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Ao Lie would not say he was perceptive.
Emotionally, he was able to pick up on things as a child far faster than any should. It came with the burden of long life, of the forever wavering concept of immortality, a branch of being which extended far beyond what anyone should endure. He remembers being no taller than the shrubbery in the courtyard when he saw Ao Guang weep for the first time. But even so, he was not perceptive—not how an heir should be.
He was a ditz. A fool who barely could muster the energy to roll up his sleeves or robes, one who would trip and remain on the floor for hours on end. Even if his family bore no hatred for him, it was still evident that his misdeeds and general mannerisms were not fit for the royal line. Not like how Ao Bing was.
And yet, for what felt like the first time in his life, Ao Lie could see.
The sun was barely peeking above the horizon, rays creeping slowly from the silhouettes of mountains and crevices alike. His body ached with exhaustion and burning, large amounts of his energy long extended in the efforts to keep Sanzang unharmed from the repeated ambushes. It was a particularly rough encounter, in which a demon managed to leave even Wukong battered and bruised—Ao Lie’s own leg remained fractured from the endeavor, and the Monkey King had requested the aid of Quanyin in desperation to keep their master safe.
He never truly expected to see Nezha be the one to come to their aid, however.
Ao Lie lets out a small hum as he watches Zhu Bajie and Sha Wujing keep their master seated firmly in an embrace, smiling to himself as warmth finally rests upon their cratered camp. He shifts slightly, making sure to keep his broken limb still on the rocks in which he was seated, before shifting his gaze to the Lotus Prince.
“You still haven’t grown an inch in the past five hundred years, Nezha?” Sun Wukong teases from across the clearing, and Ao Lie finds a familiar sense of calm wash over his form as the monkey’s tail flicks in repeated motion. It would be falsehood to claim that he had not grown attached to his companions over their journey so far—and in the wake of it all, the dragon could only uncover peace and clarity within those fidgets held so dear. He suppresses his own laugh as Nezha’s ribbons attempt to swat the simian away.
“Similarly to how you have not matured?” The Lotus Prince huffs, dusting off remnants of the battle mere hours prior. Blood had stained a majority of them that day, buried deep in their flesh and bones and even within the finest silk. Injuries were not new, but Ao Lie still thought it distasteful for how routine gashes and bruises became over the last few years. Especially when it so clearly could even paint crimson anew on the Celestial before him. “You’d be wise to not prod so shamelessly at your previous enemies, Sun Wukong. The world did not wait idly as the mountain kept you still.”
Sun Wukong mocks a gasp, before jerking forwards and grabbing the prince by the face within a moment’s notice—and Ao Lie breathes, fondness lacing his every sigh.
“Is the widdle baby mad?” Wukong coos, fangs bared in a sly grin as he squishes the immortal’s face with ease. Even with—what Ao Lie is sure to be centuries worth of training—Nezha’s own injuries and surprise seems to have left him vulnerable for far too long of a moment, and the Lotus Prince’s own flaming wheels falter as he’s pulled into a sudden headlock. Sounds of disgruntled pleas and insults leave from both of them, and Ao Lie cannot help but let himself live in the moment and forget.
Forget how long the exhaustion has worn down each and every one of them, forget how his own leg is swelling in mottled purples and blues, burning with each shift and touch in memory of claws which had broken bones he knew to be far from fragile. Forget how nervous he had been, when he received word that Nezha would be their aid, forget the flashes of his uncle’s face laced in anguish when Ao Lie was but a hatchling.
Forget the pity he had felt, when finally met with ruby eyes of lotus and flame, which harbored nothing but guilt and grief.
It was almost as if a haze had been finally lifted from his mind, and Ao Lie’s own perceptions of the world around him became clear. He could feel the gentle breeze of salt water and earth, could smell the sweat and iron clinging to their forms, could see the very mark of shame on their family do nothing but pause and shrink as their eyes met.
Ao Lie could see.
“Wukong—let him go, now,” Sanzang scolds from meters away, and Ao Lie takes notice that the smell of broth has begun to waft within the clearing. Zhu Bajie and Sha Wujing seem to have been healed of their worst injuries, remnants of a caring seal still grasping to their souls as their master made way for them. Sun Wukong rolls his eyes, but relents, as he always did for their master. “Prince Nezha, please forgive his behavior. He is… harsh, but kind.”
