and as it always happened when he turned his back to him, felt part of himself being left behind, never whole, never full.
That night he gorged, hunting in the deep waters for ghouls, then devouring everything the servants brought him, but it was not enough. For him, it was never enough.
Crimson Rain walks in just after sunrise.
“Dianxia asked me to come.”
He Xuan looks over his table, more animal than man. He would feel ashamed to have anyone outside his halls seeing him like this, but Hua Cheng was the only person who could understand him if he ever so wished for such things.
“He is resting.”
“I see. And what will you do once he is fully rested?” Hua Cheng asks, lips tugging up at his own little joke.
“He will stay.”
“Gege will want to know how he is doing, they are friends, afterall.”
“He is mine.”
Power cracks loudly under He Xuan’s skin, teeth baring under his rolling lips and hair moving as if submerged. Hua Cheng smirks at the display, unimpressed. He has seen it before, this and much more. Much worse.
“Gege will visit.”
The threat is there, under his suddenly bright red eye, around his black aura slipping around him like a black fog. He Xuan knows him well enough to recognize the danger the older king keeps contained inside his fair form. And he knows he can't say no to the both of them.
Passing a hand through his hair, he pushes it back and tries to relax, feeling scales dissolving under his skin. “He must recover afterwards. It will be rough.” Then, seeing that Hua Cheng will not back down if he ever feels his God would like him not to, adds, “I will send word once he is ready.”
“Fine. Don't take too long, though. If His Highness decides to come-”
“You won't stop him. I know.”
Hua Cheng sighs, and his shoulders drop minimally, no longer posturing. He looks gloomy, almost sympathetic.
“Call if you need help.” Hua Cheng drops a single red dice on the table, nods once more, and turns to leave. When he is at the door he pauses, and without turning back, informs, “And I'm sending you my cook.”
It’s mid-morning when He Xuan enters the room, takes Qingxuan’s little spirit from the nightstand and sits cross legged in bed with him floating idly on his lap. He then closes his eyes, and with enough spiritual energy running through his fingers to raise the tides to the Heavens, He Xuan commands, “Stay.”
࿐ ࿔* :･ﾟ
Qingxuan feels like he is being torn apart.
Pressure compacts him, pushing until he is too much, too tight, too inside and around himself. The memories flooding his system don’t help him either, and he can’t remember ever being this afraid.
It’s like someone took all his fears and choked them down his metaphorical throat. It tastes like ash and blood and anger, and he hears echoes of his childhood, glimpses of his cries for help, his nightmares… Qingxuan hears that laughter, dark and twisted, haunting him. Then hears more recent screams, sees the flow of blood he will never forget, splashes hitting his face, burning him as cold -as much cold as he felt before dying- invades him.
Every ounce of pain he ever felt is injected in him all at once, and there is nothing he can do to stop it, to prevent it. More pain engulfs him, pains he can’t recognize, anger and wrath never his. Voices echo inside his mind, words he never heard before. He is lost in their cries, in the strong wail that threatens to tear him apart.
Then comes the heat, so much heat, expanding and pulsating from the depths of his soul, to burn it all, to consume him. He feels stretched thin, too much and too little at the same time, and it’s only when he hears a soft whisper coming from above that he realizes the horrible howling he hears around it all comes from inside himself.
“It’s okay, you are okay. I’m here with you. It’s okay.”
He concentrates on that, tries to focus on the voice, and it helps, marginally. It takes time, Qingxuan could not tell you how long, but things slowly fade out to a bearable point.
Pain slowly becomes just a small tingling, and like a limb that suffers from cramps, Qingxuan tries to shake it off.
He can’t move, not much, not with how coiled he is. He finds that he can almost open his eyes, even if he can’t see anything but a black blur between his lashes.
But that means he has eyes, and therefore, he must have a head and hopefully a body, so he tries to take stock of that.
Fingers and toes twitch, his nose scrunches against fabric, but with the conception of self, comes the fear. He is not breathing, his chest just stays still through it all. He trembles, and feels a soft hand running up and down his back. Somehow it makes him feel less than he was before.
“Shh.”
He knows the voice, has heard it screaming inside himself like an echo of fury and hatred slashing away at him for an eternity. He recoils even more, afraid of what might happen.
