Archive of Our Own

The abyss is in him. It ate out his insides and moved in there. He hadn't noticed it happening inside Zheng Yang, or Xin Mo, or whatever her name should be now, after two… if not soul-deaths, at least soul-endings. He has always been a beast, and so has she, no matter how elegant her name. She may still be a bear on the outside, but within she's a wasteland. From the moment her clumsy paws, back then in the form of a dog, helped him dig his mother's grave, she's been all wrong.

In the abyss she got worse. Far worse. For a moment, just before, when they were Shizun's precious and treasured disciple, Luo Binghe had held out hope. Perhaps he wasn't irredeemable. Perhaps though she was hulking, and monstrous, and his master had once spat at the sight of a bearcub following his newest disciple, perhaps she had changed. Shizun had only nodded approval when she settled, and smiled that strange, secret smile of his behind his fan, telling Binghe not to worry—An Ding would widen the doors of the bamboo house when Zheng Yang became too large to enter.

Xiu Ya had been even more approving, though Binghe had at one time doubted the linsang could do more than snarl.

"Very good," she'd said, her wide dark eyes inspecting every inch of Zheng Yang. "Very good. We knew you'd be strong."

She is strong, Binghe's daemon. She is strong. She tore apart the monsters of the abyss with her claws, and her teeth. She started to like it, though she didn't like anything else. Binghe certainly didn't enjoy it. He isn't a beast. He isn't. But the abyss made Zheng Yang sick. It made her into Xin Mo, and he hated her. He hated her even before she turned her claws on him, and he turned his on her in turn.

He hated—

He—

"Binghe," a familiar voice calls urgently. "Wake up. Binghe! Cucumber, don't let her hurt herself."

"I'm trying, obviously!" someone snips, fierce and bright. "Wake up A-Yang, don't make me bite your ear!"

"Don't bite her!" that familiar voice cries, distraught, and oh. Oh. Binghe knows who that is. His claws shrink back into his hands—a sensation like peeling dead skin away from a rotting wound. His fingertips are wet with blood, and for a moment he fears that it isn't his. If he hurt Shizun again, if he lost control, if he broke his word so soon after his last sickening, twisted failure, he would rend himself limb from limb.

But when he opens his eyes, there's no blood on Shen Qingqiu's shoulders. His face is drawn with worry, and his hair tumbles about his pale shoulders in disarray, his inner robe falling open around him, but though he looks too delicate for this world, he is unharmed. Stinging claw marks awaken on Binghe's chest, and he sighs in relief. He's only clawed at himself in his dream. It's to be expected, he supposes. He'd meant to give Shizun space in his own dreams this evening rather than infecting even his sleep, night after night. Surely his master has gotten tired of it by now.

Somehow he'd forgotten about nightmares. He can feel Meng Mo laughing at him in the back of his skull, even if the dream demon is too wise to do so where Binghe can hear him.

"There you are," Shen Qingqiu breathes, as if it's a relief for Binghe to be awake again.

"Shizun," Binghe calls, not daring to reach out and sully that pale, perfect vision with his bloody fingers. "This disciple apologizes. I didn't mean to wake you."

"Xiu Ya," rasps a rough voice, and Binghe has to bite back a snarl at the sound of it. Hateful, stupid, ugly, beastly—

"It's alright, A-Yang. Or, ah, sorry, I mean, Xin Mo."

"I broke it," Binghe's stupid nameless demon bemoans, and Luo Binghe jolts upright, turning to look.

There are splinters littering the floor of their room. Shattered bamboo and hardwood, a wreckage of the fine chest Shizun had picked out for their new home, and horrible claw marks in the wall, tearing apart the doorway and the fragile latticework etched around it.

He's still taking in the damage, wide-eyed, when he registers that fragile, gentle Xiu Ya is in his daemon's fur, draping her long body over Xin Mo's head, rubbing her delicate, almost-feline head against the bear's horrible muzzle. He's seen Xin Mo's mouth tear the head off of demons. He's seen her crunch daemons twice Xiu Ya's size into a powder of golden dust. Fear freezes his heart, and it seems to have frozen Xin Mo in turn, her vast back halting in the middle of a heaving breath.

Shen Qingqiu is lifting Luo Binghe's bloody fingers in both his hands. "Show this master where you're hurt, Binghe."

How long ago was it now, that Binghe's claws were pointed at Shen Qingqiu's throat? How long since Xin Mo had pinned poor Xiu Ya to the ground under her massive paw, claws perilously close to the poor, writhing creature's neck? How long since Binghe had seen Xiu Ya wrapped around Shen Qingqiu's shoulders in the water prison, trying in vain to keep her bound master safe and warm in the face of Luo Binghe's cruelty?

"Binghe, focus," Shen Qingqiu commands, gripping Luo Binghe's chin and dragging his face away from their daemons to face his cold beauty instead.

"It's healed, Shizun," Luo Binghe answers quickly, tugging at his awful, bloody hand without quite yanking it away from his master. "Xiu Ya shouldn't be so close. Xin Mo is—"

"I won't hurt her," Xin Mo objects, the words showing her sharp fangs as she casts her red gaze back towards Luo Binghe.