Ao Lie waves for the three to come closer, his sleeve swaying to the motions of his own grin. They all comply, but the dragon does not miss the sudden hesitation behind the lotus’s gaze.
“Y’know, Nezha used to be just like me, master!” Wukong gloats, taking no time in choosing the rock beside Ao Lie to languish for the rest of the evening. The monkey’s elbow jabs lightly, kindly, into the dragon’s side, cocking an eyebrow as he rattles on. “Impulsive, reckless, fun.”
“Hush now,” Sanzang sighs, and Ao Lie gives thanks when the monk seats himself to assess the damage to the leg. The dragon hisses lightly as sullen cloth is moved, his own tongue clicking monotonously as the limb throbs below. “Ah, Ao Lie…”
“It’s fine,” Ao Lie offers, glancing away with a turn of his lips—upwards, always upwards, for that was the kindness he could only return. “Rather my leg than your head, hm?”
Sanzang frowns, and Ao Lie can only be reminded of watching a mother tut at her children. “I’d rather we all remain unharmed.”
A gentle silence befalls them all, and Ao Lie watches briefly for the glow to emit from Sanzang’s pores. Warmth meets his burdened body, and a wave of calm washes over his rattled nerves in wake for recovery. He hears Wukong begin to chew on a peach from beside them, and with assurance that they’re all finally in the lull of safety, Ao Lie lets his gaze fall on the Lotus Prince beside them.
Nezha was stationed just farther from the three of them, clearly unwilling to intrude on the closeness which had accumulated over only a few years. Still stationed on the flaming wheels, it seems as if he were scouting the lands beside them, once again checking to ensure no ambush would beset their group in such short notice. But most importantly, Ao Lie could muster that it was all in effort of an undertone—of the urge to ignore and deny. For he had done the same for so long.
“Prince Nezha,” He begins, almost frowning at the sudden flinch which shutters through the lotus. “Are you in need of healing as well?”
The answer to the question was an obvious yes, for crimson and petals muddled the prince’s side, an array of gashes and force carving into the celestial form. Yet all Nezha musters before him is the cross of his arms, the shake of his head.
“I’m grateful for your offer, but I will be fine,” Nezha hums, presumably in thought. “The Great Monk needs not to extinguish any energy on me. My duties in the Celestial Realm are needed, now that you are all safe.”
Ao Lie hums in response, and turns to gather the progress on his limb—letting out a sigh of relief as his gaze brings him a vision of skin now only yellow in nature, the worst of the eternal bleeding subsided alongside the dents in his marrow. The bone has yet to be shifted and set, but Ao Lie warbles quietly as soon as Tanzang’s efforts shift to that goal. He will never truly get used to feeling his own bones shift with such a magical force behind it all, but it was far better than the alternative of setting it himself.
“You could stay for dinner. It’s only right we give you at least a meal as thanks.” Ao Lie chimes, pursing his lips in a smile as Nezha seems almost taken aback.
“I could not possibly—”
“You are in no condition to create the travel seal, buddy.” Wukong interrupts, sliding his arm around the prince’s shoulder and forcing him to sit on the cramped boulder. Ao Lie hears Sha Wujing laugh from nearby, and the smell of tea permeates around them. “Just relax for once! You’ve grown way too stuffy the past few centuries.”
“I am not stuffy,” Nezha glares, using a ribbon to remove the simian’s arm from his form. “I have duties and a role to serve.”
Ao Lie yawns, waving his sleeve in the prince’s direction. “Just take a break with us until you're recovered, Prince Nezha.” He takes notice of the frown that paints the lotus’s features, and the dragon truly wonders why he seems so unnerved by the sound of his title leaving from a fanged jaw. Before he can question, however, the glow around him suddenly vanishes—and Sanzang stands from his place, urging Ao Lie to move his limb about gently. Complying, Ao Lie brings his leg to huddle against his chest; and at the lack of pain, he sighs.
“It would be an honor to serve you as thanks for today,” His master hums, turning to the prince with unearthly warmth. Ao Lie lets Wukong stand from the rock, lets him lay his arms around his neck and rest his head upon the dragon’s own. Silently, Ao Lie joins their fingers through his sleeve, and squeezes. “If you would prefer to not stay, then at least let me tend to the worst of your wounds. You should not spill blood for me.”