“You are safe, I won’t hurt you, calm down.”
Cooling energy reaches deep inside him, and where there was only burning pain, he feels fresh water spreading, balmy and healing. It does nothing to ease his panic of not breathing, but for now he just lets himself be surrounded by the soothing feeling, taking what he can if it will help things to just stop.
“That’s it, good, Qingxuan. Now rest.”
He doesn’t have a choice, he quickly learns, when the voice pulls him under. He sleeps.
It’s all blank and quiet until he wakes up sometime later. He can’t tell if time passed at all, but he feels more himself by now.
He tries opening his eyes again, and is met with blurry and shapeless forms. He moves, and this time his limbs obey him a little better, one hand coming up closer to his face, first for his eyes to try and see, then for touching his face when his vision fails. What skin he touches feels weird, almost too soft, and he quickly removes his hand from it. Someone catches it before he recoils again, and he feels how much bigger the person that is still holding him is.
Qingxuan slowly realizes that he is on his side, leaning against an immovable chest, vacant of heartbeat. But he feels warm. The hand that caught him puts his small member against said chest and covers it, and it’s when Qingxuan feels another hand squeezing softly against his ankle that he realizes he is being held down like a child in someone’s arms, cradled and safe.
“Wh-why?”
His crook is so low and raspy he can only hope the person hears him, and it becomes obvious he did, as a soft “Rest now, Qingxuan,” is all the answer he gets before a flood of spiritual energy knocks him out again.
This process repeats itself many times, Qingxuan will never know how many, but it takes him a full day before he wakes up and is finally able to see.
At first he believes his vision is actually worse than it was the last time he emerged, but slowly his eyes focus on shapes and he realizes the darkness he sees is just a general lack of light. It’s night.
Immediately before him is his hand, held securely inside another much larger one. Both are deadly pale and equally tepid.
By his cheek, soft silk touches his face, and trying very hard, Qingxuan can see the silver patterns that adorn the black fabric, thread and stitches forming a bigger picture he can’t really understand from this close.
Qingxuan knows he is dead, knows who that other hand belongs to, but everything is still too jarring.
He tries to breathe, and regrets it as soon as he does.
When cold air flows into his weak lungs, he shatters, a strong cough breaking free of him, and he gulps for more air just to feel it whooshing inside his chest cavity as if he is void.
“Easy, easy, there is no need.”
His head spins, if from lack or excess of oxygen, Qingxuan can’t tell, but it hurts, his eyes scrunch shut and the action forces his senses to focus even more on the rattling. He coughs and splurs, feels his eyes filling with the burn of salty tears, desperation and fear consuming him.
“Shh, shh, calm down.”
He is sat up, strong hands frame his face and when dry lips touch his softly, jolting Qingxuan still.
Air flows into his lungs, then is sucked out. In. Out. Breathing for him.
Qingxuan is crying freely, fat tears scorching a patch down his face, but the hands pay them no mind. He Xuan just breathes for him, slowly and steadily, until he can do it by himself.
When the mouth leaves his, Qingxuan opens his eyes, finally focusing on the face in front of him.
In the dark, He Xuan eyes glow golden, his inky hair flowing freely down his back, eyebrows knitted in worry. Qingxuan takes a deep breath by himself and shivers when a hand caresses his face gently.
“There is no need for breathing, but you might keep doing it if it feels better. You can make your heart beat too, but both will stop if you don’t concentrate on it.”
Qingxuan recoils at that, so He Xuan takes one of his hands, too small, and puts it against his chest. For a while there is no movement, then Qingxuan feels a heartbeat where before nothing made a single sound. He clings to the silk as fresh tears run anew.
“I- I’m a ghost.” His voice is stronger this time, and he sees something that looks like sorrow in He Xuan's expression.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You should rest.”
“Why am I so small?”
He Xuan reclines back and Qingxuan realizes they are in a huge bed, fur and silks all around them. He Xuan lays back down and pulls Qingxuan back to his chest and covers his back with a thick fur blanket, strong arms circling him as spiritual energy flows from the ghost king to him, calming.
“You came as a child. I think you must be around ten...”
So around the time the Reverend of Empty Words first came to terrorize him after his parents died. No wonder he could hear its laughter echoing in his soul.
