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All things considered, Shang Qinghua thinks it is mightily unfair that he’s getting blamed for this situation. Especially since a lot of the things he gets blamed for already aren’t even his fault! Most of the time! But he expects that’s what happens when you’re branded a traitor to your sect and knowingly (enthusiastically, some might say) affiliate with demons; people somehow simultaneously expect the most and the least from you.

“What do you mean, suppressed? ” Mobei-jun thunders, his voice competing against the howl of the wind.

Shang Qinghua takes the opportunity to shuffle further into the fur-lined rim of his cloak so he can roll his eyes. Mentally. He’s not stupid enough to do that in front of his king. The cowering, though, he’s very good at.

“I mean the array that was activated was designed to suppress the powers of a God, if a God had walked into it.”

He does not say ‘if a God was stupid enough’, nor does he say ‘the array we walked into’, on account of the fact that Mobei-jun had stomped into it more than anything else (after being explicitly told not to) and Shang Qinghua had sprinted after him so fast that he’d nearly tripped over his own feet. So really, if this is anyone’s fault, it’s-- Well, it’s not Shang Qinghua’s, that’s for sure!

Mobei-jun growls something that’s stolen by the gale battering them, and Shang Qinghua pokes his head out of the cloak to yell, “Sorry, did you say something, my king?”

The fierce glare sent his way only makes it through the mess of Mobei-jun’s wind-thrown hair because his eyes are glowing a piercing blue. He doesn’t like having to repeat himself. “How. Long.” 

“Uuuuh,” Shang Qinghua tries to mill his brain as the wind bites his cheeks ruddy. “The array is supposed to apply a suppressing power that’s approximately double the amount of the spiritual energy the recipient has.”

For a demon of his king’s prowess, that could mean- Well, longer than he’s going to be comfortable with, which also means that that’s how long he’s going to snarl at Shang Qinghua about it (even though it really really wasn’t Shang Qinghua’s fault). This could have all been avoided if his king had just listened to him, but he’s not about to point that out. His king would listen to that, for sure. And then give Shang Qinghua hell and a packet of chips about it.

Mobei-jun growls wordlessly and stomps off into the blizzard without so much as a backwards glance. Shang Qinghua squeaks and rushes to follow after him, fighting through the dense snow that comes up to his knees. Neither of them makes it very far; Mobei-jun ceases his stomping so fast that Shang Qinghua nearly falls right into him. A quick peek around his king’s mountainous form explains why; there’s nothing but white in every direction.

The snow surrounds them like a vacuum, sucking out the sky, the horizon, anything that might have a shape they could use to orient themselves. Experimentally, Shang Qinghaua holds his arm out in front of him and feels a twinge of dread when he loses sight of his outstretched hand. He very nearly loses the hand, too, snatching it back into the safety of his cloak as the chill pinches his skin. Like all miserable days go, Shang Qinghua had forgotten to bring gloves.

He’s muttering a colourful stream of curses at himself when Mobei-jun whirls on him, and Shang Qinghua jumps so hard then he nearly falls over.

“Can the suppression be broken by two people?”

“My king?”

Mobei-jun actually bares his teeth, but that’s just because he’s embarrassed about having his dramatic storming off interrupted, and probably because he can’t simply portal out of this white-out. Both of which are still not Shang Qinghua’s fault.

“Ah- Um, my king! Since this servant’s cultivation is nowhere near as profound as my king’s, I think it would be more effective to try and break the suppression o-on, uh- on me? Not to suggest that this lowly one should take precedence, not at all! Or that my king would not be even more effective if this one’s cultivation could contribute! I just mean-”

“Fine,” Mobei-jun cuts him off, striding forward. “Get on with it.”

He has to jab a hand underneath Shang Qinghua’s cloak in order to grab his wrist. Were Shang Qinghua dressed for a snowstorm, this might have taken some navigating, but since he’s in nothing but his servants robes and a light but durable travel cape, Mobei-jun very nearly punches him in the sternum.

The second he closes his fingers around Shang Qinghua’s hand, the peak lord yelps in real pain and reflexively slaps away the grip on him. Mobei-jun, absurdly, lets go, though his face is murderous with indignation. Shang Qinghua cowers into the fur of his collar under the iciness of it. On a normal day, he might have whimpered as well, but he’s distracted by the pain he’s suddenly feeling, and not the pain he’s anticipating.

“Why are you so cold?!” Shang Qinghua demands, cradling his hand against his chest as pins and needles blister the insides of his fingers. 

Mobei-jun gives him a look like he’s an idiot which, okay fair. It shifts into something significantly more unhappy when his gaze travels down to Shang Qinghua’s hand. They both watch as the skin that Mobei-jun had touched turns a violent purple colour, almost like bruising but darker.

Well, fuck. Shang Qinghua has seen frostbite before. He viciously shoves the hand into his armpit and sends a bitter thanks to the heavens that at least it’s not his writing hand. Reports would be a nightmare. Mobei-jun’s attention has shifted to his own hands, so Shang Qinghua looks too; they’re very nice hands. Big. Powerful too - Shang Qinghua knows first hand just how hard they can hit. He also knows that Mobei-jun can cradle his entire head in just one of them, and that that shouldn’t be as pleasing to him as it is, considering that he’s seen his king crush skulls bigger than his. 

“Is something wrong, my king?” Shang Qinghua queries, and then mentally slaps himself for asking such an obvious question. Everything is wrong. That’s why they’re out here!

Mobei-jun is glaring at his hands like they’ve personally offended him in some way, which is a funny thought. It’s not often he’s mad at himself about something, not often meaning never, actually.

“I cannot regulate my body temperature,” Mobei-jun replies after a moment. 

Ah, of course! Without their spiritual energy, it makes sense that Mobei-jun would have as much trouble staying warm as Shang Qinghua. It’s weird to think of it like that though; like they could ever be on the same level about anything. Case in point, Mobei-jun looks entirely unperturbed at the icy winds buffeting him. Shang Qinghua sinks deeper into his cloak and tries to stop his teeth from chattering.

“Is that bad?” he asks, curious. He’s pretty sure he didn’t write in anything about ice demons freezing to death. “How cold are you, usually?”

Mobei-jun just gives him a hard look, eyes flicking down to where Shang Qinghua grips his cloak shut at the torso. Shang Qinghua’s purpling hand gives a dull throb in response. Ah. Pretty cold, then.

Without another word, Mobei-jun turns and stomps away in the exact direction he was headed before, which is to say nowhere.

“My king!” Shang Qinghua yelps again, but it comes out whinier this time. He’s really not wearing the right clothes to be running after a snowplough. “Wait! My king, where are you going?!”

Mobei-jun still doesn’t slow down, because he’s a dick, which Shang Qinghua likes most days but this isn't one of them. Mobei-jun also doesn’t answer until Shang Qinghua catches up, and Shang Qinghua is winded by the time he draws level. 

“Getting to higher ground,” he grumbles, paying no mind to his advisor wheezing next to him. “See if we can spot the palace.”

Which is just about the dumbest thing Shang Qinghua has heard since they got dumped out here. Mobei-jun whirls on him, cloak whipping out behind his back as the wind claws at it, teeth bared, so apparently Shang Qinghua said that out loud.

“Aaah, ah! My king! What I mean to say is uh- Truly, this lowly servant only meant that we don’t even know if we’re headed towards the peak!”

“The incline increases in this direction,” Mobei-jun replies bluntly.

Shang Qinghua would smack him if he didn’t think he’d lose his hand. He presses his lips together, struggling to editorialise ‘ mountains are not straight up and down’ into something that doesn’t sound like a death sentence. Fortunately, Mobei-jun must have heard his own senseless logic because he glowers at Shang Qinghua before coming to a halt.

“Does Shang Qinghua have a better suggestion?”

Typical. Attempt number one failed so it’s the advisor’s problem now. Shang Qinghua wracks his brain, trying to remember if he’d written any spells that might disperse a blizzard, before remembering that he has no spiritual powers so it’d be pointless anyway. They can’t just go wandering about in the snow; with this level of visibility, they probably wouldn’t see a cliff edge until they’d stepped over it. And flying on his sword is out too.

“Well?” Mobei-jun demands. He doesn’t like feeling useless, but that’s too bad right now. Shang Qinghua doesn’t like it either but at least he’s trying, okay?

“We need to try and find cover. Trees, or a valley? Something to get us out of the windchill,” Shang Qinghua suggests. Thinking of a way out is going to be exponentially easier if he doesn’t feel like the blizzard is trying to flay him alive.

Mobei-jun snorts. “This king is fine.”

Right, of course he is. Shang Qinghua gives the block on his meridians a savage scratch out of frustration and then musters the most sympathetic smile he can right now, which is mostly a half-formed grimace. “Ah, yes! My king is fearsomely strong even without his spiritual p-powers.” Fuck, he’s shivering.

The look Mobei-jun gives him is strange, and his eyes flick down to Shang Qinghua’s hand again, probably annoyed with how weak his advisor is in comparison to him. 

“Fine,” is all he says, and then he stomps back the direction they’d come from. Thankfully at a pace Shang Qinghua doesn’t have to jog to keep up with.

・。..。・ ❅ ゜・。゜.

There’s at least a thirty percent chance they’re heading in the right direction. The wind hasn’t let up at all; Shang Qinghua actually thinks it might be getting colder , and he tugs his cloak tighter around himself even though the fabric is already creaking.

Mobei-jun hasn’t said a word the whole time they’ve been walking, scowling furiously into the whiteout like he can glare it into stopping. Shang Qinghua sneaks glances at him, trying to gauge if he can get away with asking for a break; he knows he’s not the fittest cultivator in the world, but all this wading through snow is exhausting! His jaw was already aching from how hard his teeth are chattering, and now it aches from how hard he’s been trying to stop them. The last thing he wants to do is annoy his king more.

“M-my king ummm, do you think w-we could uh- c-can we stop for a bit?” Wow, smooth Shang Qinghua. 

Glowing blue eyes slide over to him, sharp and bright through the fog of snow. “You said we should find cover,” Mobei-jun reminds him.

“W-well, yes, I said say that, b-but-”

“We haven’t found cover yet,” Mobei-jun cuts him off. And that’s the end of the conversation, seems like.

Shang Qinghua grumbles to himself, and is only vaguely thankful that the shiver of his teeth stops him from cursing his king out loud. He clearly hasn’t spared a thought for his human advisor who has to take two steps for each one of his strides and is therefore working twice as hard. Shang Qinghua thinks Mobei-jun probably hasn’t spared a thought for him in his life! Except that one time he made him noodles, that was nice. And warm. God, it was so warm. Shang Qinghua distantly considers loosening his jaw and just letting his chattering teeth bite through his tongue so he can feel the heat of blood in his mouth.

“What’s wrong with you?” 

The sound of his king’s voice jolts Shang Qinghua from his masochistic fantasy, and he turns to see Mobei-jun peering down at him with a thin veneer of disgust.