“...Very well.”
Ao Lie finds himself in a daze, enraptured by the sight of the Lotus Prince reluctantly raising his garments off his side—watching as the sickly red clings and peels from between the surfaces of silk and flesh. The wound is unsightly, particularly cruel, with uneven claws clearly attempting to kill what can not be burdened by death. A familiar glow returns as Sanzang begins his efforts anew, and through it all, Nezha averts them all.
“He’s acting off,” Wukong whispers to him, gently using his unused hand to run digits through silken, ivory locks. “Have you met him before?”
“No.” Ao Lie breathes, because he knows well should Nezha have even driven near the tides of the ocean that red would coat his uncle’s scales. “I was never allowed.”
“Hm.” Wukong hums, letting their shared knowledge instead tickle at Ao Lie’s roots with a warm breath. There was much to be said, but any attempts at gathering the words would leave Ao Lie to choke on his own spittle and falter—so instead, he shuts his eyes, and does not open them again until Nezha is gone.
Years leave their mark on Ao Lie’s body and mind before he is able to see his uncle once more.
His hair had long grown unruly and knotted, and without the promise of Wukong spending sleepless nights to unravel it all before sunrise, Ao Lie had instead opted to use his own claws to slice below his shoulders. It’s—melancholic, to think of. He’s of course relieved and delighted that never again would that circlet mark his friend’s forehead, that Zhu Bajie and Sha Wujing would no longer be disgraced by heaven and earth alike, that his Master no longer would be chased from afar from demons only to be consumed. But the mark of an end always was his least favorite in stories, after all. The effort of undoing his own hair left him unhappy, left him mourning a friendship not yet lost, so he did away with it all to hope that—once regrown—familiar palms would brush at his locks again.
His last moment spent with them all left salted orbs clinging to his lashes, unwilling to let go of an embrace that promised their friendship was not the end—and being away from them all, even now, felt just as sickening as when he left his uncle to begin with. Ao Lie can only hope to swallow it down, to stop himself from weeping openly before his family—even if, deep down, he knows his family is no longer marked only by the heritage of a dragon. Stepping through the barrier, his tired feet meet with cooling marble, and before him stands a man aged by grief and love.
“Uncle,” Ao Lie breathes, welcoming the smile that perks at his face as he extends his arms—and all in a moment, a form embraces his own. “Uncle.”
“Ao Lie.”
He’s home. He’s unsure why it feels so unfamiliar to him now.
Answers eventually greet him over the course of a week, beyond the nights spent of feasting and cheer.
Ao Lie has prodded his uncle enough to garner permission to invite the rest, knowing Ao Guang was far too thankful for his return to even muster his distaste of his rasher colleagues—and they’ve organized for a banquet, a month from now. Ao Lie knows he can see them all before then, but as he wanders the marble halls of the night, he—feels wrong, leaving just yet. Unwilling to open a tender wound in his uncle’s weary heart so soon.
Yet Ao Lie’s thoughts can only flash to flames of garnet and lotus, to a wound unspoken for a millennia, the second his eyes dare gaze on the portrait of his cousin.
Ao Bing.
Ao Lie could see their similarities, even if the very remnants of the dragon felt nothing more than a stranger to him. Marked by ivory hair, undertoned of greens and teals—they shared the same fang, bigger than the other, always tucked beneath a warbled lip. Their ears were garnished in uneven scales, the hair surrounding frayed and curled by years of oceanic coating.
Yet all Ao Lie could see, in those eyes not far from his own, was a stranger.
It was a contrast to his logical memory, of the years he spent gazing upwards at the woven canvas—he remembers being too small, his neck craning to even observe what was before him, before his uncle had lifted him in his arms gently and whispered unspoken regrets. He remembers growing to the same age, of wondering if the world would be any different if Ao Bing had not fallen and if Ao Lie had not been graced on the world. He remembers nights of bitter sobs, of peaking around the corner to see Ao Guang hunched before his forgotten son—remembers cursing out the name of Nezha, Nezha, Nezha.
Yet all that can greet Ao Lie now is the faint scent of saltwater, of the sounds of two boys laughing along the waves, of blood spilling, of ruby eyes drowning in remorse. His history suddenly feels far behind him, and belatedly, he realizes he never knew the real Ao Bing at all.