“You are safe, fully coming back takes time… you should rest.”
Qingxuan closes his eyes, so afraid and touch starved he will take whatever gentleness he can get.
“He-xiong.”
The hands around him squeeze him as more spiritual energy floods him, forcing Qingxuan sleepy and relaxed.
“He… xion-”
When he wakes again he perceives himself more completely.
He takes a cautious breath and it does nothing but move his chest up and down, no cough, no panic. When he opens his eyes, not a dark blurriness meets him, but candle light.
Qingxuan sits himself up, and takes stock of his short limbs and dark silk robes. His hair falls around his face, clean and smooth, and when he stretches his limbs, nothing aches like they used to.
He is no longer propped against He Xuan like he was before, but he can feel his presence nearby. A tingle, near where his golden core once sat, makes him turn his face, meeting obsidian eyes watching him as he tries his body out.
He Xuan sits by a long desk, books and scrolls covering the whole surface. There is a black ink stain right on the middle of his lips, where he licked the brush to sharpen its bristles. It’s something Qingxuan saw him do many times, in a different body, in a different lifetime, and it hurts. He shouldn't be here to see He Xuan like this ever again.
“Why?”
“Qingxuan… you should rest.”
Qingxuan feels anger, pain and sorrow fill him.
“Why???”
He Xuan is calm when he answers, once again with the vague, “You should rest.”
“WHY?”
Energy cracks under Qingxuan’s skin, burns the tip of his fingers, tasting like rotten fish in his mouth. There is a void being filled with his emotions, and Qingxuan drowns in nothing but ire, nothing but wrath.
This is not who Qingxuan is, not how he lived, but it doesn't matter anymore, he is dead, and somehow he is still here. Dark resentment floods his senses, pouring out of his screaming mouth. His nails tear the fur under his hands, and his vision fades away.
He Xuan is by his back in a second, impossibly close, impossibly fast, and holds him through it, whispering reassurances even when Qingxuan’s furious energy trashes the room to pieces. The walls shake, the bed frame creaks under the assault, the air around him smells like burned tar and ozone and Qingxuan gags at the taste of putrid sea water invading his mouth. It goes on and on, everything he feels is spilling from him, ravaging his surroundings and the body that holds him close, that holds him safe inside the whirlwind.
When he finally falls limp on steady arms, there is only destruction around them, and he feels warm liquid spilling down his temple.
Qingxuan feels empty. He no longer breathes, cries or is.
There is no heartbeat inside his chest, and there is nothing left anywhere else, just a small fraction of the inside of the whole he used to be.
When he speaks, his voice is distant, detached. “Why? Why did you do this to me? Was it not enough? Have I not suffered enough for you?”
He Xuan doesn’t answer him, only holds him close with his cheek laid against the top of Qingxuan’s head, blood dripping from his mouth as he whispers against his hair words Qingxuan can’t comprehend.
“Damn you, He Xuan! Why are you torturing me like this? I never even resented you for taking your vengeance! You killed my brother in front of me, took my powers and my divinity away… you… ” Qingxuan remembers numbness closing in on him as he looked over the darkness of the alley, remembers seeing the familiar shape it took, walking towards him as life rippled away from him, “...you watched me die.”
Another soft whisper against his head, “I did.”
“Then why, He Xuan? You said you never wanted to see me again, and now you hold me in your arms and you… you made me stay!”
He gets no answer this time, just the soothing flood of spiritual energy numbing him.
Qingxuan struggles to keep his conscience, but it’s all too much for him, he can’t fight the drop of his eyes or the way his body settles down under He Xuan’s influence.
But before the cover of sleep can take him completely, he hears it, softly spoken but wretched like a punch to the stomach.
“I’m sorry.”
Over the course of the week, Qingxuan surrenders. He does nothing more than lay in bed, open eyed and not moving, not reacting, having simply given up.
He Xuan keeps guard over him, never letting his eyes wander away for long, and sees Qingxuan gain form. The small boy grows steadily, if much slower than expected, and by now he should be tall enough for his head to brush He Xuan’s chest, but he still looks like an older child, and still he lays.