“A-ah, well, my k-king, you see. Humans are susceptible to extreme temperatures, and we have been out here for some time now, so…”

“So you shake?”

“It’s c-called shivering, and it’s an-n automatic response to cold,” Shang Qinghua manages to get out. “The body’s muscles contract and relax rapidly in order to try and generate heat.”

It’s possibly more information than Mobei-jun wanted; he looks caught between confused and repulsed, and instead of addressing either he just turns around and keeps on marching. “You will warm up then.”

Here we go - Mobei-jun likes to make statements instead of just asking questions like a normal person. Like he’s daring anyone to challenge him on it. Unfortunately for him, Shang Qinghua has had to manage his palace’s accounts, and that job doesn’t come with being inaccurate.

“Not if the t-temperature persists,” Shang Qinghua tells him. “If the body can’t warm up, then things get uh, b-bad?”

Mobei-jun cuts him a look that’s made for slaughter. “What does that mean?”

“A-ah, it’s called hypothermia, my king.”

“And you die once it happens.”

Again, not a question. “You can.” When Mobei-jun makes an absolutely terrifying face, Shang Qinghua hastens to add, “But not instantly! Y-you can actually recover from it, if the hypothermia doesn’t progress too far.”

“How far?” Mobei-jun growls. This can’t be fun for him - what would people say if the King of the Northern Desert couldn’t even keep one mediocre cultivator alive in a snowstorm? He’s on his own with this one though; Shang Qinghua can’t do damage control for his king’s thin face AND focus on staying alive.

“There are f-f-f-five stages,” Shang Qinghua shivers out, lips numb. “The fifth stage is death.”

Shang Qinghua had spent several days going on a deep dive of the various stages of hypothermia, as well as looking up multiple cases of deaths and survivors in preparation forof writing about the Northern Desert. He’d wanted to get an accurate idea of how it would affect humans, should his OP protagonist son ever meet any sisters here, but he feels like he’s getting a pretty accurate idea currently. 

It only occurs to Shang Qinghua now that he’s equipped with a thoroughly detailed description of exactly how he’s going to die.

As far as deaths go, it’s a step up compared tosince his last one. Shang Qinghua might even call it ‘hardcore’ if it weren’t happening to him.

“Five stages,” Mobei-jun echoes, looking distinctly unhappy. “You will tell me what happens at each stage.”

“Of course, m-my king!” Shang Qinghua stutters, even though he deeply doesn’t want to. 

It’d be nice to keep the slow decline of his body as some dramatic and woeful cruelty of nature, instead of clinical and pathetic whilst he more or less tells his king yeah it’s too cold so my body gave up. Whatever. Might as well make it entertaining since there’s still not a fucking tree in sight.

“Stage one is uuuuhhh shivering and rapid breathing?” Mobei-jun gives Shang Qinghua an alarmingly pointed look, like he’s disappointed to see his advisor doing just that. “Also fatigue and lack of coordination.”

Not saying much, really; Shang Qinghua is tired and clumsy when he’s not freezing to death, too

“Stage two,” Mobei-jun prompts. He looks less than impressed, but you know what? Not Shang Qinghua’s fault, either. He can’t help his biology (no matter how much he really really wishes he had written in helping it).

“Stage two is when the shivering stops.”

An angry grunt from Mobei-jun. “That’s… Bad.”

“Yes, this is w-w-where things get bad, my king.” Where things get depressing and lame, more like. Shang Qinghua sucks in a breath and tightens his arms around himself. “Stage two is slowed heart rate and breathing, impaired consciousness uh-” Fuck, there was more, he was sure of it. Stage two was the sharp decline before everything started hitting rock bottom. It’d be easier to remember if he was so damn tired.

“Slurred speech and uuuuh- Confusion! That’s the second stage, my k-king.”

“Shang Qinghua.”

The strained note in his king’s voice makes Shang Qinghua glance up, just in time to see Mobei-jun’s heavy, fur-lined cloak drop on top of him. He shrieks, nearly toppling over as he instinctively leans back, but it doesn’t stop him from getting a face full of heavy furs. Luckily the sound is swallowed by the thickness of the cape and the ever howling wind. He hopes, anyway. Mobei-jun is watching him with a measured glare; the one he uses when he wants Shang Qinghua to figure something out without him saying it. It’s probably his favourite, right next to I’m unhappy about something and I’ve decided it’s Shang Qinghua’s fault, but not below I’ve made an error but that is somehow Shang Qinghua’s fault as well. 

“My king-”

“Put it on,” Mobei-jun growls, his tone so fierce that Shang Qinghua actually wonders if the hypothermia might come in second in the race for his life. But after a hard moment of stink-eye, Mobei-jun drops his snarl. He sounds less close to biting when he says, “Shang Qinghua is cold.”

The cloak suddenly feels a lot heavier in Shang Qinghua’s arms. “My king! But- you-”

“This king is fine.”

It’s nice that he allows Shang Qinghua time to wind the heavy cloak around himself before stomping off again. It would have been nicer if he’d put the garment around Shang Qinghua’s shoulders himself; a thin dream of Mobei-jun tilting the cultivator’s chin up so he can fasten the clasp drifts through Shang Qinghua’s mind, one he can’t really help. Mobei-jun is his dream man after all! That and the fact he’s always been a romantic - it’s one of his most toxic traits. 

Since Mobei-jun had made him noodles, their relationship has slipped into some brittle purgatory, halfway between what it was and what Shang Qinghua wants it to be. His king hasn’t raised a hand to him since he returned, but he has raised his voice, and that’s more than enough to send Shang Qinghua cowering, which only seems to make Mobei-jun more angry. Then again, he’s also raised Shang Qinghua’s status and salary, so. Mixed signals all round. 

Sometimes, Mobei-jun surprises him. Like when Shang Qinghua complains about the cold in his room and his king just… Gets him more braziers. In his palace of ice. Or he’ll catch Shang Qinghua’s waist to hold him still, which has the added effect of taking Shang Qinghua’s breath away and cutting his ranting short. Or he gives Shang Qinghua his cloak to keep him warm.

It’s not difficult to reconcile these two truths; Mobei-jun clearly wants him around to keep running the Northern Palace but Shang Qinghua is not so blind as to think that his king doesn't have uh- needs. What isn’t understandable is why he would want Shang Qinghua when he could have literally anybody else. Maybe he’s lowering his standards; it makes sense that with all those raises, something else would have to drop. Shang Qinghua scratches at the block inside him since his lips are too numb to pout properly.

“Stage three,” Mobei-jun says suddenly.

Shang Qinghua peers at him before he remembers. “Ah! Yes, r-right! Stage three, stage three, let’s see…” Shang Qinghua hadn’t been kidding when he said it gets bad after stage two. He tries to focus on the facts, analytically, impartial, rather than the fact that he can’t feel his toes. “S-stage three is loss of consciousness, ummm- dilated pupils? Amnesia, sometimes. It may also be difficult to detect vital signs, like heartbeat and breathing.”

Mobei-jun is looking increasingly furious - Shang Qinghua’s fault, definitely. Through gritted teeth, he grunts, “Stage four.”

Shang Qinghua huddles into the fat fur collar of his king’s cloak to shake some of the ice shards out of his hair. “Stage four is apparent death.”

“Apparent.”

“Yes, it often appears that the human has died. Pupils are unresponsive and they are at extreme risk of heart failure, organ failure, and damage to the nervous system.”

These words might be going over Mobei-jun’s head - Shang Qinghua can’t remember if he’d written about nervous systems before. What’s the equivalent in this world? Qi meridians? Whatever; his king had asked and Shang Qinghua had answered, and he would explain but he’s so tired. They really have been walking forever. Hypothermia and an angry king can get in line; Shang Qinghua’s apparently going to die of blood loss when his legs fall off. Any minute now.

“Stage five is death,” Mobei-jun says then. His mouth is twisted into a feral shape, like the concept of death is a bad taste.

“Correct, my king!” Shang Qinghua chirps. Coughs. Something between a chirp and a cough, it doesn’t matter where, what matters is that he’s trying.

“Stage four is survivable, then?” Mobei-jun says, but he still glances to Shang Qinghua for confirmation.

It throws Shang Qinghua for a second - his king, asking an actual question! “As long as the person is treated immediately! The core body temperature needs to be raised to, ah-” Do they have degrees here? “Normal. Heat sources should be applied externally.”

Shang Qinghua sneaks a glance at his king to see him staring stonily back, eyes bright and flickering and luminant blue like he’s drinking in the words. Shang Qinghua can’t help but add, “ Gentle handling is important. Raising the body temperature too fast can cause more damage. The best way to warm up is skin to skin contact with another human.”

He earns a repulsed scowl for that, Mobei-jun finally tearing his gaze away and muttering something about “humans” like it’s an expletive. Shang Qinghua just takes the opportunity to hunker deeper into the cloak; the fur really does make a difference now that it’s nestled close to his skin. He feels less like a plucked chicken without the flurrying ice chipping his cheeks. 

“Did Shang Qinghua not think to tell this king earlier,” Mobei-jun barks out of the blue. Shang Qinghua jumps so hard he’s completely dislodged from his fluffy haven, and the wind scrapes his neck where he’d been staying the warmest. He yelps at the freezing cold, quickly retreating back into the heavy furs, but he can’t escape from his king’s furious gaze. 

“I, uh- tell you what, my king?”

Mobei-jun seems to be losing patience by the second, his lips peeling back to reveal his fangs. “That humans are so sensitive to cold. You have been living in the Northern Palace for years. This Mobei-jun would not have permitted such risk.”

Well, that’s a flat out lie. Mobei-jun himself was the biggest risk to Shang Qinghua’s life for the better part of a decade, but there his king goes again; surprising him.

“Ah- that’s, ummm- My king! It’s really only extreme cold that poses a threat to human life! The Northern Palace is a survivable temperature.” 

The word ‘survivable’ doesn’t agree with his king, it seems. Something like alarm flashes across his handsome features before he returns to a scowl that could cut glass. “It’s! Ah- forgive this lowly servant for not being clear! I didn’t mean to imply that my time in your home has been uncomfortable, or that I’m not grateful for your hospitality! This one would have been left for dead if it weren’t for his king so generously allowing him to pledge his life-”

“Shang Qinghua.” The growl of Mobei-jun’s voice is so low, it’s hard to hear through the gale. 

Shang Qinghua should shut up, and he desperately wishes that he could. There is no one that wants Shang Qinghua to shut up more than himself! And yet-

“I just meant that the temperature at the Northern Palace is habitable. This servant’s life is not at risk from the cold there.”

He’s at more risk of Sha Hualing getting bored and using him for target practice, honestly, but he’s managed to shut up for now so it’s not worth saying. At least Mobei-jun’s attention has turned to something ahead of them so he’s no longer trying to glare his advisor into the glacier. Shang Qinghua sees it when he turns to follow his king’s gaze. 

Trees.

゜.。・゜❅ ❅・゜・。..。

There’s a small cluster of them, close enough that Shang Qinghua could reach out and touch, their tall boughs bending into arches with the force of the wind. With the snowstorm dousing everything in murky off-white, they didn’t manage to spy them as much as they did walk into them. 

