Archive of Our Own

Shang Qinghua is tired.

He has been tired for a while now.

Blinking sluggishly, he stares at the single candle lit in his room, until the flame gets blurred, until his eyes water a little.

With a sigh, he gazes at the scrolls in front of him, the characters all mushy. For a moment, he contemplates the idea of throwing all his work away, maybe setting it on fire… he could say it was an accident. However, it’s not like that would stop the work from coming. Cang Qiong needs him, needs his approvals and skills and whatnot, even if his peak is frowned upon by all the cultivation world.

Shang Qinghua has no one to blame but himself, really. This, all of this, is his fault, including the paperwork.

Who in their right mind would write a novel and include a place specialized in logistics? Well, a crazy, starved, sleep-deprived man, of course.

It’s kind of funny, in that sweet, sorrowful way, that he once lived a life like that — writing senselessly, more than ten thousand words a day, living on coffee and instant noodles — only to be transmigrated into a life that was, in the end, quite similar. He didn’t have coffee, though, which was a pity.

But the exhaustion, is that kind that makes Shang Qinghua’s mind blank, makes him forget important things.

Nothing would ever change in his life anyway, maybe this was his karma or something, to live like this. This world was his; he had written all of it, every detail, every character, flower, monster, and demon. Everything. And still, here he is, staring at this scroll for hours now.

It’s… it’s a request from Qian Cao Peak. Apparently, Mu Qingfang needs this specific flower for testing a new medicine, and his head disciple wrote twenty pages on why this flower is so crucial for their research.

Right. A flower. Another one of the many flowers he wrote back then.

It had been so long.

How many years now?

He had lost count.

Closing his eyes for a few seconds, he wonders if this is what people used to call a mid-life crisis. Maybe. If he counted both of his lives, he would probably be reaching his sixties by now.

Ah, he shakes all those thoughts off. What’s the point of thinking about the before and the now when he has to revise this, and also look at the other requests from the other peaks? He works in a rush so he can go back to the Northern Palace quickly, before his king comes barging on An Ding Peak demanding him to come back.

Really, both human and demon realms couldn’t get going by themselves without Shang Qinghua’s overseeing the most boring things.

It was tiring.

And his king… Mobei-Jun… he… Shang Qinghua preferred not to think about him too much. Thoughts of Mobei-Jun always leave him with a sour feeling. Not that they’re on bad terms, not at all! In fact, if Shang Qinghua compared their rough beginning with how they are now, their relationship is spectacular. However...

Shang Qinghua is really, really tired if he’s thinking about his nonexistent relationship with Mobei-Jun.

Sure, they spent many years working together, and sure, both of them saved each other more times than Shang Qinghua can count. And okay, there was that time when Mobei-Jun saved him from his horrible uncle and cooked him noodles, and it was really nice. But then, hm. Shang Qinghua fucked up, or maybe Mobei-Jun did. It was kind of uncertain. They did try to get intimate, but it was one of the worst situations Shang Qinghua had ever gone through, and look, Shang Qinghua had lived through a lot. Ever since that fateful night, well. They kept pretending nothing ever happened between them, and that was it. Mobei-Jun was still the Lord of the Northern Palace, and Shang Qinghua was… many things. Advisor, ambassador, head of the staff, a spy when that was needed — rarely now, assistant, secretary, Mobei-Jun’s personal attendant when the man was too tired, and so on and so on. Shang Qinghua did everything in the Northern Palace, mainly because he knew many things — he is the creator of this world — of importance, but even that was getting old.

It had been five years since Mobei-Jun had cooked him noodles. Shang Qinghua wasn’t counting, but he just… knew.

And it was useless to think about it and to think about Mobei-Jun.

Staring at the scroll in front of him, Shang Qinghua makes up his mind. There’s no reason to dwell on what-ifs and whatnots. He needs to work anyway.

Who even needs sleep when they had reached a point in cultivation where sleep is meaningless? Hah, Shang Qinghua can do this, of course he can.

✧

Shang Qinghua barely sees the morning rising. His eyes feel tired, his head aches with that kind of pain he knows it won’t go away quickly, but still, the sounds of the morning birds flying around An Ding Peak pushes him away from his work.