Red like the abyss that ate her from the inside, red like the fire that burned in him, like the demon blood he poisoned his master with, red like suffering.

Luo Binghe snarls at her, halfway rising to his feet. Shen Qingqiu stops him with a hand to his chest and pushes him back towards the bed. He could resist it—could push past Shen Qingqiu as though he were no more substantial than gauzy silk curtains—but he lets himself be pushed instead.

"Shizun," he complains. "She's dangerous. Don't let Xiu Ya so near her."

"Cucu—ah—Xiu Ya, come here," Shen Qingqiu calls.

One day, Binghe will convince his master to call 'Cucumber' by her real name in front of him purposefully. He doesn't know when Xiu Ya became Cucumber, but he knows it happened. Knows that one day his master's linsang was bristling and vicious, and the next she was curious and soft-pawed. Today, Binghe is just glad to see the delicate creature slide like a waterfall down Xin Mo's enormous back.

Then Shen Qingqiu commands: "Sit on him," while pointing at Luo Binghe, and all of a sudden his master's soul is in his lap. She's heavier than she looks, small though she is. Her sparkling dark eyes stare up at Luo Binghe's face with a sort of smug pleasure that suits her very well, just as it suits his master.

That Shen Qingqiu uses his distraction to go to Xin Mo's side makes his heart hammer in his chest, harder even than the nightmare.

"Shizun," he calls, but he can't move. Not without dislodging Cucumber and risking touching her fur. He's never been so close to her before—not in a situation where they weren't in terrible danger or in conflict with one another.

Once, she was this close. Just once, when Shen Qingqiu grabbed and held him, and Xiu Ya, riding on her master's shoulder, licked a tear off his face before she shattered into golden dust as Shen Qingqiu died.

His hands are shaking. He can't touch her, but Shizun is—

"Are you okay?" Shen Qingqiu is asking his daemon, crouched before the vast bear where she's huddled in the wreckage by the door.

Xin Mo's eyes are fixed on him. Her horrible maw stays closed, but her red, burning eyes—

"Don't look at him," Luo Binghe demands.

"Shh," Cucumber whispers, pressing her paw to his chest and raising her long body up like a snake to gaze in his eyes. "Hush, our Binghe."

"Are your paws hurt?" Shen Qingqiu asks patiently, his sleep robes catching on the splinters of his home as he kneels before the bear.

"She's not even supposed to be in here," Luo Binghe spits.

She's not. He told her to sleep outside. She's not supposed to be this close. He didn't build the doors wide enough for her when he built this new home, and he did that intentionally, and now she's ruined it anyway.

"Let me see," Shen Qingqiu commands, holding out both hands.

"NO!" Luo Binghe screams, and even Shen Qingqiu flinches this time, eyes darting to him, wide and startled.

"We won't hurt you," Cucumber objects from his lap, her paws braced on his heaving chest, her ears pinned back in worry. Her long tail lashes, and Luo Binghe doesn't know where to put his hands to keep from touching her if she's not more careful.

"We'll hurt you," Xin Mo whispers in reply, her muzzle barely moving, afraid of her teeth.

"Nonsense," scoffs Shizun, as though he hadn't been dragged to death's door over and over by his foolish, useless, hateful disciple. "Aren't we married? Surely there's no harm in—"

"Shizun shouldn't dirty his hands touching a beast." Luo Binghe spits, and he sees his words strike their target. Sees Xin Mo curl in on herself like the stupid animal she is, shoving her snout below her vast paws, smearing a little blood over the brown fur of her face. He can't even feel her injuries anymore. He doesn't know if she can feel his.

It's how it should be, though. She should know her place. He has to control her. Has to make her be good. He's thought about it before, whether he could pry her teeth out, cut off her claws, make her into something else.

His vicious satisfaction shatters into pieces as Shen Qingqiu—his foolish, wonderful, perfect, beautiful, ridiculous shizun—throws himself over the cowering bear as though he could protect her.

He's—bright, warm, gentle, strange—he's touching her, bare hands on—their back, their awful, blood-soaked back—he's touching her, and Binghe can feel—oh he's so soft. He touches so softly. He holds them like he can stop it from hurting.

"He doesn't mean that," Shen Qingqiu is whispering, holding Xin Mo as though he could cradle the enormous bear to his chest—as though she were still the little lamb she'd been when they first entered the sect. "He doesn't mean that. You're good. You're good."

"You can't just say that," Luo Binghe objects, his voice thick with tears, his hands curling up towards his chest. He wants to hold himself, or claw at himself, or tear his hair out, or pretend it's him Shen Qingqiu's hands are petting (it is, part of him cries, it is him, but he doesn't want that to be true, that can't be true) but he can't, because Xiu Ya is there. Xiu Ya is there, and if Binghe touches her it will hurt Shen Qingqiu, the last time Xiu Ya touched him she shattered, and Shen Qingqiu died, and—

A soft tongue licks his cheek and he wails in despair, drowning in the sensation of Shen Qingqiu's touch accepting Xin Mo. His eyes fly to Xiu Ya, waiting for tragedy, for agony, for ruination. But she just looks back at him out of her wide, sparkling eyes and murmurs: "Oh, Binghe," past her sweet, sharp teeth. Then she presses her head to his cheek, shoving her skull affectionately against him, the soft fur of her face and the bristling quiver of her whiskers.