He refuses to eat, sleeps only when induced, and he never opens his mouth to speak. He breathes, apparently needing the comfort the movement brings, and sometime over the last few days has learned how to make his heart beat.
He Xuan heard the first empty thump, so shy and afraid, then the next, and the next, gaining speed until he had to hold Qingxuan in his arms once more and pass him so much spiritual energy to calm down his impossibly fast racing heart, He Xuan actually felt dizzy after. He never heard it again.
Qingxuan consumes him, and like a drain, he takes and takes and takes, accepting everything He Xuan can afford to give, even when He Xuan feels himself empty, because he is also recovering from bringing Qingxuan back.
A ghost is only a ghost if they have something tying them to life. Resentment, love… something strong enough to keep them here, to bind them to reality.
Qingxuan had none. He died, sick, poor and alone, hurt beyond his limits, but he never held He Xuan guilty for his end. Love could not hold him back either, since he had no one he felt that strongly for.
To keep him, He Xuan used his own resentment, his own fury, tethering Qingxuan's existence as a ghost to his own. Binding them together for all eternity and drowning the man in his own deep waters.
By week two, he calls for Hua Cheng.
Crimson Rain comes, but not alone. He Xuan expected it, and in truth he is grateful for His Highness' presence.
As soon as they reach his lair, Xie Lian’s voice rings in his head, tranquil, reassuring.
“San Lang told me you are having difficulties with making him react.”
“Yes, it’s not necessary that he does anything, but I think it would speed his recovery.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Please, leave him in my care for today, Lord He Xuan. And go care for yourself too in the meantime.”
He is sitting in his bed, hand combing through Qingxuan’s now floor length hair, the only part of him that seems hellbend on growing. “His Highness is coming to see you.”
Qingxuan turns his head away from him, eyes closed for once. He stays limp in bed, and when a soft knock comes from the door, there is nothing more to be done than to answer it.
Hua Cheng stands with his arms crossed, face neutral. Xie Lian looks calm, but He Xuan can feel his barely contained energy, and steps aside, allowing them entrance.
Qingxuan’s back is to the door, and Xie Lian calls him, not waiting for an answer as he moves around the bed, crouching on the floor and promptly receiving a wailing Qingxuan in his arms, holding the ghost tightly as he cries.
He Xuan makes to move, what for he is not really sure, but a strong hand on his biceps holds him back.
“Come, outside.”
He hesitates, watching as Qingxuan claws at the God’s robes, his body shaking miserably as he whimpers and is hugged back, Xie Lian standing up with him in his arms, sitting on the bed as Qingxuan desperately fits inside his embrace.
“He is safe with gege, come, you need water.”
He follows, lets Crimson Rain guide him around his own home, and when they stand on the shore, he forces himself to inhale the moist air around himself. The salt on his tongue is a relief, and when he submerges in the cold waters of his Sea, he feels the weight he carries being drawn away from him, if only momentarily.
Two arowanas come to him, curious and needy, and he pets them, lets them swim around his body and push and pull at his limbs. He gathers the spirits of those that died in his waters during his absence, commanding their souls to their proper places, then swims to the deep dark, relinquishes in its coldness and pressure for a long time before he swallows a group of rowdy young ghouls he hunts before resurfacing.
When he is done, the moon is already high in the sky, but Hua Cheng is still waiting for him sitting on the sand, a castle of golden cards tumbled by his side.
“Better?”
“Much.”
Hua Cheng smiles the crooked thing that is all feral and full of danger, but He Xuan knows that deep inside, there is sincerity there. Standing up and patting his clothes clean of sand, Crimson Rain points in the Black Lake direction, “Shall we?”
As they walk, he relays, “Gege told me Qingxuan has calmed down. They are about to eat in the kitchen, we should join them,” and then, with a laugh as he looks at the horror filling He Xuan’s expression, he adds, “Don’t worry, the chicken is there making all the food.”
As they approach the kitchens, Hua Cheng closes a hand around his arm and, with a ripple, steam shoots from He Xuan’s body. “You are making puddles.”
Normally, He Xuan would not mind the water, but as he dries, something inside his chest tells him that he must look presentable for this. A quick shift and his hair falls into place, long and for once adorned in his silver pins and scales, his clothes more formal than before.