Mobei-jun leads him to the centre of the small outcrop, the furthest away from the gale storm they can get. Shang Qinghua leans against one with a sigh and doesn’t expect it when his knees buckle. He slides onto his rear with a weak yelp and stays there. Probably, he’s not getting up any time soon, so Shang Qinghua returns to scratching at the block in his meridians; it stays, stubbornly, mocking him with the ability to warm himself so close.

So. Shang Qinghua is at risk of hypothermia, actually. A real risk, too, and not one his king can magically swoop in and save him heroically from. He thinks of his room back at the palace - the thick winter gloves he’d left lying on the desk since the mission was supposed to be short. He’d been meaning to investigate who had left them but his king had called and he hadn’t had time. They make a fond memory now, for all the good that does. He definitely can’t feel his fingers anymore.

“What now,” Mobei-jun asks. States. Since it’s Shang Qinghua’s job to get them out of this, apparently, and not the literal ice demon’s. 

“Ah… I don’t know…” Shang Qinghua admits.

Mobei-jun huffs impatiently. “You said we needed to find cover.”

‘Cover’ is a generous word for what is, essentially, a collection of sparse, wind-stripped poles. Mobei-jun must realise that too, since he crouches down in front of Shang Qinghua, bracing his hands on the trunk above his head.

“My king?!” Shang Qinghua squeaks. He sounds reedier than usual. 

“Cover,” is all Mobei-jun grunts, like it’s an explanation. And-oh. It is, really. A strangely sweet one. If only his king could have heeded Shang Qinghua’s words before he stepped into the damn array that brought them here. Then he wouldn’t have to resort to crouching in the snow to shield his pathetic human advisor from the cold. How humiliating!

From this distance, Shang Qinghua has a fantastic view of Mobei-jun’s collarbones cresting out from the loose collar of his outer robe. He could probably count his eyelashes; he kind of wants to, but there’s no way his king would sit still or- not yell at him for that long. Which is why it’s terrible that the temperature has impossibly plummeted with his proximity. Shang Qinghua tries to press himself away without looking like he’s refusing such a generous offer, but it’s hard when he’s caught between a massive ice demon and an even bigger tree.

“What are you doing?” Mobei-jun snaps when he fidgets one too many times.

Shang Qinghua freezes (ha!), caught.“Ah, sorry, my king. So sorry. You- uh. It’s just- you’re very cold.”

Mobei-jun recoils like he’s been slapped. For a second, Shang Qinghua thinks he sees a flicker of genuine fear in his king’s face, but he blinks and it’s gone, returned to it’s natural resting scowl.

“If we have supplies we could try to make a flare,” he suggests weakly, despite knowing they have nothing to work with. “Or we could cut down one of these trees to make a sled? That way we could get down the mountain faster.”

It’s not a bad idea, so long as they don’t slide off any cliffs. Ah but, what would they cut with? Mobei-jun can’t summon his swords and Shang Qinghua didn’t think to bring his. Bad idea, then. 

“Shang Qinghua,” Mobei-jun calls, and something in his tone makes Shang Qinghua lift his head. It takes a weird amount of effort. “You’ve stopped shivering.”

Oh.

Well. 

He’s only human. 

“Hmm? Oh- I’m fine, my king. Really!” Shang Qinghua tries to inject some conviction in his tone, but that’s never been his strongest trait. “Just peachy, ah- This servant can keep going...”

He must not be doing very well because Mobei-jun is glowering at him like he’s dying on purpose. Shang Qinghua might be tempted if it’s warmer in the afterlife, honestly. Mustering all his strength, he digs his heels into the packed snow beneath him and gracelessly climbs to his feet. It’s a little ridiculous how triumphant Shang Qinghua feels at simply managing to stand upright.

“We should- I think uh… Let’s keep walking?” he announces, for lack of anything else to say. “I’m sure we’ll find our way out of the storm if we just keep going, my king!”

Shang Qinghua has never been less sure of anything in his life, but if he’s doing something then at least it won’t feel like he’s just waiting to die. He can go out swinging. Or walking, as it were.

The papery resolve he’d stood up with wobbles a bit under the weight of his king’s gaze. For a moment they just stare at each other - Shang Qinghua’s face might freeze in the ugly fake smile he’s wearing. Mobei-jun will just stay looking beautiful, as he always does. 

When he does talk, his voice is strangely hard.

“The stages. Tell me again,” is all Mobei-jun says, and turns away so Shang Qinghua can’t see his face.

It occurs to Shang Qinghua that his king had let him ramble as a way to keep him alert; if Shang Qinghua is talking then he’s not- well, no, actually, he is still dying. Very slowly. He takes back what he said about it being hardcore, hypothermia is boring as shit. But at least he can go out talking to his king, so it’s not all bad.  

゜..。・・゜❅ ❅ ❅・゜..・。・゜

Mobei-jun really does make him recount each stage as they walk, his face stormier than the blizzard biting into them.

When Shang Qinghua goes off on a tangent or babbles too quickly through a point, Mobei-jun orders him to repeat himself with a terrifying growl - he seems particularly interested in stages three and four. This sudden interest in human mortality would be sweet if Mobei-jun weren’t effectively making Shang Qinghua recite his own death sentence. 

It does have the benefit of distracting him from the persisting cold and the burning ache in his legs. At some point he starts rambling again and Mobei-jun just… Lets him. That’s another surprising thing since his return; his king seems less annoyed by his endless tangents. On a few occasions he even seems content, except nobody is ever content with Shang Qinghua’s word vomit, including Shang Qinghua.

“And then Cucumb- errr Shen-shixiong called Liu Qingge ‘just a little guy’ and I choked so hard on my tea, my king, I really thought I might die! That would be a terrible way to go, wouldn’t it? Haaaa- ha. Better than this though, maybe, ah?”

“You are not dying,” Mobei-jun grunts unhappily.

“Aah, no, of course not. Silly me,” Shang Qinghua chirps, though it comes out far more sarcastic than he means to. Great -- the cold is making him surly. “Don’t worry, my king! How could this one be cold when you so generously gave him your cloak? I’m fine, I’m fine.”

Death would be terribly inconvenient for his king, really. Shang Qinghua is only just now realising how many problems his death is going to cause. Perhaps he could write his king a list of matters to resolve before he bites it? Can he get through all of that in an hour?

Mobei-jun frowns at him, clearly unconvinced. “Shang Qinghua, you will not die.”

He says it like an order; it probably is one. Maybe he’s also realising how inconvenient his advisor dying would be. Shang Qinghua can’t find it in himself to disagree, given that he also can’t find where the cold ends and his body begins, so he just offers his best smile and mutters, “Right, right.”

“You will not,” Mobei-jun pushes, unappeased by the smiling. It probably looked too numb to be persuasive. “This king will return you to the Northern Palace safely. I… Gave my word that you would not come to harm under my care.”

He’s stopped walking, lifting his regal chin to stare down at the Peak Lord. Shang Qinghua stops too, grateful for the reprieve on his legs, but it’s his king’s expression that steals his breath. Mobei-jun does not say things he doesn’t mean, and he’s staring at Shang Qinghua with utter sincerity.

“Of course, my king,” is all the cultivator can manage in return. 

And then his legs buckle.

Shang Qinghua sits down so abruptly that he nearly bites his tongue; it’s hardly a mercy that the snow is so deep, it’s not a long way down. Trust him to ruin a moment in the most awkward possible way. The worst thing is that he’s not certain he can stand up again -- his legs were hardly working to begin with, and using his arms means putting his hands in the snow. The idea alone makes him want to cry. 

“ Fuck. Ugh. I wish I’d brought those gloves,” he mutters angrily to himself. Mobei-juns eyes cut to him so fast that Shang Qinghua squeaks. “Aaah, I just mean! Someone left this servant a pair of new gloves in his study, my king. I left them on my desk like an idiot, when they would have been perfect for- oh.” 

Shang Qinghua cuts himself off at the expression on Mobei-jun’s face; open curiosity, tinged with… Apprehension. Maybe. He likes to think he’s gotten better at reading his king’s facial expressions; it’s there in the minute pinch of one brow.

“Hm,” Mobei-jun grunts. “Did you… Like them.”

Shang Qinghua blinks at the question. Statement. The gloves -- Yes, they’d been gorgeous. Hemmed with three-eyed fox fur, made from well-oiled white leather and stitched with delicate silver thread and warmth enchantments. The only reason Shang Qinghua had left them was because he hadn’t wanted to ruin them so early.

It seems like the right decision, if they were a gift from his king; it’s worth losing his fingers to frostbite for, most certainly.

“I- yes, yeah! I did. They’re beautiful, my king,” Shang Qinghua stammers, feeling whatever the sub-zero equivalent of flushed is. “I like them very much. Thank you.”

Mobei-jun lowers his gaze, a strangely deferential gesture for a demon, but he seems… Pleased? Either that or it’s just the steady onset of confusion. Ah, this sucks. Shang Qinghua takes back every single thought he ever had about hypothermia being cool, it is lame. Cucumber-bro is gonna have a field day.

“Good,” is all Mobei-jun says. “Can you stand?”

“Hm?” It takes Shang Qinghua a few seconds longer than usual to process the question. Just thinking about using his legs makes him feel exhausted all of a sudden. His eyelids are as heavy as lead. “Uh- haaaa, no. Nope, mm mmm. I think I’ll just…” 

Something that he can’t name flickers in Mobei-jun’s face. “Shang Qinghua, open your eyes.”

“Hmm… Yeah, inna seccc…”

“Do not fall asleep,” Mobei-jun orders, sounding weirdly far away for how close he is. 

“Uh huh,” Shang Qinghua replies, even though he’s definitely gonna do that. Sleep sounds good right now.

Mobei-jun slaps him around the face. “Shang Qinghua!”

Shang Qinghua yelps, body jerking despite the heaviness in his limbs. It’s not a very hard strike, considering he’s seen his king literally rip someone in half, but it’s enough to send his ears ringing. The cheek his king struck stings more from the cold of Mobei-jun's sub-zero skin than the assault itself.

“Stay awake!” Mobei-jun snarls at him, fangs flashing. 

Shang Qinghua should be cowering, probably. The instinct feels buried under the more immediate understanding that Mobei-jun had hit him. He hasn’t done that since Shang Qinghua returned and demanded ramen noodles -- the thought is sobering enough for him to open his eyes a little more.

“You said you wouldn’t hit me,” he mumbles indignantly. Through his chilled lips, it comes out far more pathetic than he means.

Mobei-jun’s face crumples, and Shang Qinghua blinks again. His king has never shied away from violence before but- “You are not permitted to sleep,” Mobei-jun says, his tone horribly flat. “This is a direct order from your king.”

“Ah, my king, my king. Of course, my king,” Shang Qinghua chants, feeling ridiculously giddy for someone who just got smacked by the equivalent of liquid nitrogen. “What wouldn’t I do for you?”