Honestly, Shang Qinghua was never a morning person. In both of his lives, mornings were always the hardest, maybe because of his late nights, maybe because mornings were never his thing. However, staying awake all night had its perks. See, now he can watch the sunrise in all its glory, can gaze at the skies turning from pink to gold to blue, and it is quite lovely.

Even if he never described how mornings started in Proud Immortal Demon Way, the System created it in a fashion much like in his other life. Slow, silent, pretty. Obviously, not all mornings were like that, especially on the Northern Palace, with its never-ending harsh winter. But sometimes… sometimes even there they were pretty.

With the morning comes a type of tiredness that has nothing to do with his work. The kind of tiredness that he has been feeling for far too long now. It sinks into his bones, his heart, it makes him blink slowly, breathing becomes hard. The exhaustion of living, he supposes.

But with the morning, it also comes his duties, and he can’t stop now. Not when he needs to talk to his head disciple, arrange everything so An Ding Peak can operate without him for a couple of weeks. Not when he needs to go back to his real home.

Home.

Just thinking about the Northern Palace like that is odd.

He shakes his head, there’s no time for nonsense.

With a sigh, Shang Qinghua forces himself to finish up the pile of scrolls he still needs to look at.

✧

Shang Qinghua’s head disciple is a girl who rarely smiles but gets her work done. She’s an actual sweetheart, Shang Qinghua thinks, and he’s glad to have her around. She’s distant, cold, competent, and, the most important, she cares. She cares about An Ding Peak, and strangely enough, she cares about Shang Qinghua.

In her own aloof way, she frets over him, sternly saying that he needs to rest more, and if she sees him working overnight again, she will take care of everything on Shang Qinghua’s stead. He laughs at that, asking if she intends to take over the peak lord seat this fast. She blushes, looks away, and Shang Qinghua is endeared by that. She’s a nice girl, a pity that he can’t stay much. With a pat on her head — that makes him earn a scowl — he jumps on his sword and flies away.

Shang Qinghua could use the portal talisman Mobei-Jun had given him years and years ago, of course he could. But there’s something about flying on a sword that makes it impossible for Shang Qinghua to not choose this route from now and then. Sometimes he doesn’t have the time to do it, since it takes roughly five hours of flying to reach the Northern Palace from An Ding Peak. But sometimes. Well. Shang Qinghua doesn’t like to call it procrastination, but it kinda is.

By flying, he can look at his world from above, can stare at the rivers and mountains and cities, can feel like a god again.

It’s a fleeting emotion, which gets twisted with pride and aversion.

It’s hard to explain, so he doesn’t think much about it.

Despite his own feelings, the world is beautiful. Flying brings him a spark of joy in his heart, even with all the exhaustion piling up and up and up; there’s the wind, making stray strands of hair fall from his messy bun, making his eyes water a little. There’s also the scent of humidity that permeates the air, it helps him stay awake for the whole journey. And below, the vastness of the world he had created.

He’s not stupid to think everything had come from his imagination, he knows that, in some way, the System turned this world into a thing of its own. But in all its rough edges, in every tree, flower, beast, and person, there’s a piece of Shang Qinghua — as disgusting as it is.

He also tries not to think much about it, because it’s terrifying, scary. However, sometimes, nowadays more often than not, he sees himself entering that spiral of thought.

Could Shang Qinghua be blamed by every misfortune that has ever happened? And could he be praised and adored by every miracle that has ever appeared?

Could he?

And if even the clouds, touching his face, damping his hair, are a creation of his own, then, what that makes of him?

Slowing down, he decides to try to focus on other things. He lays down on his sword, half of his body almost falling from it, but he knows he won’t slip, he had been doing this for a while now. Like this, it almost feels like he’s laying down on a boat, staring at the bottom of the sea. He gazes at the villages and at the forests. He usually flies way too high for anyone to spot him, which is a blessing when he crosses the borders and enters the demon realm.

Around here, the scenario isn’t as lavish and full of life, Shang Qinghua’s own fault, really. But there’s also some sort of beauty in it, if one is intended to find. There’s a kind of wilderness, of raw energy, it makes his body shake with anxiety and longing. He observes the ruins of a fortress, the small cities and their rocky walls, the trade routes, created not by Airplane, but by Shang Qinghua and Mobei-Jun.