“Ao Lie?”
Tiredly, the younger dragon turns to peek over his shoulder, and meets the gaze in the midst of the dark. “Uncle.”
Ao Guang steps forward, and Ao Lie allows him to embrace his form, ignoring the unspoken question and emotion that this room brought to them both. Ao Lie reciprocates, curling his fingers into the strands of hair behind his uncle’s neck. They stay there, with the younger dragon straining on the tip of his feet to stay so closely wrapped in their embrace, before—for once—Ao Guang pulls away. His eyes are tired, as they always have been, yet now they’re sullied with the grief only a father could bear.
“What brings you to this place, xiaolong?” A grated voice asks, and Ao Lie blinks up at his uncle and frowns. They remain in silence, for far too long, far too little, before he finally wills the words to leave his body.
“Uncle, I…” Ao Lie starts, sighing out each syllable as quietly as he could manage. Something bubbles at the back of his throat, and the taste of cold tea rests on his tongue. “Was Ao Bing a good man?”
The way Ao Guang’s irises sharpen, a sucked in breath that leaves no room for answer—it hurts Ao Lie. It leaves his chest clenching uncomfortably, with foreign lungs and mortal bones chilling at the silence between it all. It was almost a foolish question to even ask—Ao Bing was not a man. His cousin had not even lived a century, no more than a decade before his demise, fire extinguished far faster than any dragon could even comprehend. The fifteenth rotation of earth is all Ao Bing had survived for, and Ao Lie was only a boy when grief had struck their family beyond repair.
His uncle heaves before him, and the younger watches shaking hands rest on his own shoulders before Ao Guang can even serve a word.
“...Ao Lie, I—”
“Uncle.” Ao Lie pleads, reaching his hands to rest gently on the sides of Ao Guang’s face—molding into the wrinkles and bags, of years of torment and isolation. Ao Lie pinches his eyebrows, letting the silence speak for him, speak what should have been spoken of years before.
Eventually, Ao Guang sighs. “...Your cousin was a bright, loving child. He—he was everything to me. To us. On the day of your birth he held you so gently. He cradled you with a smile, let you grasp and prod at his fingers and claws. He loved.” Ao Lie wills himself to remain quiet, and lets his uncle turn their gaze back to the portrait before them both. Distantly, Ao Lie can feel fire crawling in his veins.
“He was not quick to manners like you, my xiaolong. His mother and I spent many nights explaining his fire, how he cannot let it burn down what was around him—not in anger, nor in glee. But he was a joy. Your cousin would sneak away, would talk to the mortals and yearn to be with them. He was nothing short of everything.”
Ao Lie sucked in the frigid air between his teeth. “Say his name.”
The grief beside him is suffocating. It takes nearly everything Ao Lie has to not break down himself, to not let his face morph into agony and weep alongside the man beside him. But he cannot let himself do so, not when he’s come so far.
Ao Guang is quiet when he starts again, wavering. “Ao Lie—”
“Say his name, Ao Guang.” Ao Lie hisses, twisting on his heels to glare at the man who raised him for so long, who shielded him from the world of uncertainty, who urged for caution and safety and yet never the truth. He feels his lungs expand, gasping in the air his kind did not need. “You—I—I know nothing about Ao Bing. My entire life, all I have known was grief for a man long dead. All I have known was your anger when you thought I was not gazing—”
“Ao Lie—”
“All I have known was your contempt and grievances that have kept me scared. I have been so fearful of the world my entire life, so wary of making a single wrong step, for if I was gone I was so certain you would abandon immortality and let yourself rot. But then I—”
“Ao Lie, please.”
“No!” Ao Lie hisses, stepping towards a man he loved more than anything in all the realms, the action full of nothing but frustration and despair. “I have seen the world. I have seen mortals die, I have seen them weep, I have seen them born and I have seen them love. Mortals—they, they have every reason to be more fearful than I was. Their lifespans can hardly surmount to anything in our lives, yet they are able to spend every waking moment of it thriving!”
The younger dragon pants heavily, listening to his shouts echo throughout the chamber and back into his mind. His uncle says nothing, does nothing but stare in guilt, and for all the wrong reasons it hurts Ao Lie even more.