“Hm. Interesting.” Hua Cheng murmurs, and opens the door.
Xie Lian is sitting on top of the stone counter, animatedly telling a story to the very young boy perched on his lap. They both look up when the door opens, and He Xuan feels panic rise inside himself as a pair of light green eyes meet his.
Qingxuan is bundled in so much fabric it is difficult to see all of him, but his little head peeks up from the large collar, his long hair falling around him and Xie Lian like a mantle.
He Xuan runs to them, looking Qingxuan over and reaching for him, surprised when the boy holds his hands up, clearly asking to be picked up. Xie Lian gently passes the child to an astonished He Xuan, careful to bundle him the right way so his clothes won’t fall apart.
“Qingxuan is taking a moment to calm himself down.” Is all Xie Lian offers him before hopping down and walking to Hua Cheng’s side.
He Xuan is floored, holding the small boy in his arms with the care one might hold a bomb, except he brings the child to his chest, one arm under his little legs, one around his back. Qingxuan throws his arms around his neck and giggles softly, feet kicking under him.
“What- what happened to him? Qingxuan?”
“Hi.” The child answers him sweetly, then frowns. So many emotions cross his little face in so little time when he pulls away to look up at He Xuan, He Xuan can’t grab onto a single one of them before Qingxuan speaks again, sounding more mature and in discomfort, “Put me down, please, He-xiong.”
He Xuan does not. He holds the boy closer, and Qingxuan makes a face when his body starts to shiver.
“You should put me down, I don’t know how big I am going to get.”
Gobsmacked, He Xuan keeps holding him in his arms, not ready for what comes next even with the warning.
The boy grows in his hold, from a 3 years old to a full adult in a second, and He Xuan is glad he got into the water and gobbled the ghouls this afternoon, for it takes all power in him not to let his surprise topple them both to the ground.
Qingxuan sighs, then lowers his legs from around He Xuan to stand on his own, visibly shaken. He Xuan shares the sentiment.
Neither of them speak, and Qingxuan avoids eye contact with him, but does not try to leave his hold.
“You see, Qingxuan learned he can take different forms.” Xie Lian's voice is like a background noise, but the information reaches He Xuan. “His true body might form easier if he returns it to a child when things get too emotional or draining.”
“How did you know that, your Highness?" He Xuan asks, because Qingxuan is still with his arms draped around his neck, not moving, not looking at him, and He Xuan needs answers.
“Well…” There is a pause, and He Xuan almost presses the god for the answer, but it’s Hua Cheng who continues.
“I used to backtrack to a child form during the Arousal of Ghosts. It’s not the most comfortable, but it saves energy and makes the process of strengthening easier. While you were in the water, gege asked me to help him guide Qingxuan to an easier form. Have you never done it?”
“No. I sleep during the Arousal.” He Xuan has changed forms, cloned himself thousands of times, but he never regressed to a child.
It’s Qingxuan’s soft voice that catches his attention, “You must have had a happy childhood, if your soul has nothing that needs healing from back then.” He is still looking away from him, but for the first time in weeks he is talking.
“I did.” He Xuan still has his hands around his waist.
No one speaks for a long while, and neither of them move, so when a scratchy voice rings around the kitchen, both ghosts jump, “Well, now that you are all settled, you should eat.” It’s the cook, the crazy chicken that works for Hua Cheng that quips in, making a ruckus as he bangs his pans and pots around, and two servants enter the kitchen to grab the dishes and take them to the table.
With so much noise and movement behind them, He Xuan steps away from Qinxuan, letting go of his waist and folding his hands behind his back to hide how much they are shaking. Qingxuan does not move, but his hands fall from He Xuan’s shoulders to his side with the movement.
“Qingxuan…”
Slowly the man turns to face him, and his eyes, so clear and green, are rimmed in red. Qingxuan worries his lip between his teeth, and He Xuan's hands behind his back spasms.
“Do you think you could eat?” The voice inside his chest orders him to be gentle.
Qingxuan looks him in the eyes, and they stare at each other for a long time before he nods, promptly looking at his feet as he does so. He Xuan will take any victory he can.