And as the lands below become more and more barren, white with frost, as the clouds kissing him turn cold, Shang Qinghua can’t help but get up again and rush.

The snow that falls feels like a gentle caress of an old friend, and it hadn’t even been a week since he had been gone. But.

Yes, home.

As the Northern Palace comes into view, Shang Qinghua’s heart skips a beat.

✧

Shang Qinghua doesn’t have time to see where Mobei-Jun is at the time he arrives. He’s swiftly pushed to a meeting with a bunch of ice demons to discuss the new tax laws they’ve been envisioning. Then, after that, he has to oversee some matters in the kitchens because, apparently, one of the cooks got poisoned by god knows what, and only Shang Qinghua knew what could even poison demons like that. In reality, he didn’t have a clue on what it could be, but when he reaches the kitchens, full of demons, smoke, and meat, he quickly finds the culprit. One of the hunters had brought a strange beast from the western forests, and of course, it had to be one of those super poisonous and vicious beasts Shang Qinghua’s over-caffeinated mind had written so long ago. Brushing it off and writing a list of what could and couldn’t be eaten, he finds himself stuck in the inventory room with one of its keepers. Sure, Shang Qinghua didn’t need to come down here to look at old treasures and dangerous weapons every time. Still, something about listing all that paraphernalia always made him relax.

It’s the mechanical motions, the way his brain quickly supplies to him the information he needs about daggers, talismans, pendants, instruments, jewelry, charms, and everything in between. There are times he doesn’t remember his old writings; Airplane surely wrote more details than what was needed for a trashy stallion novel. However, the memories come to him fast the moment he holds any object on his hands.

It’s simple like that.

And it never fails to soothe his raging mind.

Shang Qinghua is restless. He always is, in some way, but today he’s just a little bit more. It’s his lack of sleep, probably, or the fact that he hadn’t seen Mobei-Jun for quite some time now.

Even coming down to the inventory isn’t helping; he knows he must be a handful today. He feels his mouth moving and knows that he’s probably babbling some bullshit about the old vial he’s been holding for minutes now. He knows, but he can’t stop. God bless the fellow demon who’s having to keep up with the mess that is Shang Qinghua. The oddest part of it all is that the demon isn’t even hissing to him — yet.

In all honesty, it has been a couple of years since demons stopped being bullies to him. Not that he’s as respected as Mobei-Jun or Luo Binghe are, hell, Shang Qinghua doesn’t even have a third of the respect Shen Qingqiu gets, but that’s to be expected. He’s really not complaining. Nowadays, Shang Qinghua only receives mild glares from the court’s elders, and that’s it. The rest of the Northern Palace — and, by proxy, the rest of the Demon Realm — all treat him with some kind of neutrality, or, in some cases, curiosity. A few times, demons came to him with other intentions, sure, who wouldn’t when Shang Qinghua was Mobei-Jun’s sole advisor, the most trusted person? But then again, all those demons met a swift ending.

He chuckles at that, and finally gazes away from the old thing in his hands to look at the demon beside him.

Amid his hazy mind, Shang Qinghua can barely remember the demon’s name, it’s hard to remember things when your mind is going at the speed of light. However, he notices the demon is taking notes of everything Shang Qinghua has been saying since they stepped inside.

It’s sort of endearing, in some twisted way, to see this scrawny demon, with spikes on his back and a mouth full of sharp teeth, look at Shang Qinghua as if he could explain the meaning of life in a second.

Endearing, and odd.

“Where’s Mobei-Jun?” He asks, he needs to. The question makes him focus on the here and now.

The demon all but pales at that. Again, odd. Shang Qinghua shouldn’t be the reason for that, maybe he should start remembering their names. Or is this because of the last time he came down here and yelled at another keeper about the dirty state of the inventory? It could be both, though.

“He – His Highness is away, Lord Shang.”

Right, of course he is, otherwise Shang Qinghua would have seen him by now.

Placing the old vial on its place on the wooden shelf, Shang Qinghua begins to walk further away, inspecting the room’s neatness. It seems that yelling did bring good results after all.