Mobei-jun is silent for long enough that Shang Qinghua wonders if he’s gearing up for another slap, and promptly fights his eyes back open. Above him, Mobei-jun’s face has taken on a deeply unhappy frown, the lines around his mouth slicing up towards his noble cheekbones. Shang Qinghua really did make him too handsome. 

He seems to be fretting, which mostly looks like his fingers clenching and unclenching, unsure of whether or not to reach out and grasp Shang Qinghua from where he’s curled up in the snow. 

It feels like a small eternity before Mobei-jun speaks; Shang Qinghua would know because that’s how long he’s been fighting to keep his eyes open.

Eventually, Mobei-jun just says, “Then stay alive long enough to get back to the Northern Palace. Do this for me, Shang Qinghua.”

Shang Qinghua just hums and tries not to feel too put out that he’d stayed awake for an aeon just to hear that. For a task to keep him alert, he dips inside himself once more to pick at the spiritual block. It feels weaker than before, though he reasons that’s because he feels weaker, too. That tracks, right? Ah, he really does want to sleep.

“Get up,” Mobei-jun orders, standing up to tower over Shang Qinghua like he can just intimidate the hypothermia out of him. 

It might work if Shang Qinghua could think beyond the numbness of his extremities; without his cloak and having his robes parted enough to show the shapely jut of his collarbone, Mobei-jun really does look like a demon king of ice and snow from a stallion novel. The thought makes Shang Qinghua giggle a bit, and then wince when he has to inhale more freezing air to do that.

Mobei-jun holds a hand out as if to help him up, and then quickly drops it when he remembers the last time he did that, turning to scowl at a patch of snow like it’s personally offended him. 

Shang Qinghua uses every ounce of his strength, which isn’t much anyway, but he manages to limp halfway to standing. He almost makes it the rest of the way when the world tilts in a nauseating way.

“Shang Qinghua!” 

Cold hands are propping Shang Qinghua up straight, but the pressure of them feels distant against his numb body. Hovering in front of him is the face of his king, eyes tight with- Oh, huh. That’s worry in his king’s beautiful face. 

Shang Qinghua has seen it once before, when Linguang-jun tried to kill him and Mobei-jun had answered his frightening call with the fury of the heavens. 

He’d reach out and touch that expression if his hands could move, swipe the tension from the corners of Mobei-jun’s eyes and smooth out the crease of his brows. He settles for simply taking in the image of his king’s face, the crest of his cheekbones, his sharp, regal nose, the twinkling zima blue of his eyes that never stays one exact shade. 

Shang Qinghua hums, weirdly satisfied. “Handsome.”

Mobei-jun tenses like he’s been pinched, the worry dropping into something owlish and blinking. 

“What?”

“My king is so handsome.”

Mobei-jun makes a noise Shang Qinghua has never heard before, and then his face disappears from view.

“No, wait, come back!” Shang Qinghua mumbles, wriggling as best he can, which mostly looks like a stiff shuffling of his shoulders.

“I’m here,” Mobei-jun’s voice comes closer to his ear. Shang Qinghua can’t even feel the cold bleeding off him anymore; he’s pretty sure his nerves have frozen solid. “Be still.”

Shang Qinghua doesn’t have a lot of options in that regard; his limbs have long stopped cooperating. A rough sweeping sound beside him grabs his attention enough to tilt his head though. It turns out to be Mobei-jun tugging off his outer robe in short, brisk movements. All Shang Qinghua can manage is a soft noise of protest - even an ice demon would feel the cold in this kind of storm. 

It’s not like he has any say in the matter though, since he can’t move to fight Mobei-jun off -- not that he could with working limbs either, but the performance matters. His king drapes the robe around Shang Qinghua’s body; it’s long enough to extend past his feet. The detail makes Shang Qinghua feel impossibly kept, which is something he’s always wanted and now scarcely knows what to do with.

He wishes he had a name for what this is -- their quasi-romantic push and pull that feels too terrifying to look at head on. Like if he gives it a name and a home in his heart, it’ll never leave. He’ll be stuck with this forever. But in leaving it hanging between them, unnamed, unhomed, it can be the potential for more forever, without the fear of fucking it up.

It’s Schrodinger's romance. The romance of Theseus. Fuck, is he delirious? Ah, never mind, never mind. He has bigger things to worry about than his non-existent love life. Like the fact that the roof of his mouth is cold. How is that even possible?

There’s a moment of gut-swooping weightlessness, and then Mobei-jun’s handsome face floats into view again. He’s lifted Shang Qinghua in his arms, holding the smaller man gingerly away from his freezing body like he weighs nothing. Shang Qinghua wriggles once more, trying to push assurances that he can walk past his lips, but Mobei-jun’s fingers tighten their hold, and the robes he’s touching stiffen, frozen solid.

“Be still,” he says again, authority injecting into his tone. “This king will carry you.”

It’s an effort to mumble a token argument, but no one’s ever accused Shang Qinghua of being a quitter. Much. He needn’t have bothered; the screeching wind carries it away before it can reach his king’s ears.

“Eyes open, Qinghua,” Mobei-jun demands, like it’s easy.

Before, Shang Qinghua only had the crushing weight of his mortality forcing his lids down. Now, he’s treated to being rocked in his king’s arms. As if that’s helping. 

“M’trying,” he promises, and can’t even cringe at how weak it sounds. “S’hard, my king.”

The block in his meridians provides a decent distraction; as long as Shang Qinghua is picking at it, he’s actively staying awake. It feels a lot like untangling a chain - it’ll loosen eventually, he just has to find the fight tension.

“Stage three.”

Shang Qinghua fights the wave of slumber that tugs at his eyes, blinking sluggishly up at his king. “Huh?”

“Loss of consciousness,” Mobei-jun explains. His gaze is fixed on the path ahead, as much as it’s just endless snow and blizzard. “That’s stage three.”

“You w’listening,” Shang Qinghua is saved from sounding surprised by the mutedness of his voice. 

“Of course this king was listening.” Mobei-jun has no right to sound so indignant, considering that him not listening is the reason they’re out here in the first place. Not Shang Qinghua’s fault!

“For once ,” Shang Qinghua grumbles, which is of course the moment the wind dies down enough for his king to hear.

“ What?” The fact that Mobei-jun still has enough energy to sound menacing is a good sign; he’ll definitely make it out of this storm with only a tiny bit of freezer burn.

“M’jus saying,” Shang Qinghua mumbles, since now seems like a very good time to go to sleep. He has to blink hard just to feel his face move. “I said not t’step into th’array.”

Mobei-jun is silent. This isn’t unusual, but Shang Qinghua is used to him having the last word in an argument, so the lack of response has him prickling with nerves. When he dares another glance up at his king, Mobei-jun is staring just south of Shang Qinghua’s chin wearing a distinctly troubled expression.

“There were… Nine Petalled Snow Lilies growing around the dais,” he says slowly, like each word is cutting his tongue. 

“Oh,” Shang Qinghua wasn’t expecting that. “I like those! They’re pretty.”

“This king knows.”

“Hm? Know wha-”

“Shang Qinghua likes Nine Petalled Snow Lilies.”

The peak lord stares at his king, eyes not fully focusing. The words reach him, though, and he chews on them before absorbing the implication. “My king! Were you… Getting flowers for me?”

Mobei-jun looks very much like he wants to punt Shang Qinghua out of his arms. “Mn.”

If anything could miraculously warm Shang Qinghua, it would be this; something behind his sternum lights up, buoyant and fizzing like pop rocks. Ah. He’s happy.

“Tha’s so nice,” he giggles, sounding half hysterical. “Thank you, m’king.”

Mobei-jun bares his teeth unexpectedly. “Do not thank me, Qinghua.”

“Ah- why not?”

The glare shot his way is enough to make Shang Qinghua shut up. That’s fine, though; he doesn’t really have the energy to argue anyway.

“Stay awake,” is all Mobei-jun offers in response. His mouth is pinched in one corner the way it used to when he was a teen, and it makes Shang Qinghua strangely giddy seeing it. He wishes he could brush his thumb over the pucker of it, just to know what it would feel like. Cold, undoubtedly. Soft, maybe. It’s a nice thought, even if it doesn’t keep him any warmer.

“Talk,” Mobei-jun orders then, a frantic little crease pinching between his brows. “Keep talking to this Mobei-jun.”

Shang Qinghua hums. “‘Bout what?”

“Anything. If you’re talking, you’re awake.”

The logic is pretty irrefutable, so Shang Qinghua just breathes out a wispy, “‘Kay,” and starts speaking.

・。..。・゜・。❅ ❅ ❅ ❅ ..。・゜・。.

His king never lets him talk this long.

Mobei-jun has even been asking questions, not just statements, actively participating in the- well, it’s not really a conversation so much as a thought stream. Shang Qinghua usually tries to keep those as tightly restrained as he can, which isn’t all that much, but he does make an effort.

He’s not doing any of that now; Shang Qinghua is pretty sure he talked about memes for ten minutes and the only thing Mobei-jun said about it was ‘winter is already here’, like Shang Qinghua was mad or something. No fun!

They’ve been walking for some time now. Or, well. Mobei-jun has been walking; Shang Qinghua has been chatting. But even his king is starting to show signs of fatigue. His steps are getting slower, and there’s a minute tremble in his arms that he’s obviously trying to hide -- Shang Qinghua can see it in the way his jaw clenches. It’s also a nice excuse to look at his jawline, because WOW. He’s so pretty. Thanks, System-dada! There’s no way Shang Qinghua could have imagined someone this attractive.

It’s clearly taking a toll on Mobei-jun to both carry the cultivator and prompt conversation; the pauses between topics get wider, Mobei-jun resorting to giving him a little shake now and then instead of asking another question. And… Well.

Shang Qinghua isn’t stupid. He knows he’s probably not making it out of this storm. Serves him right for making a place so cold just for the ~aesthetic. The panic and adrenaline that usually kick start the survival instinct are absent; Shang Qinghua doesn’t feel all that bad about it. Sad, maybe. He really doesn’t want to leave his king.

But he’s gone beyond bone-tired; this is exhaustion he can’t describe the depth of. The realisation that it’s death isn’t shocking; he could just close his eyes, just for a moment, and slide away somewhere else. Painless. Ah, maybe hypothermia isn’t so bad after all? There are more brutal ways to go. He got lucky, really.

With nothing left to talk about, Shang Qinghua goes back to nudging the block walling up his spiritual energy. It’s hard to tell if it feels looser or if he just wants it to.

Shang Qinghua’s eyes remain closed even when Mobei-jun’s leg buckles on a step and he drops to his knees, panting. He barely takes two heaving breaths before he’s violently shaking Shang Qinghua, hard enough that the cultivator’s neck hurts. Kinda nice to know he can still feel pain, if he can feel nothing else.

“Qinghua!” Mobei-jun yells, sounding enraged. “Wake up.”

“Don’ hit meeee,” Shang Qinghua murmurs. It takes a wearying amount of strength just to get that out.