Quietly, he guides Qingxuan to the dining hall, where Hua Cheng is already seated with his God, heads close together as they whisper, that whipped smile playing on the Supreme’s face. Distantly, He Xuan thinks he must be careful never to show such display on his own features, as he most likely will end up looking exactly the same, if the way his heart somersaults when, without prompt, Qingxuan sits by his side and not by Xie Lian’s, is anything to go by.
His eyes lock with the God’s, and Xie Lian offers him his own smile as his voice reaches only He Xuan’s mind.
“Small steps.”
He Xuan vows to take the advice to heart.
They eat the first and second course, the food tasting better now that Qingxuan is sitting by his side and looking a little more like himself, so He Xuan eats what he hasn’t eaten these past weeks, piles of empty plates and bowls soon adorn his side of the table as the god and his ghost king talk about the upcoming festival they will host in Paradise Manor.
He Xuan is about to finish cleaning a bowl of delicious soup made of Lotus roots, pork ribs and a lot of spice, when suddenly Qingxuan starts to tremble by his side, eyes scrunched shut.
“Qingxuan?”
The young ghost holds the table between white knuckles, face twisting in pain, “Ah, I can’t!” his existence ripples like steam, and when he tries to stand and leave the room, he falls to his hands and knees by the table crying.
Alarmed, He Xuan crowds him, takes his hand in his and almost retreats when he feels the other’s skin burning, “Qingxuan, what is wrong?”
His Highness is by Qingxuan’s other side in a blink, fingers quickly running through Qingxuan’s meridians, his face sullen at whatever he gets from them.
“My friend, look at me.” He asks, voice soft but leaving no margin for rebuttal, and Qingxuan does, opening his eyes, and scaring the shit out of He Xuan.
His eyes, sea green and gentle only moments before, are now completely black, no pupil, no soft pink rimming, just an endless abyss that He Xuan knows all too well.
Qingxuan groans, and a hand comes up to cover his mouth as he gags behind it, body convulsing, “Hurts, my stomach hurts.”
He is dry heaving on the floor and sobbing while Xie Lian tries to hold him up as his body quakes, when Hua Cheng steps silently behind a panicking He Xuan and pulls him up, dragging him to the other end of the room, growling at He Xuan when he tries to free himself.
Anger and worry twist inside He Xuan, and scales erupt from his skin, talons forming as fingers webb, a horrible sound escaping his unnaturally wide, gaping mouth. Crimson Rain’s eye glows red like blood, and the rust of iron fills He Xuan’s mouth and nose when he breathes him in, ready to gauge his other eye out, feral now that the other King is standing between him and Qingxuan.
Hua Cheng flashes in a silver mist before his eyes, then materializes inside his personal space, fangs sharp around He Xuan’s neck when he sticks a hand thru He Xuan’s belly, forcing his skin and muscles to part so he can reach inside, long fingers prodding around his liver and closing his claws around his stomach as his other hand fists the hair at He Xuan’s nape.
In shock, He Xuan burns in pain and anger, unable to move in the powerful hold, but Qingxuan is the one who screams.
Alarmed, Xie Lian looks for his husband, only to be met by two Supremes in their worst forms, dark auras covering the room like a veil, “San Lang!”
Viciously twisting the organ inside his grip, Hua Cheng keeps his back to his god and murmurs so only He Xuan can hear him, “Throw up. You gorged, now he is in pain, so throw up.”
Understanding flashes in He Xuan’s eyes, so he does.
All the food he ate not moments before comes tumbling outside his mouth, a sludge of rice and chicken, pork, fish, fruits, and delicacies —all barely chewed— scatter on the floor beside them, the sickening noise of it splashing to the ground revolting He Xuan. Worse still are the wounded background cries of Qingxuan.
When he is done with the food and is about to retch the group of ghouls, Hua Cheng pets his head, whispering inside his ear, “Keep them, it's enough,” and removes his hand from inside him with a sickening sound as thick, black grease drips down from his extended claws to his elbow. One twitch of that hand and the disgusting pile of food on the floor catches on fire, burning away quickly, the same happening with the tar covering Hua Cheng’s hand and He Xuan’s lips, leaving behind only pale skin and an unmarred flooring.