“...Yet you cannot even mutter your son’s name.” Ao Lie laughs, because what else could he do? “You—you’re keeping yourself, all of us, trapped in a cesspool of remorse for a man I don’t even know. Do you not think I deserve the right to know what happened? What he did for a boy to strike him down?”
Ao Guang bristles in front of him now, and Ao Lie knows he’s only dangering the situation—the chance he so desperately is reaching for—by doing this. But he needs to, because if it remains trapped in his skull any longer he will not know what to do.
“Do not bring that man into this, Ao Lie.” Ao Guang growls, the creases in his face gone from sadness to rage. “He is not worthy to be discussed here.”
“Why?!” Ao Lie shrieks, gripping at his hair tightly through silken sleeves as he grinds his teeth and seethes. “Why are you so afraid of talking about it? Why can we not focus on the reality of what happened? Why are you so scared!”
“Silence, Bai Long!” Ao Guang shouts, slamming his fist into the side of his own body as the two of them stand mere inches apart. “You know nothing of what that man did.”
Ao Lie lets out a noise, a laugh swirling between his guttural growls and warbling clicks—and he steps back, arms splayed far and wide, iris shrinking in misery and every ounce of rage he holds. “Nezha was a child!”
When he blinks, he sees a hand reaching for him, instincts screaming at him to run before the world suddenly stops in its place. His lungs are still, as is he, as he watches his uncle stutter and stare in horror at his own hands. Ao Lie cannot move, even as the man before him sinks to the floor, buries marble into his knees and weeps.
(“Wukong?” Ao Lie muttered, staring blankly at the clouds above. Hands were in his hair, gently untangling knots and bunches from the earlier battle. When the monkey hums in response, he sucks in a breath, and opens his mouth. “What happened to Nezha?”
Hands still, and Ao Lie tilts his neck in the monkey's lap to gaze at questioning eyes.
“You don’t know?”
“I was too scared to ever try.”)
Slowly, Ao Lie lets his shaking legs carry him closer to the man, shuffling his worn sandals against silent tiles. He curls his arms, slowly, tenderly, around the man who raised him, and leans his head to rest against the other.
(“Are you sure you want to know?” Wukong worried, stilling the previous motions to cup Ao Lie’s cheeks gently. “It’s… I dunno if I should tell it.”
“Neither man involved would ever tell me themselves,” Ao Lie sighed, shutting his eyes to a fleeting moment in battle—where his eyes caught on ruby, and in turn ruby caught his back. He hadn’t a moment to warn Nezha before the demon saw the opening and aimed to kill. “Prince Nezha can’t even look at me. I suppose it's my similarities to Ao Bing, but…”
Wukong sucks in a breath above him. “I think he’s just afraid of you.”)
Ao Lie fails to notice his own tears gently seeping before it’s pressed against the hair of his uncle, in turn pressed tightly against his face, and he listens. Listens to his own labored breathing, to his uncle’s own shaking hands, and wonders if Nezha ever got to hold someone like this again.
(“Why would he be afraid of me?” Ao Lie pouted, crossing his arms and shifting to sit more comfortably in the company of his friend. The others were sleeping soundly, with an occasional snore from Sha Wujing keeping him grounded in the now. “He’s so powerful, I truly couldn’t harm him if I wanted to.”
“That’s the thing.” Wukong added, turning to the night sky. “He wouldn’t stop you.”)
“...Uncle?” Ao Lie whispers, voice so small that he can hardly recognize it as his own. He feels like a child again, cradled against the warmth of a man who lost everything and more. “I…”
A hand stops him, large palms suddenly forcing Ao Lie’s embrace to push away, a gentle prodding only so Ao Guang can guide Ao Lie down—to hold each other, alone.
“I’m sorry. Ao Lie. Ao Bing.” The elder weeps, and Ao Lie cannot help to hold him closer, and cries.
The next few months were supposed to be for adjusting, to settle himself into the court of his family and to organize his own personal efforts into creating safer travel for mortals across not only the sea, but their own lands. He had first brought up his proposal to Sha Wujing at the banquet, and a crushing hug was all the answer he needed to hear. But it was all put on sudden postponement, when he woke up one morning and felt the world burn.