The shaking stops, mercifully, but when Shang Qinghua slits his eyes open, he sees his king peering down at him with an expression close to horror. 

“Your lips are blue,” Mobei-jun says in a quiet rasp. 

It appears that Shang Qinghua had forgotten to mention that humans change colour when they’re cold, or y’know, when they’re dying, too. 

Because.

Yeah.

Shang Qinghua is dying. 

He kinda wishes he’d known it was going to happen beforehand; he might have asked his king for noodles again so he could taste them one more time. Mobei-jun likes to pretend he hasn’t been asking the kitchen staff for pointers, and Shang Qinghua likes to pretend he doesn’t know about it. Unnamed, unhomed, and all of that. Except.

It really feels stupid now, huh. Somehow it’s easy to see how much time he’s wasted now that he’s run out of it. And… Maybe he wouldn’t ask for noodles. Maybe he’d be brave and ask for something else. Maybe, since he’s going, he can go out with something wonderful. His own private blaze of glory.

“I don’t know how to help,” Mobei-jun grits out through his teeth, frantic and hard. “Shang Qinghua, tell this king what he needs to do.”

There’s nothing to do, Shang Qinghua thinks. Childishly, he gives the block on his meridians a vicious poke. One last little stab to say he went down swinging.

And the whole thing shatters.

Shang Qinghua’s body jolts with the electric shock of spiritual energy bleeding through it, setting his golden core spinning lethargically. His face fights to grin, even pale and frozen as it is. It probably looks like a grimace, and his king frowns worriedly at him.

Oh, shit! His king!

With Shang Qinghua’s renewed spiritual energy, he could help break the suppression! If! If only his hands were working, that’s exactly what he’d do. He sluggishly nudges a bit of qi towards his fingers and the answering frisson makes them twitch in a way he can feel. 

Shang Qinghua does it again, focusing all the reanimating qi into a single arm so hard he’s just short of pumping his veins with his own hands.

“My king,” he calls, louder than anything he’s said in the last however long. It grabs Mobei-jun’s attention like a hook. “Come- You need to come closer, please.”

Mobei-jun hesitates; Shang Qinghua understands why, only because he can feel the baltic temperatures prickling off his king’s skin. But after a second, Mobei-jun leans down anyway, until his face is hovering just about Shang Qinghua’s. 

It’s all Shang Qinghua needs; he reaches up with his partially-revived arm and tugs Mobei-jun’s mouth down to his own.

It’s fucking cold. 

Even as his heart gives a valiant thump at the fact that he’s kissing his king, the sensation is gone in a second, lost as sparkling permafrost scales his skin. Mobei-jun jerks against the hold, but Shang Qinghua tightens his fingers in his king’s hair as much as he can to keep him in place. At the same time, he pushes all of his spiritual energy through the kiss, sucking it out of his meridians until they feel dry and shaky. 

A private blaze of glory, indeed.

With his reserves tapped out, Shang Qinghua’s arm slides limp out of Mobei-jun’s hair.

“Qinghua,” Mobei-jun hisses, his face still close enough for Shang Qinghua to hear how hushed it is even over the screaming cyclone. He sounds furious. “Qinghua, no. You cannot leave. ”

“S’okay,” Shang Qinghua tries to say, but he can hardly manage a wheeze. 

His lips aren’t cooperating anymore. The kiss has numbed them beyond mobility, but it was worth it; to serve his king one last time whilst also fulfilling a deep, personal wish. Nobody can ever say Shang Qinghua isn’t efficient, even when he’s dying.

“You said you would stay with this Mobei-jun,” his king accuses, and despite the harshness of his tone, Shang Qinghua feels fond. His beloved king, still such a brat! “So stay. ”

“M’sorry,” Shang Qinghua can barely hear himself when he speaks. He can barely hear much of anything anymore, to be honest. “Really… Did m’best.”

In the distance, something lets out a thunderous roar. Maybe. It’s hard to tell; somewhere between now and then, the scouring snowfall has merged into woolly softness in Shang Qinghua’s head, making everything feel like it’s coming from the other side of a wall. It could be one of the hundreds of lethal creatures he wrote.

There was a time in Shang Qinghua’s life when he would have cared about being eaten by some snowy monster. It feels like so long ago now, but it was probably just this afternoon. 

Suddenly, there’s a weird weightless moment where he’s convinced he’s tripped right off the mortal coil.

“Help him!” the roar comes again, and Shang Qinghua realises with a jolt that cuts through the fuzziness that it’s the voice of his king. 

He hadn’t recognised it because Mobei-jun doesn’t scream for help. He doesn’t sound strained or desperate like this. That’s not how Shang Qinghua wrote him. If he could, he’d spare some words to tell Mobei-jun that he’s not worth the anguish - this servant is just a low level cannon fodder, my king! But it’s gone in an instant.

Along with everything else.

. 　  　　 　 ⋆  　　　

 .  *　 　　　 　. 

. 　　　　　

 　　.  * 

.  · ✫  　

　　 ❅   　

˚ 　 *　　　 ˚  　  ❅ 　  　⊹  

 *

  . 　　　   　　 . 　

　　　.　　

 　　　 　 . 

✫ . 　  　　 　 ⋆  　　　

  .  *　 　　　 　. 

  ·　  　 　　　　　   

　　 ❅      　 　　 ˚  　  　　

. 　 ·　　　　　 　. 

·    

　 ˚  * 　　❅     　.

* 　　 　 　　 　 ˚ . 

　　 ˚ 　　·    ·　　 　 .❅   

　　　　　　　* 　 　　 　 ⊹ ˚ 

  .  　　 · ⊹ 　　 　　.

　. 

˚ 　 *　

・。..。・  ゜・。゜.

Shang Qinghua wakes up swelteringly warm.

There’s something hot plastered against his back, locking around his torso like a cage. He’s also buried under a toasty pressure that serves to seal in the oppressive heat, and Shang Qinghua instinctively wiggles to try and free one of his legs. 

“Airplane?”  

Those are fingers on his face, turning Shang Qinghua’s chin gently. It’s blankets that he’s being flattened under, he realises. That and Shen Qingqiu’s shirtless body, half pressing him into the bed. Once the shock of that seeps through his brain, Shang Qinghua really wishes he’d just gone and died in the blizzard, because Luo Binghe is going to rip his limbs off for this.

“Wha- Cucumber-bro?!”

“Oh good, you’re awake,” Shen Qingqiu says dryly. “Now I can ask you just what in the hell you thought you were doing?”

“Uh,” Shang Qinghua grasps for words. Everything feels weird and diagonal; he’s got to wait for it to slide into place before he can respond. “I died.”

“You’re not smart enough to die,” Shen Qingqiu says threateningly, and Shang Qinghua agrees. He’s not looking forward to his OP son’s wrath. “You got very lucky, Airplane.”

Shang Qinghua finds that debatable; he tugs the blankets over his head with a groan, only for Shen Qingqiu to cruelly yank them away.

“Stop that. If you’re awake enough to whine, you can sit up and eat something.”

It’s a small mercy that Shen Qingqiu doesn’t bring his fan to bed, even though his face is so thin that Shang Qinghua wouldn’t put it past him. Unfortunately, the alternative is him palm-slapping Shang Qinghua until he’s sitting upright, which objectively hurts more.

“What happened?” Shang Qinghua ventures, after Shen Qingqiu has bullied a bowl of simple broth into him.

“What do you remember?” Shen Qingqiu queries, doing a very poor job of looking aloof since Shang Qinghua has a front row view of his nipples.

Shang Qinghua screws up his face, because his mind goes a bit fuzzy towards the end of their little snowy escapade, but also because Shen Qingqiu is evidently going to make this as painful as possible when he could just say what happened and spare them a whole song and dance about it. Probably it’s the only way he has to save face right now; he doesn’t even have a ribbon tying his hair up. 

“Uhhhh,” Shang Qinghua picks at a loose thread on the bedspread. It doesn’t escape him that they’re not in the Northern Palace. Qian Cao peak, probably, judging by the utilitarian stitching of the sheets. “It’s- I think- I passed spiritual energy to my king? And then ummm it all goes a bit blurry.”

“You were stage four hypothermic,” Shen Qingqiu tells him flatly. “The fact that you’d managed to stay vaguely conscious through stage three is a credit to your sheer fucking tenacity.”

Shang Qinghua eyes him. “How did you know I was conscious through stage three? I mean, I don’t remember getting here, bro?”

Shen Qingqiu slaps him again, ignoring the affronted cry it gets him. “It appears that you gave your Mobei-jun a thorough education on the degenerative stages of acute hypothermia the whole time you were dying. Thanks to that, when he portalled into the house, we were able to get an accurate read on your condition.”

“He broke the block on his meridians?” Shang Qinghua hums; of course his king could do it. He was the second strongest demon in the whole story.

“No.” The look Shen Qingqiu gives him could strip bark from a tree. “He used the energy you gave him to send a signal and Binghe opened a portal for him.”

“Oh.”

“Airplane, why didn’t YOU send a signal once you got your spiritual energy back?” Shen Qingqiu asks. He sounds beyond exasperated, and Shang Qinghua retreats a little into the blankets. 

“I uh, wasn’t really thinking of that? I just! I mean, I thought if I could help my king-”

Shen Qingqiu cuts him off with a long-suffering sigh. “But- You- Didn’t it work out in the end, Cucumber-bro?” Shang Qinghua tries. He really does feel better, if a little weary. Almost dying does that to you; he’s well practised at this point.

“Airplane, you don’t understand,” Shen Qingqiu finally stands, crossing the room to wrap himself in a silk under robe. “Besides the hypothermia, bleeding your meridians dry like that nearly caused a qi deviation.”

Shang Qinghua goes very still; no wonder he’d felt so hot when he woke up. Residual fever is a hallmark of a near deviation, but he figures of course it’d be him that nearly froze to death before almost burning himself up from the inside out. Perhaps that would make a more exciting biography; How To Fantastically Botch A Solid Death.

“I uh-” Shang Qinghua swallows, and feels the real thing plaguing him surface at the forefront of his mind. “But! But… My king is okay, right? How is he?”

Shen Qingqiu pauses in tying up his hair, turning slowly to look at Shang Qinghua. There’s something horribly close to pity on his face. “Not good, Airplane,” he says, slowly enough that Shang Qinghua kind of wishes he would start ranting again. “And whatever you’re thinking, it was worse.”

“Ah… But! I’m okay now! He doesn’t need to worry about anything, I’ll head back to the North today!”

“You absolutely will not,” Shen Qingqiu says snippily before fixing Shang Qinghua with a perturbed look. “You don’t get it, Airplane. When Mobei-jun brought you in, your skin was blue and you were covered in frost. The cloak you were wrapped in was frozen solid, we had to snap it to get you out. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mobei-jun scared like that.”

“Scared?!” That doesn’t sound right. But then again, Shang Qinghua had never heard his king cry for help before; he was actually fairly certain he’d imagined that. “Why would he be scared?”