Hua Cheng is back to his fair form, He Xuan realises, but he can’t be bothered to smooth his own appearance, not when he hears Qingxuan’s high-pitched sobs calming down from behind Crimson Rain’s back.
He Xuan reaches out a hand, but Hua Cheng stands in front of him, single eye still a vibrant color, “Easy,” as he puts He Xuan’s robes in place, arranging his collar. He Xuan takes a deep breath and nods once he feels centered enough. Hua Cheng steps aside for him to step forward.
He moves, feeling his body too tight and desperate, but he moves slowly. He Xuan drops to his knees once he is standing by the god, and lowers his head when Xie Lian eyes him warily when He Xuan extends both hands towards Qingxuan once again small form, his chest rumbling like the crashing tide.
One look behind He Xuan’s shoulder and the god relents easily, gently turning a sniffling child to face He Xuan.
“Qingxuan.” He Xuan’s voice is ragged, waves colliding against rock.
“Hgn, noooo no no”, Qingxuan recoils back towards Xie Lian embrace with a moan, and the panic on his little face and the way he tries to hide his little head from sight hurts He Xuan more than having Crinson Rain’s hand inside his body.
The god holds his small friend in place, voice soothing, “Shh, it’s ok, Qingxuan, it’s ok… That is just Xuan-gege doing silly faces to San Lang, see?” His free hand comes up and he pets He Xuan’s head like he would a puppy, gentle and confident as he keeps whispering reassurances to the child.
He Xuan hears an amused huff by his back when he concentrates, and in a blink he has morphed his face back to what it usually is, scales and talons disappearing without trace.
Qingxuan timidly eyes him, cleans his nose with his way too long sleeve and then, unexpectedly, smiles shyly at He Xuan. Something painful throbs inside He Xuan's chest, and he has the ridiculous urgency to lick away those salty tears running down the boy’s plump cheeks.
“Xuan-gege?” He is so small, he must have regressed to be about 3 because of the pain he just experienced, and He Xuan feels lost looking into his hurt, watery eyes.
“Yeah.” Voice garbled, he reaches for the child once more, and this time, with barely any prompt from Xie Lian, Qingxuan goes to him, fitting in his arms and holding his collar in a little fist.
He Xuan looks at him with his mouth open while the boy makes himself comfortable in his embrace and in the pile of clothing surrounding him.
“Xuan-gege looked really scary like that.” Qingxuan pouts once he’s made himself comfortable in He Xuan’s arms, little head resting against the king’s chest as chubby fingers play with the embroidered carp on his chest, and He Xuan feels ashamed of his monstrous form for the first time in its existence.
“I am sorry, I won’t do it again.”
The child nods at him with a yawn, pets He Xuan’s cheek in acceptance with tear-wet little fingers, and promptly closes his soft eyes. In the time it takes He Xuan to digest the moment, Qingxuan falls asleep.
He Xuan stares incredulously.
“My Lord?” It’s Xie Lian's voice that breaks his stupor, “I think you should put him to bed.”
“Mh hm.”
He Xuan doesn’t move. For a long time he stays kneeling, glued to the floor with Qingxuan sleeping soundly in his arms, as the God watches over them both also kneeling on the floor. When he can finally move, he raises his head and is met by Xie Lian’s knowing smile. Hua Cheng, standing behind his husband’s back, is also smirking.
“You do realise what you’ve done, don’t you?” Hua Cheng asks him, to which He Xuan can only curtly nod. Crimson Rain then shrugs and bends to offer his Highness a helping hand.
“Will you be okay, my lord?” Xie Lian asks him softly, which is immediately followed by Hua Cheng complaining, “They will be fine now that Black Water understands the full extent of his actions, so let’s go home, gege.”
Xie Lian doesn’t move, he worries his lip as he waits for He Xuan to answer.
“I… I think it will be fine.”
“Right. But do call us if you need help with anything, okay… Mh… you see… Qingxuan… he is very, very dear to me.” The god pleads to him, and He Xuan remembers a time when he watched from the shadows as Qingxuan, already a broken man, smiled softly as he saw Xie Lian approaching the farm he was working at, whispering “Silly, silly God… after all these years, still worried about a lowly mortal”, before he limped his way to his friends arms, smiling for the first time in days when he was caught in the the god’s embrace.
“I promise.”