“Are you all ready?” Sanzang calls from below, and Ao Lie—curled protectively in his serpentine form—watches the three beings circle the center of the platform. If it were not for the stakes at hand, not for the mere agony brought by the Samadhi Fire coursing from the child before them; he would be certain that Nezha would be anywhere else. Anywhere away from him.
The events play out in a blur for him, as he watches in a daze at the child shrieking in delight, festering a black fire that would soon consume them all. It was cruel, the way of the world, how mere children were granted powers they knew not the consequences of. He had seen it so many times, and he wonders if when he dies, his successors will be burdened the same.
The earth rumbles, crashing waves of force amplifying through even the highest mountain they could manage. The seal is began effortlessly by Sanzang, an ethereal glow perpetuating from the grooves below. The air is suffocating, humid beyond comprehension, and all Ao Lie can do is curl further around his friends and pray.
Pray that another child need not suffer again.
It is in his prayers that he makes a fatal mistake; watches Wukong stutter in their guise, watches the black ashes flee from an everlasting soul. He can do nothing, nothing but shield and take what he must, to ensure that their deaths do not permanently scar this sacred place and burn. Ao Lie feels nothing, at first, only the faintest hit of fire meeting his temple as the others regroup into formation. But as they continue, as the child screams, he is certain that he is dying. His very soul feels attuned to nothing but lava and despair, melting down his walls and bones and flesh until he is nothing but a catalyst for the end, until—
It’s over.
Ao Lie hears the sounds of shaken gasps, of metal hitting the floor, of a father running to cradle his son so dearly. He yearns to see, he yearns to ensure they are all safe, but when he moves all he can do is groan.
It’s in him.
Ao Lie can feel it aside his beating heart, along the blood coursing in his veins. It’s lodged between his ribs, searing in golden containment and vanquish, and it burns. It’s harder to breathe, now, space so limited and suddenly so necessary, because he knows, now—that he is dying. Immortality seeps from his form, dripping into the cracks below, and he cannot mourn its absence in favor of the alternative.
“My friend,” Ao Lie hears Sanzang plead from below, and opening his eyes reveals a face of kind. Sanzang was at first so closed off, so suited in his ideals, yet had eroded to the force of their bond. “are you—?”
“I am alright.” Ao Lie heaves, offering the most of a smile he could muster in this form. It hurt to lie, but Sanzang’s relief in turn comforted his own worries. He watches, lets the events play out, stifles his laughter as Zhu Bajie and Sha Wujing tackle Sanzang to the ground in cheer. Watches as Nezha scolds Wukong, flaring his ribbons about as he had so long ago. Watches as Princess Iron Fan hurries up the steps, huddling to cradle her child—her child who was safe—with her love.
Ao Lie reflects, briefly. He decides he wouldn't have this situation any different.
It is only when the minutes pass and he is able to return to his humanoid form, when he stretches out his limbs and struggles to get used to the flaring heat which accompanies the motion, that he notices. Ao Lie blinks, dazing idly at the form of Nezha—who had abandoned the flaming wheels—huddling closely to the demons ahead. He hears the child cry, smiling, and makes his decision once more.
Ao Lie reaches out—and clasps a hand in his own.
Nezha gasps.
The sound of molten steel hitting against frozen stone echoes solemnly, a father reaching for his child not soon after. He’s acutely aware of the situation, of how they are undoubtedly alive, yet still finds himself petrified with the ring in his hands.
He was certain he was going to die today.
Nezha was not one of grim circumstances—he truthfully took value in seeing all possibilities, of fighting until his body could no longer move, of serving his orders until the bitter end. But he had walked into the ceremony today, so sure of himself that he was going to die, that he would burn to flames and never awaken again. He was only even here because it was a child. (Like him, burdened by a fate too strong, with the power to ruin it all. But he was no child anymore.)
Nezha had urged Quanyin to choose another for the ceremony, had insisted that his body could not handle the flames; that his blood and veins and lotus rooted lungs would evaporate the second they even tried. But she had held him dear, carried him close, and assured that he was the one. Nezha doesn’t remember crying, but later on, his brother insisted he had. (Not that he was sure he could trust his brothers, who looked as much as strangers after that day.)