The pity in Shen Qingqiu’s expression only increases until it’s bordering on a sneer. “You’ll have to work that one out on your own. I believe my service here is done.”

With a regal flick of his sleeves, Shen Qingqiu glides towards the door, only pausing at the frame to look over his shoulder. He seems to be deliberating something; Shang Qinghua can see him chewing on the words behind his teeth.

Eventually, voice quiet, he says, “I’m glad you’re okay, Airplane.”

Shang Qinghua sucks in a wobbly breath, which breaks the spell; the familiar haughty scowl descends back over Shen Qingqiu’s features.

“Be more careful next time!!

The door closes behind him with a snap, and Shang Qinghua slumps his tired body back under the blankets. What a terrible bedside manner for an esteemed scholarly peak lord!

✈・。..。・  ゜・。゜. 

As far as near death experiences go, hypothermia has a fairly quick turnaround period. Shang Qinghua is formally discharged from the Qian Cao infirmary the day after he wakes up, only hobbled by strict orders from Mu Qingfang to replenish his qi. He’s expecting Mobei-jun to arrive in half that time to drag him back to the North, but a week goes by without so much as a cool breeze drifting through his office on An Ding. 

The coldest it gets is when Shen Qingqiu gives him a thorough dressing down about overexerting himself, which doesn’t mean as much as it could if he did his own paperwork. After two weeks, Shang Qinghua is stepping off his sword into the Northern Palace courtyard, plugged up to his eyeballs in furs that Liu Qingge had lent him. 

A jaunty little wave at the guard has the demon scuttling off inside the palace, hooves and armour clinking madly. Ah well, Shang Qinghua is sure someone will be happy to have him back. Maybe. The clerics, at best. His office is a mess when he arrives, which he was expecting given that he’s been absent for half the month and Shang Qinghua’s filing system is comprehensible to him and him alone. Partly to hide palace secrets, mostly because he stuffs things wherever is easiest at the time and remembers them there.

The gloves he’d left have been moved onto the shelf in the corner. Shang Qinghua pauses in tugging off his cloak to pick one up. The leather is buttery soft, supple as he rolls it between his fingertips, making the embroidery glitter. They really are too pretty for him. He’s just replaced them on the shelf when an icy blast of wind scrapes over his back. Mobei-jun materialises in the middle of the room looking as threatening and imperious as the day Shang Qinghua left him.

“What are you doing here?” Mobei-jun demands, sounding a lot more furious than Shang Qinghua was expecting. Still, just seeing him standing tall and mighty and well eases the small knot of worry that had clenched Shang Qinghua’s gut. The last time they’d been together, Mobei-jun had been panting with exhaustion.

“My king!” Shang Qinghua tries for his best, most simpering smile. “Ah, I’m- This servant is all better, my king! I can get back to working on-”

“I left you in Cang Qiong,” Mobei-jun cuts him off sharply. Shang Qinghua is used to his temper but this feels like overkill for a few days out of commission.

“Hm? Yes, yes! Very kind of you, my king, this servant is extremely grateful-”

“You were not to return to the North.”

Shang Qinghua’s words stall in his throat, losing traction. Mobei-jun is glaring at him, which feels unfair because he always glares when Shang Qinghua is absent, not when he’s actually where he’s meant to be, and it doesn’t make any sense.

“Why not?” Shang Qinghua blurts out. “Um! I mean- My king, were you not expecting me back? I still have the staff reports to do and I have to be here for-”

“You are unfit for this environment,” Mobei-jun snaps, and that stings a little. Or a lot, really; Shang Qinghua is responsible for his prospering reign! 

Before he can put any of that into words, Mobei-jun barks out, “Do not return,” and then shoves him backwards through a portal. The sudden crush of snow cushioning his fall makes Shang Qinghua yelp, and a second later his cape comes flying through the portal to land on his head in a weird sense of déja vu.

“My king!” Shang Qinghua bellows, mostly out of shock, but the indignation is boiling up rapidly.

For the first time in his life, Mobei-jun doesn’t appear at his call. A uniquely horrible feeling shoots through Shang Qinghua’s gut, and something inside him twists until it snaps.

“Fine!” he shouts, and when that doesn’t feel like enough, he puts his gut into it. “FINE! If you want me to go then I’ll go! But don’t you dare say this servant broke his oath when you’re the one kicking me out, ah? I kept my word. ”

With a whirl that feels a lot cooler than it looks, Shang Qinghua begins stomping back and forth in the knee deep snow. He’d left his sword in his room and he’s not about to walk back to Cang Qiong, even if he’s tempted to go and catch hypothermia again out of sheer spite. On the third pass, typically, he trips over the thick powder, falling face first into the drift and not even bothering to get back up. Shang Qinghua sits buried up to his neck in freezing thick snow and seethes. 

“You know what?! I’ll just stay right here! If you want to kick me out, you can kick me the whole way and not just to the gate! My king is really capable!” he bellows, feeling ridiculously powerful for an average cultivator whose head is poking out of the snow like a daisy. “You hear that, my king?! Maybe I’ll sit here until I freeze to death again, ah?”

Shang Qinghua is very good at getting ahead of himself; anger is no exception. Hurt even less. Still, he’s not exactly prepared when Mobei-jun materialises in front of him with a terrifying snap from his portal. He seizes Shang Qinghua by the neck of his robes and snarls. 

“Insolent!” 

Shang Qinghua shrivels up so fast his legs leave the ground, leaving him swinging from Mobei-jun’s grip. “My king-”

“Your king will take you back to Cang Qiong, where you will stay,” Mobei-jun growls, all his teeth on display. It’s a demonstration of power, and though Shang Qinghua isn’t immune, the frustration digging through his veins responds fiercely.

“I won’t stay there!” he insists, kicking his legs. It probably looks stupid but he’s too pissed to care. “I’ll come back right away! And if you take me back, I’ll just return again! I won’t stop coming back, my king! You’ll have to kill this servant to keep him away!”

Mobei-jun drops him, cutting Shang Qinghua’s sense of triumph off at the knees. His face is doing something complicated, features taut with strain and teeth bared even though he looks--

Sad. He looks desperately, horrifically sad.

Shang Qinghua gapes at him. This conversation has left him footloose, like they’re speaking two different languages. He’s quiet when Mobei-jun opens a portal and steps through, half-expecting it to slam behind him like a door. When it stays open, swirling like a tear in reality, Shang Qinghua shuffles through after him.

They’re back in his study, the edges of the room gilded in frost. There’s a handful of papers strewn across the floor where Mobei-jun’s dramatic arrival had swept them off the desk, and they litter a path up to the man himself standing sullenly in the corner.

“Ah…. My king…” Shang Qinghua starts, and then doesn’t know how to end. The strange expression has slid off Mobei-jun’s face, leaving it chillingly blank.

“Get on with your work, then,” Mobei-jun grunts, and doesn’t even glance at Shang Qinghua before disappearing in a shiver of darkness.

Shang Qinghua stands in the middle of the room feeling a lot less victorious and a lot more like he’s just lost something he wasn’t even aware he had. When he turns his head, the gloves glitter mockingly at him, threads sparkling with a broken promise through every stitch. 

Shang Qinghua shoves them into his qiankun pouch with a vow to forget about them.

Shockingly, it doesn’t make him feel better.

✈・。..。・  ゜・。゜. ❅

It takes less than a day to work out that Mobei-jun is avoiding him. 

Unless he’s out of the castle on some excursion of another, the staff always know where their king is. He’s easy to track through the cooler temperatures and the gabbing mouths of the servants, so Shang Qinghua knows that when he enters Mobei-jun’s chambers, the man has just left. 

When he steps out into the courtyard, the rustle of fine powdered snow indicates the closing of a portal. One time, Shang Qinghua dashes to the throne room, only to catch the frosted tail of Mobei-jun’s cloak sweeping through the servant’s halls. When he sprints to catch up, Mobei-jun has disappeared.

It’s possibly the longest time Shang Qinghua has been in the Northern Palace without Mobei-jun seeking him out to bark some order or another. He throws himself into his work so he doesn’t have to think about how each missed interaction skins off another piece of his heart.

The thing is-- The thing is that Shang Qinghua knows he kissed his king. Right at the end, there. In his defence, he thought it would be his last chance to do so. Also passing spiritual energy, priorities, priorities. Still, some nights he lies awake staring at the ceiling and daring himself to touch his own lips, as if they might carry some lingering imprint of the feeling on them. He’d been so numb before losing consciousness, it feels like he kind of missed the whole kiss. The first night Shang Qinghua did that, he’d whispered a call for his king under his breath, and then curled up tight enough to make his joints hurt, feeling small and stupid, because--

Mobei-jun undoubtedly remembers. He probably-- Well. It’s not likely he wants to remember that. It makes sense that he’d avoid Shang Qinghua after; no one’s been so bold as to touch him like that before. He must be disgusted. 

Shang Qinghua swallows that tough pill with a lump in his throat and pulls the blanket over his head before it starts to fester. It’s fine, he figures. He’s always been good at giving Mobei-jun what he wants, and if what he wants is space, then Shang Qinghua will provide it. He’ll give Mobei-jun so much space, his king will only know that he’s in the palace at all from talking to the staff! Ha!

The servants seem confused and wary when Shang Qinghua starts taking his meals in the lower pavilion with the rest of them. Mobei-jun rarely has reason to visit this part of the castle, and they seem to think that Shang Qinghua’s presence is synonymous with their kings. Since they couldn’t be more wrong, that wariness lasts all of a week and then they’re back to either ignoring him or the usual low-level bullying. 

It’s attention, if it’s not exactly kind, but Shang Qinghua hadn’t written demons to be kind, so he’s not really sure why he’s surprised at Mobei-jun’s behaviour in the first place. He arranges for an actual scribe to take over attendance of the court meetings, which results in legible notes as well as freeing up some space in Shang Qinghua’s packed schedule. It’s a practice in restraint that he doesn’t use this time to stew, even though he kind of wants to. Maybe if he’s feeling really indulgent, he could work up a good sob about it and then the feeling will be purged from his body henceforth.

With so much effort going into respecting his king’s space, it’s a bit annoying when ten days later, Mobei-jun physically manifests in his servant’s quarters with a dramatic boom from his portal.

“My king!” Shang Qinghua wails, snatching as many sheets of paper as he can before they’re hopelessly misplaced with the subsequent gust of wind. There’s really no need for theatrical entrances in Mobei-jun’s own palace; he could’ve just summoned Shang Qinghua to his chambers or whatever.

Mobei-jun fixes him with a fiercely displeased look, the corners of his mouth tilting down in a way that would mean death for most people. “So this is where Qinghua has been hiding.”

Shang Qinghua thinks ‘hiding’ is a very strong word for essentially just doing his job. “What does my king mean? This servant is just working as he said!” 

And doing it very well, considering he hasn’t laid eyes on Mobei-jun in almost two weeks.

“You are avoiding this king,” Mobei-jun says with all the bitterness Shang Qinghua has been squashing, as if he’s caught a crime in progress.