“Do you know when he’s coming back?” He throws the question in the air, mindlessly.

It’s not a surprise to see the demon stammering a little, really, Shang Qinghua should take more pity on him, but he feels so detached right now.

“I – no, Lord Shang, this one apologizes.”

Shang Qinghua hums, his eyes catching a small blue light in the corner of the room.

Taking a few steps towards the source of light, Shang Qinghua bends down to observe it. There’s an opened dark wooden box, and inside of it, a silver crown placed on black velvet. The piece is well crafted, and, in the middle of it, a single blue gem takes place, shining beautifully. Shang Qinghua moves to pick it, not having any recollection of such a thing, but he stops, looking back at the demon.

“What is this?”

“This is – uh.” The demon kneels beside him, his eyes looking from Shang Qinghua to the crown. “This is our latest Queen’s crown, Lord Shang.”

“Oh.”

Mobei-Jun’s mother?

Getting up, he walks away, mixed feelings settling in his mind.

“Do you want us to move it?” The demon asks, sounding strangely eager.

“No need,” he replies, not even glancing back. “You finish the list and send it to me by tomorrow.”

And with that, Shang Qinghua leaves the inventory.

Maybe he should catch some rest if thoughts of Mobei-Jun’s mother are making him this agitated, but what can he do? Shang Qinghua never wrote a line about her. He had never even thought about creating a friendly environment for Mobei-Jun. Granted, when Shang Qinghua was Airplane, he hadn’t imagined he would once be transmigrated to his own work. But now, here he is, having to deal with all the stupidity of his own world. What even happened to Mobei-Jun’s mother? Was she a good person — demon? Or was she as cold as the Northern lands? Was she proud and regal, beautiful just like Mobei-Jun? Did she at least give some kind of love to her son?

Shang Qinghua would never know, and it was impossible to ask the man himself. Not because of lack of intimacy, but because he actually feared the answers.

And it was, in the end, all Shang Qinghua’s fault.

He wrote Mobei-Jun as his ideal man, strong, proud, gorgeous, and cool, but he never had the opportunity to write about his past. The worst part is that what he did write was full of pain and betrayal and—

Shang Qinghua arrives at his bedchamber more quickly than intended. He looks at the heavy doors across the icy corridors, at the doors leading to Mobei-Jun’s own chambers, and sighs. No lights are coming from under the doors, which is to be expected. Still, disappointment settles in him.

Taking a deep breath to steady his mind (heart), he opens the doors of his own rooms.

✧

It’s cold in the room, even with the magical fire from the hearth, even with all the sheets and pelts displayed on the bed.

Shang Qinghua is used to the cold by now. The chill that seeps into his bones makes him shiver not because of his never-ending anxiety, but because of something more. He is used, but most of the time, Mobei-Jun is around to bask Shang Qinghua on spiritual energy, so he usually doesn’t feel the crippling cold of the Northern Palace.

As it stands, Shang Qinghua is alone now, with the cold and the lavishness of his chambers.

It feels empty, somehow, even with the big bed, the fireplace, his desk filled with bureaucracy, requests, paperwork. Scrolls and scrolls that don’t help him understand much of anything.

He takes off his robes slowly, letting the frosty air encircle him.

It does feel like home.

After all those years, Shang Qinghua took a liking to it, to the way he gets goosebumps every time, to the way his body trembles.

His night robes are neatly separated on top of the bed, and he takes a couple of seconds to decide if he should just lay naked and be done with it.

But what if someone enters, what if someone sees him like that…

Shang Qinghua can’t afford that.

The silky night robes hug him in a tender embrace, and like this, he can’t almost feel like a person again.

His mind is so hazy, he’s so tired…

The bed welcomes him as an old friend, and he sighs in contentment before closing his eyes.

However, despite his exhaustion, sleep doesn’t come.

A hundred thoughts and memories flash through his mind, all the what-ifs and whatnots. What he should do and what he shouldn’t.

The failure, too.

For a moment, he wonders if every creator feels like this.

Not that he can consider himself one, it’s just that, well. When Shang Qinghua was writing Proud Immortal Demon Way, he didn’t think about the consequences. Who would? Really? He needed to pay his bills and stay alive, that should be enough to take off the blame.