So as the ring places itself firmly in his grasp, he breathes. He inhales the air as he never did before, and warily turns his gaze to the life surrounding him. Princess Iron Fan had arrived, was curled with her loving dears, and Nezha felt something tighten in his chest before he decidedly took that emotion elsewhere.
Slamming the ring down on the simian’s forehead, Nezha finds minimal joy out of the apparent pain it caused, ignoring the sound of protest in favor of wincing at how rough his voice was. Briefly, he felt petals fill his lungs. “Great job, Wukong. Way to almost get us all killed!”
Despite his words, Sun Wukong seems to only grin before him, cocking an eyebrow as he always did in mockery of his ideas.
“Chill out, Nezha! It all worked out in the end,” Wukong replies, swinging his own ring in front of Nezha’s face. He keeps his own at a distance, willing the ribbon to hold it as far as he can. “Fire’s split, no harm done… Eh? Eh?”
“Don’t push your luck, Wukong.” Nezha sighs, letting his shoulders drop in exhaustion and relief. It still didn’t feel real, if he were to be honest, but he was never one to admit truth to his own heart. “...Thank you.”
“No problem.” Wukong hums, patting Nezha’s own back lightly before wandering elsewhere—to what he can only presume is his friends, but he dare not look and find out. (Because the last time he saw those eyes, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t see, and he felt seven all over again.)
Turning his ruby gaze, he glances to ensure that the damage was minimal—finds that the worst of the burns were applied only to the clothes of those involved. Ever worried, however, ever graced with his role to protect every child to hold dear—he lets himself fall. Lets his feet collide with the earth, the familiar flames gone in favor of his body which felt all too wrong, and steps forward.
The second he grows too close, Nezha has to force himself to not flinch, as an angered growl permeates from the demon before him, laced in instinct and the urge to protect. He would not say he is sympathetic of the Demon Bull King in any capacity, nor would will himself to try, but—the Princess, even as she fell from the heavens, had garnered a respect Nezha felt for few. She was different from the heavenly bureaucracy, she had found a quick tongue and mind to serve before manners and courtesy, and—for perhaps the first time in his life—held no contempt nor pity in her gaze as she saw Nezha. (“You’re happy dressed like that?” He remembers her say, and it was all he could think of for the coming years.)
“Princess—Demon Bull King, I… may I—” Nezha stutters, sucking in a breath as he stands expectantly before the two. He’s aware his knees are trembling, but to acknowledge it now would only bring him to unnecessary anguish. “I was wondering if I could—”
A hand grabs his, and tenderly, the Princess holds out the boy for him to see.
Nezha cries. He feels the tears steadily build up against his eyes, clinging to lashes and stability as he gazes so fondly at the child before him. The boy was unscathed, was without a nick or scratch in sight, and was tiredly sucking on his thumb as if he were not dooming the world moments prior. Nezha, shakily, reaches a hand to gently hold the baby’s cheek—and freezes the second tiny hands reach back, curl around his finger and bring his hand closer, dousing his digits in drool.
“I think he likes you,” The Princess laughs, quietly, and he feels himself lean gently against her in order to gaze down at the boy. “His name is Red Son.”
“He’s—” Nezha chokes. “He’s everything.”
The Demon Bull King huffs in affirmation next to him, and the Princess could only force his gaze away to lock eyes with him. “That he is.”
So Nezha stays.
He stays, unwavering, as he hears Wukong disappear and several pairs of feet wander carefully on ancient staircases. He stays, so certain it is just him and Red Son alone in this world, before a sudden warmth envelops his free hand and doesn’t let go.
Twisting his neck, Nezha watches as Ao Lie keeps a caring daze down at the child, and feels the dragon squeeze his hand tightly before interlocking their fingers. His mouth is open, agape, yet he cannot say anything—cannot say the apologies he has been harboring for years, the pleas to end his immortality, the urges to say all he ever could of Ao Bing—because when Ao Lie finally looks back, there is nothing in green eyes but love.
“I—you—” Nezha tries, failing to properly account for the air necessary at this very moment, sputtering over his own coughs. “Ao Lie, I—”
“I know,” The dragon hums, and Nezha feels the world falling down as Ao Lie’s head rests against his shoulder. Both of their eyes are focused back on the child, now, and Ao Lie’s free hand is caressing his head of red hair fondly. “I forgive you.”
Nezha hiccups, and for the first time—he feels alive.