Shang Qinghua gapes at him, his brain tripping over just how unfair that statement is.

“Avoiding? What avoiding! This lowly one wouldn’t dare try to escape his king’s service, he is simply observing that which is expected of him.”

“Do not pretend,” Mobei snaps. “What expectations have you assumed without speaking to this Mobei-jun?”

The smile on Shang Qinghua’s face turns sharp; he can’t really help it. Back a dog into a corner and it will instinctively try to bite. “This one merely observed that his king did not seem amenable to his presence, is all.”

Mobei-jun lifts his chin imperiously, but he doesn’t actually answer, which tells Shang Qinghua all he needs to know. He gloats about being right for roughly half a second before it sinks in that ah-- he was right. Mobei-jun was avoiding him.

“What reason would this king have to avoid his own servants?” Mobei-jun says waspishly. Of course, it’s an insult to his pride to imply he might be running away, and from a human of all things. 

Shang Qinghua obediently lowers his gaze, muttering to himself. “What reason indeed.”

“What?”

Shang Qinghua winces. Fuck, he’d forgotten about demon hearing. He makes himself smaller on instinct, not even daring to look up when he can feel Mobei-jun seething at him, demonic qi flaring like a choppy current. It’s a tense, stifling moment before he hears the snap of a portal. When Shang Qinghua looks up, Mobei-jun is gone.

It brings little relief when the windows are still crisp with frost. Shang Qinghua occupies his hands with picking up the few scattered papers from the floor and hopes it will occupy his thoughts as well.

Naturally, avoidance is only okay when Mobei-jun does it. He’s the king! Avoiding a servant is his right. A servant avoiding him is an insult. Shang Qinghua gets as far as muttering up a storm about this before another snap cracks behind him, and he whirls around just in time for something soft to hit him in the face.

He yelps, barely managing to catch the item before it topples to the ground. It’s a qiankun pouch. A deep one, judging by the expensive stitching over the silk.

“My king?” Shang Qinghua gingerly lifts the qiankun pouch in his palm. He can tell it’s empty without even having to look inside, and for some reason that makes his throat squeeze.

“I’m taking you back to Cang Qiong,” Mobei-jun announces. He doesn’t even have the decency to make eye contact as he drops Shang Qinghua’s world wrong side up. 

“You- What?” The word strangles out of his mouth, too many emotions trying to fit into one syllable. “WHY?!”

Mobei-jun still isn’t looking at him, but his face darkens unmistakably, inky locks curtaining his eyes. “It is safer for you there.”

Shang Qinghua scoffs; between Shen Qingqiu with his swinging fan and the crushing workload, it’s only trading a knife for a saw. At least demons are predictable in their attacks. 

“I’m not going,” Shang Qinghua decides, not caring if it sounds childish. “I don’t want to, and I have work to do here. There’s a meeting with the Singing Silver Tribe of the South next week that only I can translate for, my king! We already talked about this!”

That gets Mobei-jun to look at him finally, and it’s almost worse than when he kept his gaze averted; his blue eyes are blazing with fury. It’s not often Shang Qinghua is this defiant-- It’s never, actually.

“This is not a negotiation,” Mobei-jun growls. “Pack your things. Now.”

Shang Qinghua sucks in a breath, a vicious retort crackling on the back of his tongue. When he lets it loose, it unfolds as a sob that surprises both of them. It’s not-- It’s not just the suddenness of all of this. Mobei-jun has made abrupt demands before and Shang Qinghua has bent over backwards to meet them, no matter the expense to himself. 

It’s just that this feels vividly personal. After all, Shang Qinghua has spent decades entrenching himself in Mobei-jun’s life, in his reign, in his home of the North. To have it ripped away in seconds is- Well. This had happened in his first life, too, after his mother had declared him too old to be living at home, when really she meant that there wasn’t enough love to spare with two new younger siblings. 

The memory pings Shang Qinghua right between the eyes, the weight of it making his head drop. He’d thought, this time… He’d really thought-

“Did I do something wrong?” He feels pathetic. Worse, he sounds pathetic, but Shang Qinghua has to know. “Maybe I can fix it? I can probably fix it, if ah- You- Just tell me what it is, my king! This servant will solve the problem and-- And-”

“Qinghua has done nothing wrong,” Mobei-jun answers, and there’s something fractured in his voice that makes Shang Qinghua look up at him. He valiantly bites his tongue to ward off the threat of tears.

“But- My king, then… Why?”

He takes a step forward with the idea that he can always resort to some good old-fashioned thigh-hugging. Shang Qinghua is not expecting Mobei-jun to flinch back an entire step, eyes flashing.

The action shocks both of them still. Mobei-jun is glaring at his feet like they’ve done something profoundly disappointing. Shang Qinghua’s brain is stuck a whole five seconds behind as he tries to parse what exactly just happened. He’s never seen Mobei-jun flinch away from anything.

“My king…” he tries again, taking another step. Mobei-jun jolts back into motion, fixing Shang Qinghua with a blazing look. 

“Pack,” he hisses, and then tears open a portal without even glancing back.

Maybe Shang Qinghua would have obeyed such a furious command, back before he’d kissed the love of his second life and then been chewed up and spat out about it. His mind has run through the consequences of incurring Mobei-jun’s wrath, probably being killed for it, risked Mobei-jun leaving through that portal to never return, and circled all the way back round to self-preservation by the time his body connects with his king’s. Shang Qinghua locks his arms around Mobei-jun’s waist and all but tackles him through the portal, except that Mobei-jun has about a hundred kilos on him easily so he mostly just makes the guy stumble.

They topple out on the other side, right in the middle of Mobei-jun’s private quarters. Shang Qinghua has half a snide thought about Mobei-jun running away to brood before the ice demon is trying to shake him off.

“Shang Qinghua!” Mobei-jun bellows, twisting his torso recklessly like Shang Qinghua hasn’t spent twenty years clinging to him exactly like this. “Let. Go.”

“No! I won’t!” Shang Qinghua yells back. Yelps. He’s in the middle of an intense game of buckaroo and winning, okay? “I told you already, my king! If you want to get rid of this servant, you’ll have to kill him!”

Mobei-jun roars, whirling around and very nearly dislodging Shang Qinghua with the jut of his hip. Ha! Shang Qinghua is still winning, which is surprising because Mobei-jun could just expunge him with a blast of his icy qi if he really wanted. He seems to be trying to touch Shang Qinghua as little as possible. It’s only a little vindicating; he’s disgusted after all, then.

“Your hearing must really be atrocious, my king!” Shang Qinghua wails, digging his chin spitefully into Mobei-jun’s spine. “How many times do I have to say it, ah? A hundred, it seems! But Mobei-jun doesn’t need to listen to anything! That’s why we ended up in that snowstorm in the first place!”

Mobei-jun snatches Shang Qinghua’s sash and tosses him halfway across the room like he weighs less than a stack of paper. Ah well, it was a nice victory whilst it lasted.

“Have you lost all sense?” Mobei-jun roars. His presence feels like it fills the room, expanding into the corners and squeezing Shang Qinghua to the ground where he’s fallen. “You dare attack this Mobei-jun?”

Shang Qinghua scrambles to his feet, feeling the bruises more against his pride than his ass. He’d tackle Mobei-jun again, but he’s not actually stupid enough to take the second strongest demon in the world head on. “My king, I can’t follow you for the rest of my life if you send me back to Cang Qiong to stay! I made a vow!”

He takes half a step forward, mostly a test of luck.

Mobei-jun’s eyes snap to the action immediately. “Not a step further.”

“Why!?” 

“This king could kill you,” Mobei-jun growls threateningly, and it’s the most superfluous thing anyone’s ever said, including Cucumber-bro in that list. 

“Obviously!” Shang Qinghua’s patience snaps. “This lowly one keeps his life at the mercy of his king, your servant is well aware-”

“This king could kill you by accident!”

The sound Shang Qinghua barks out could generously be called a laugh. “So could the heat, my king! Or a horse if it got spooked and kicked me in the head! Or even food, if I chewed it wrong! This is not news to this lowly servant!”

Mobei-jun is glaring at something just past his ear and-- Oh. His mouth is pinching in the corner. The exact way it did when he was a teen and upset.

Mobei-jun is upset. 

Shang Qinghua realises this at the same time Mobei-jun’s words catch up to him. “Oh… My king-”

Mobei-jun turns away from him to seeth in the direction of the door. The wood creaks a little as a layer of frost crawls over it. “This king gave his word that Qinghua would no longer come to harm under his care.”

Shang Qinghua’s chest hurts, kind of. It’s strange to hear such a declaration free from the pinching blizzard and the looming approach of your own death, but Mobei-jun quite forcibly unclenches his fists and the frost over the door recedes.

“I… Is that why you’ve been avoiding me, my king?” Shang Qinghua ventures. He feels bold enough to take another step forward, but not quite bold enough to take two, seeing the way Mobei-jun stiffens.

What reason would a king avoid his servant, indeed.

“When I touched Qinghua,” Mobei-jun says to the wall, mouth pinching. “Your hand…”

Shang Qinghua obligingly lifts his hand. It’s the one Mobei-jun had grabbed when they’d first been dumped in the icy wastes, blistering the skin into frozen blackness. The frostbite has all but vanished, leaving the meat of Shang Qinghua’s palm pink and pudgy. 

“My hand is fine, my king!” he promises, brandishing it at a sullen Mobei-jun. “See? It still works perfectly!”

Mobei-jun does not seem mollified, but he does finally turn towards Shang Qinghua, staring at him intensely. It’s the expression he makes when he doesn’t know how to verbalise his thoughts; usually Shang Qinghua is pretty good at working out what his silences mean. Like, sixty percent of the time, it works every time! But this is a forty percent kind of day, and the two of them just stare at each other, fraught with frustration. 

“This king has not raised a hand to Qinghua since he returned,” Mobei-jun says slowly, enunciating like each word means something else entirely.

It’s true, he hasn’t, even if Shang Qinghua still complains about it. Mobei-jun cooks him noodles and tries to fetch Nine Petalled Snow Lilies for him. The touches have been increasingly gentle, enough so that he barely flinches anymore when his king reaches out to him. It snaps into place then, like a bone breaking; Shang Qinghua’s heart breaks a little along with it.

If Mobei-jun had been trying not to hurt him all this time-- If he’d harmed Shang Qinghua without meaning to, with just his touch ushering Shang Qinghua towards a quiet and chilly demise…

“My king, none of what happened was your fault!” Shang Qinghua squeaks as the pieces lock into place. “It was just some stupid accident because of a stupid array! This one knows-”

“This king’s actions caused Qinghua harm,” Mobei-jun insists, frowning severely. His concern would be touching if he wasn’t being so annoyingly stubborn.

Shang Qinghua takes another step forward, driven by sheer irritation. Mobei-jun eyes him like a snake, but it’s beyond his pride to flinch twice in one month.