And yet, here he is, in this world, where everything is more or less organized by now, and happy endings did happen.

And yet, the emptiness.

Tossing and turning, Shang Qinghua decides sleep won’t bless him tonight, so the most logical thing to do would be to get up and get done with some more work.

But even that feels hollow.

How long it had been since he had last dreamt?

With nothing else left to do, Shang Qinghua begins to touch himself. He had long cast away his shame in favor to quench his perpetual thirst. And it’s easy, so easy, to shift his mind to images of big hands, sharp nails painted in black; to strong muscles, a broad chest; sharp fangs, blue eyes, that black hair that falls and falls and shines; the sharp nose, the blue demon mark; the way that strong body holds him from time to time. Not even the memories from their first (terrible, horrible) first time can deter Shang Qinghua of thinking about his king.

Mobei-Jun is… he’s perfect, the image of perfection in Shang Qinghua’s eyes. Or he should be.

But, not even thinking about Mobei-Jun is helping.

Shang Qinghua stops his work abruptly, panting, staring at the high ceiling.

There’s this feeling in his chest, one that he had been harboring for so long, cultivating it like a precious flower. It had begun flourishing the moment he imagined this character because he needed an escape. He needed something to bring him joy to work on Proud Immortal Demon Way. He needed someone strong, cold, handsome. Perfect. And thus, Mobei-Jun was born.

Shang Qinghua wrote senseless smut like a maniac, but whenever there was a scene with Mobei-Jun, he took the utmost care.

Because he cared. He cares.

Mobei-Jun was (is) the image of what Shang Qinghua could never achieve: strength, respect, beauty.

As a human, Shang Qinghua was (is) flawed. As a writer, a creator, maker, he unintentionally spilled much about himself in his characters.

The fear of betrayal (his parents’ divorce, leaving Shang Qinghua to his own devices), the need for loyalty (the wish for a place to call home), the rage (everyone left, they always do, always will), the loneliness (everyone lives and dies alone, Shang Qinghua knows this all too well).

It all comes crashing down at him, and he’s suddenly scared and confused.

Hastily getting out of bed, he throws a thick cloak around himself and puts on his boots. He can’t stay laying down, his mind goes to places.

A night walk is perfect, right? To clear his mind, clear everything.

Maybe some wine would help, too.

Maybe, maybe…

The corridors of the Northern Palace are empty, as expected. Shang Qinghua knows there are hidden guards at every corner. He himself planned and implemented this. (My king, please, I know you can take care of yourself, but what if I’m alone?)

He arrives at a courtyard, the snow piling up on the ground. There are no trees at the palace, but Shang Qinghua doesn’t mind much when the view from above is usually beautiful. The sky is always a treasure in the north, and tonight it shines to Shang Qinghua with thousands of star-like jewels.

The wind picks up and shakes Shang Qinghua from his spot. He lets the cold clutch to him. It’s home, home. And love.

Shang Qinghua loves Mobei-Jun, he truly does. For so many years now. It’s that kind of love that hurts and bleeds and brings joy and happiness.

As Airplane, Shang Qinghua had loved Mobei-Jun as his perfect creation, his ideal man. As Shang Qinghua, he loves Mobei-Jun because he’s perfect, he’s his ideal man.

Is it right to do so, though?

Blinking at the stars, trembling with the winds, Shang Qinghua prays for his thoughts to stop. They don’t, and they persevere, bringing him a question he was always too afraid to ask himself: is it right for him to love Mobei-Jun? Isn’t Mobei-Jun just a part of himself in the end? If yes, then, can Shang Qinghua love himself?

It’s a little bit too much, and the tiredness, and the cold and the longing. It’s all too much for him.

Shang Qinghua always cried too easily.

He feels it, the cold drops falling down his cheeks. He’s lucky there’s no one to see him now.

✧

Shang Qinghua doesn’t know for how long he stays there out in the open, he observes the snow and the swift changes of the few clouds in the sky. The stars.

The trail of tears on his face is almost frozen, probably, and he’s sure he has been shaking for a while now. So, it’s a surprise when he feels a jolt of spiritual energy surrounding him with warmth and—

He turns his head, stunned.