He braces himself for Shen Qingqiu's answering agony. Instead, he only sees his master suck in a breath and shiver. His fingers clutch at Xin Mo's fur, but he doesn't hurt her. He just holds her.

"There," Xiu Ya says, "you see? I told you."

Binghe can feel the muscles moving under her fur as she speaks. She's leaning into him like it doesn't hurt. Like he isn't a wretched, tearing, grabbing thing. Like it's the most natural thing in the world, for Shen Qingqiu's soul to touch him and remain unharmed.

"You told me," Shizun agrees, laying his head between the cowering Xin Mo's ears and closing his eyes as if in relief. "Binghe, it doesn't hurt? Xin Mo, you're okay?"

"It doesn't hurt," Binghe echoes hollowly.

"It's nice," Xin Mo answers, her voice thick. "It's nice. Shizun, it's been so long since someone held me."

"Don't be pathetic!" Luo Binghe hisses, but Cucumber hisses at him in return and nips at his earlobe. She snakes up onto his shoulder and drapes herself around his neck, pressing one of her paws to the side of his face as though she's lived entwined with him forever.

"You must learn to be kind to her again," she demands. "That's what hurts us, Binghe. Not your touch, not your attention, just the way you treat her."

"She's a monster," Luo Binghe objects, wishing that the tears welling in his eyes were a lie—a way to steal Shizun's attention away from his daemon and back to himself. As if it weren't enough, to have Cucumber's weight on his shoulders—a sign of soul-deep approval and regard.

They're real, though. When they spill down his cheeks they burn. Xiu Ya diligently licks them away from one side.

"You're not a monster," Shizun objects, sitting up from his position though he's trembling a little—it's overwhelming, his touch on Binghe's soul. It must be the same for him.

Shizun's gentle hands cup Xin Mo's vast jaw and lift her head again, out of her bloody paws, so he can look her in the eye.

"I changed," Xin Mo bemoans, softly. "I'm not Zheng Yang."

"You lived," Shen Qingqiu corrects, and gently lowers her enormous head into his lap. "You both lived. Whatever it took, whatever you had to do, or become, I'm so glad."

"Ah, Shen Qingqiu…We're so, so stupid," Cucumber whispers by Binghe's ear, quivering around his shoulders. "We never answered your question, did we Binghe? We regret it every day. We regret it forever. You shouldn't have suffered."

Shen Qingqiu winces, but he doesn't correct her. Xin Mo lays her head in his lap like a wounded thing, low, whining noises escaping her, as though she were just a simple animal, hurt and lonely. Shen Qingqiu's hand through her fur makes Binghe feel like drawing his claws back in again, shedding dead skin, but… different. Like there's something healing under the dead skin. Like cleaning a wound so it can heal, instead of just watching it fester.

"I hate her," Binghe rasps, because Shizun asked to see where he was hurt.

Shen Qingqiu swallows hard, lifting his pale face to Luo Binghe, looking like his heart is breaking.

"We love her," Cucumber tells him. "We love you. We'll do it for you. Silly disciple. Who could hate Luo Binghe?"

"It doesn't hurt?" Luo Binghe asks, not sure what he's really asking, who he's really asking. He lifts his hand in question, careful, holding it near Xiu Ya's head without touching.

The linsang answers him by leaning into it. Shen Qingqiu answers him by rubbing Xin Mo's soft ears.

"Come here," Shen Qingqiu calls him from the floor, amid the splinters. "Come here."

Binghe stands carefully. Crosses the room in a half-crouch, scared to upset Xiu Ya's balance. He kneels near his master, then at his disappointed glare scoots closer, until his side brushes up against Xin Mo's. The enormous bear's flank heaves in a sharp breath. How long has it been since he touched her? It burns, the hatred between them. It burns, but Shizun's touch is a balm. He forgives them, and it shines in the brush of his fingers over coarse, dense fur.

I love you, Binghe thinks as hard as he can, his hand curling protectively over Xiu Ya's small head, hoping his master can feel it the way Binghe feels his love, deep at the core of him, and all around him, and twisting through him like qi. I love you.

"Breathe," Shen Qingqiu whispers, taking Binghe's free hand to lay it atop Xin Mo's head with his own while lifting his other hand to brush through Xiu Ya's soft, spotted fur. "Breathe. Everything's alright now."

It's not, but it is. It's broken irreparably, like Binghe himself, and his stupid, fragile, wounded soul, but it's good, too. Broken things aren't supposed to be good, like false jade isn't supposed to be precious.

Luo Binghe curls up against his daemon's side for the first time since he was a child, surrounded by his master's gentle presence, and breathes.