“My king, your demonic energy regulates your body temperature, right? Like how humans are warm when they’re alive and cold when they’re dead?” Shang Qinghua winces at his own word choice when Mobei-jun’s brow furrows. “I have a point! I swear, it’s just- Well, point being that you’re not normally as cold as you were when- Ah. When this servant…Touched you?”

When I kissed you.

He doesn’t have to say it to know that Mobei-jun is thinking about it. If a desperate mashing of mouths to transfer spiritual energy even qualifies as a kiss, which Shang Qinghua thinks it does, if only so he can tell himself he got to have it once. Mobei-jun’s frown doesn’t budge, but he does nod curtly, which is about as much encouragement as Shang Qinghua is going to get out of him.

“So you’re just at normal temperature now! Or, well, normal for ice demons, anyway? You don’t need to worry about this servant! He knows his king’s control of his power is impeccable.”

Flattery will get you everywhere apart from through the thick skull of a demon king, apparently. 

“We’re done here,” Mobei-jun grunts, and makes to sweep out of the room.

It would have been very cool and dramatic with his robes flurrying, no doubt, but Shang Qinghua panics at the prospect of having to chase Mobei-jun down again. Unthinkingly, he reaches out to grab onto Mobei-jun’s arm.

Mobei-jun stops abruptly, whipping his head around so fast his hair fans out around him. Shang Qinghua is ready to unleash a torrent of pleas and excuses when he realises that Mobei-jun isn’t even looking at him. His gaze is fixed on the hand twisted in his robes like he’s expecting it to burst into flame.

“Ah!” Shang Qinghua utters, torn between snatching his hand away before he loses it and hanging on for dear life. He’s always been clingy, though, so he defaults to thigh-come-arm hugging. “See, my king? It’s fine to touch you now!”

Mobei-jun’s eyes cut to him sharply, and Shang Qinghua almost bites his own tongue trying to backpedal.

“Not that this servant would ever presume! Um! I just mean- You know, You really don’t have to be concerned, okay? I can continue to stay and do my work without any problems.”

“Shang Qinghua’s work does not concern me,” Mobei-jun says. Not surprising in the least, considering Shang Qinghua literally designed his administrative system. 

What is surprising is the way one of Mobei-jun’s hands drifts up as if to layer over where Shang Qinghua is still clutching his robes. Only he gets stuck half way, balling his fingers into a fist. It’s the most unsure thing Shang Qinghua has ever seen him do. 

Swift action is better for a man with Mobei-jun’s reflexes; Shang Qinghua snatches that fist before it can drop back to Mobei-jun’s side, and the sudden press of cool skin against warm is a core-shaking relief. Mobei-jun hisses at his grip, but he doesn’t pull away, so Shang Qinghua keeps going, cupping Mobei-jun’s closed hand in his own and thumbing over the peaks of his knuckles.

“See here, my king?” Shang Qinghua presses.

 He can feel Mobei-jun’s eyes on him like a weight, and the sudden intimacy of what’s happening makes him tremble. Shang Qinghua can count on one hand the number of times they’ve been this close and this quiet simultaneously. It’s not lost on him that he’s essentially holding his king’s hand.

“You’re shivering,” Mobei-jun comments, sounding miserable.

“I’m not cold,” Shang Qinghua says quickly. “It’s- I’m not umm. That’s not why, my king.”

Mobei-jun regards him expectantly. He still hasn’t pulled away.

“That is- Ummmm…” Shang Qinghua swallows against his suddenly dry throat. It’s too embarrassing to say it out loud, but Mobei-jun’s always been better with actions anyway, so Shang Qinghua carefully glides his hands along Mobei-jun’s shoulders until his fingers just graze where the collar of the midnight blue robes give way to skin.

Mobei-jun’s sharp inhale makes him pause; the neck muscles below Shang Qinghua’s touch are taut as a wire, but Mobei-jun hasn’t knocked him through the wall yet. Give Shang Qinghua an inch and he will take a mile; his fingertips find their way to Mobei-jun’s face and he pinches both cheeks.

“See? It’s fine,” Shang Qinghua chides, clicking his tongue as he pulls and pushes the skin in opposite directions. “Really, what thoughts go through your head, ah? So silly! Making this servant chase you all round the castle when I am still recovering. No thought for how much work laozi has to do! Is that it, hm?”

He stops pinching Mobei-jun’s cheeks, flattening his palms against his face instead and feeling the cool tingle of his skin. Shang Qinghua chuckles like an over-indulgent father, smiling up at Mobei-jun only to see his king looking back at him with a blazing expression.

It takes a second for Shang Qinghua’s boldness to catch up to him. When it does, he jolts, a thousand grovelling apologies swelling on his tongue. Thick, calloused fingers snare his wrists before Shang Qinghua can pull back, holding him in place. Mobei-jun blinks, frowning down at his own hands where they’ve captured Shang Qinghua’s. The muscle memory must have surprised him. Carefully, Shang Qinghua lowers his hands to his king’s face again, palms folding around the handsome bolt of his jaw.

One of Mobei-jun’s massive hands slides up to cover Shang Qinghua’s as he closes his eyes. He looks stripped, brow furrowed like he’s in pain. Shang Qinghua doesn’t dare speak; this entire moment feels suspended. Mobei-jun turns his head, lips brushing against Shang Qinghua’s palm, and the room holds its breath.

“You,” Mobei-jun breathes into the cradle of Shang Qinghua’s hand. He doesn’t say anything else. 

With less grace than usual, Mobei-jun leans down until their foreheads brush. The demon mark on his brow is the coldest part of him, icy and stinging faintly against Shang Qinghua’s skin.

“My king,” Shang Qinghua breathes finally, the address escaping him. Once his mouth starts, it doesn’t stop.  “Do you see now? It’s alright now, isn’t it?”

“En.”

“I can stay in the North, right?”

“En.”

“And you won’t keep avoiding me, will you?”

Mobei-jun snorts, but he doesn’t move away so-- Yeah, Shang Qinghua is still winning, actually. “What for?”

Ah. There’s his arrogant king.

“Okay,” Shang Qinghua hiccups, feeling a bit giddy. “Okay, good! That’s what this servant wantssssS-AH! That is to say uh- This servant would like it very much if his king would deign to-”

Mobei-jun pulls back a little, just enough to look at him. “What else does Qinghua want?”

“What?” Shang Qinghua blurts out. He can’t help it; he’s pretty sure Mobei-jun has never asked him anything like that before. A good thing too, considering Shang Qinghua’s runaway tongue. Mobei-jun just regards him, waiting, and since he’s already taken one mile, Shang Qinghua says, “Noodles.”

The corner of Mobei-jun’s mouth twitches down, so that was the wrong answer. Except- “Fine.”

Shang Qinghua blinks at him. He’s very aware that his hands are still cradling his king’s face, and his king’s hands are cradling his. “More braziers.”

“Fine.”

“A nicer room.”

“Pick one.”

Shang Qinghua would keep going, except with every request, the twist at the corner of Mobei-jun’s lips screws tighter. 

“Is that all?” Mobei-jun asks, somehow sounding completely uninterested and fiendishly unhappy.

It’s a clear tactical error to ask for anything else, so Shang Qinghua switches methods. “What do you mean my king?”

“Qinghua kissed me,” Mobei-jun says plainly, as if he’s not talking about the best and almost-last moment of Shang Qinghua’s life.

Shang Qinghua very nearly smacks Mobei-jun in the face, but his hands are held in place. He was kind of hoping they weren’t going to have to talk about that!

“I- Yes! Yeah um- That’s ah… It was the fastest way to transfer spiritual energy, my king.”

Mobei-jun is silent for a very long moment. When he speaks, something in his voice has gone flat and clipped. “I see.”

Shang Qinghua takes a breath to-- Apologise? Grovel? Make another demand? He jolts with understanding as the truth comes bubbling up his throat. “I also really really wanted to.”

“... I see,” Mobei-jun says again, in a very different tone of voice. 

And then he lowers his mouth to Shang Qinghua’s, and all other requests are forgotten. Shang Qinghua is re-evaluating his earlier decisions; the stiff, perfunctory crush of mouths in a baltic snowstorm no longer counts as a kiss.

This is a kiss.

It takes them a second to get coordinated. Mobei-jun’s teeth nip a little too hard and Shang Qinghua nearly headbutts him for it, noses bumping together. And then Mobei-jun’s hand finds the side of his face and Shang Qinghua tilts his head and everything just slots into place. The slick glide of their mouths as Mobei-jun swallows all the weak, punched out little noises straight from the source.

Shang Qinghua gasps when a tongue swipes across his own, automatically opening wider to allow access. Mobei-jun growls, arms tightening around him in a way that can only be described as desperate. If he ends up breaking one of Shang Qinghua’s ribs, it’ll be worth every single bruise. Shang Qinghua ends up gripping the lapels of his king’s robes just to steady himself.

When they finally break apart, he’s panting, stolen breath fogging up in little clouds.

“Was that what Qinghua wanted?” Mobei-jun asks, and Shang Qinghua feels a drunken rush of satisfaction that his voice is rough. His hand finds Shang Qinghua’s face, touch more gentle than anything.

“Uh huh,” he replies dumbly, leaning all of his weight into Mobei-jun’s chest and feeling positively buoyant when his king adjusts his stance to take it. “Cold,” he mumbles, and leans into it when Mobei-jun’s touch falters.

Mobei-jun sighs, slow and shaky. “Warm,” he whispers, smoothing his thumb over the crest of Shang Qinghua’s cheekbone in a ridiculously fond gesture.

Shang Qinghua doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but he’s a people pleaser so he ends up doing both. 

“My king,” he says with a wet chuckle, and then can’t seem to say any more.

They stay like that, breathing each other’s space, Mobei-jun’s cool hand sealed to Shang Qinghua’s cheek. It’s a long moment before Shang Qinghua’s brain comes back online. 

“So that’s a yes to you no longer avoiding me, right, my king?”

Mobei-jun shuts him up soundly with another kiss.

・。..。・  ゜・。゜. ✈ ❅

Shang Qinghua wakes this time with a shiver, his naked shoulder studded with gooseflesh where the covers have fallen away. The cool weight against his back immediately starts to retreat, and he makes a sleep-thick noise of unhappiness.

“Nooooo,” Shang Qinghua mumbles into the pillow, eyes still closed. “Come baaack.”

The bed creaks as the coolness returns, flattening skin to skin along the shape of Shang Qinghua’s body. He shivers on instinct, letting out a pleased hum.

“Spoiled,” Mobei-jun whispers in his ear, pressing closer still. 

Shang Qinghua makes a soft sound of agreement, smugness colouring his half-consciousness. Mobei-jun lets out a quiet huff of laughter, cool breath skimming the back of Shang Qinghua’s neck. His hair tickles Shang Qinghua’s cheek when he bends his head to place a kiss to the exposed shoulder, sliding some of his spiritual energy through the contact before tugging the furs higher to tuck him in. 

“Warm,” Mobei-jun hums as he drags Shang Qinghua back against his chest, and hides a kiss in his hair, too.

Yes, Shang Qinghua thinks as he slides back into sleep. This is the warmest place to be.