Mobei-Jun is there, standing, looking at Shang Qinghua with a frown. It could be out of worry or out of anger.

Shang Qinghua opens his mouth to say something, anything, but he finds himself with no words at the sight of his king.

It’s the longing, and the guilt, and the way Mobei-Jun looks — he looks beautiful, handsome, perfect — tired. The way his always pristine robes are wrinkled.

“My king…” Shang Qinghua finally says.

Dazed, confused, yearning.

“What are you doing here?” Mobei-Jun speaks, in that low tone of his.

He sounds tired, too.

“I – I couldn’t find sleep, my king.”

Mobei-Jun hums, takes Shang Qinghua by the hand, and starts to guide him inside. Shang Qinghua lets him, of course he does, it’s common for Mobei-Jun to do this sort of stuff, but every time it happens, it feels just like the first time and Shang Qinghua, he — it’s his heart, it can’t stop beating fast.

However, different from the other times, Mobei-Jun turns left instead of right, and guides Shang Qinghua to his own chambers, closing the door with a little more force than necessary.

Years of dealing with Mobei-Jun tells Shang Qinghua that his king is in a bad mood. If it’s because of Shang Qinghua himself or another matter entirely, it’s impossible to know.

He waits, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room as Mobei-Jun walks to the panel screen to change.

The noises of robes being taken off, a sigh of tiredness, the shadow of Mobei-Jun undressing. They’re all things that ground him, somehow.

It’s not easy, but Shang Qinghua tries to forget all about his past thoughts in order to be the Shang Qinghua his king needs.

Because that’s something Shang Qinghua noticed, after all those years and years, Mobei-Jun finds it relaxing when Shang Qinghua talks his brains out. He does. There’s this little upturn of his lips whenever Shang Qinghua babbles some nonsense.

“My king, ah my king,” he begins. “How have you been doing? Where were you? I arrived today too, you know, fixed those tax laws we’re trying to implement, oh, I also went to the inventory today. Did you know that they cleaned it all? It’s looking very neat now my king, which is for the best, you know, we don’t want dust on all of those prizes and—”

“Shang Qinghua.”

He stops, blinks, and gazes at Mobei-Jun in all his night-robes glory. Black satin, contrasting with the pale skin, the black hair falling down one shoulder. He still looks tired, but there’s a glint of another emotion on his face. Something more open.

A view only Shang Qinghua can have.

It pains him.

He looks down, fidgeting with the end of his cloak.

“You look tired,” Mobei-Jun says, moving around the room, not sparing Shang Qinghua a single glance.

“I—” He starts but stops. Almost blurting out you too, my king.

“Come.”

Shang Qinghua looks up, at Mobei-Jun already in bed, patting the space by his side.

“My king?” He asks because he needs to.

It’s not often that they share a bed, but it happens from time to time, after long straining hours of work, or when Shang Qinghua feels too fragile to be left alone. Sometimes, it happens because Mobei-Jun wants to. Those occasions are rare, little treasures in Shang Qinghua’s life. And they never — not after that day — do anything other than sleep. It’s soothing, it’s good, to feel another body close, to hear the steady breathing of a person you hold close to your heart. It’s everything, and too intimate for Shang Qinghua’s liking, even if he yearns and wants and cries inside. There’s trust in the act of sleeping together. Trust.

Mobei-Jun trusts Shang Qinghua.

With wobbly legs, Shang Qinghua follows his king’s command (as always, forever), taking off his cloak and boots and settling in bed.

It’s not as warm as Shang Qinghua’s own bed, which is to be expected, no ice demon would let their bed get too warm anyway. But it does feel as perfect as Shang Qinghua remembers. He probably makes a face of contentment, because, in the next moment, Mobei-Jun lets out a hum of approval and swiftly extinguishes the fires from the room with his powers.

In the dark, Shang Qinghua feels Mobei-Jun moving, getting comfortable, so near, so close.

And Shang Qinghua’s mind — it is raging still. He thinks about Mobei-Jun, and how he desires the man so much and how that should probably be wrong, and even if it were right, it’s not like it could work. And then, and then, Mobei-Jun is—

“I was overseeing some troubles up North.”

Shang Qinghua stops his train of thought, shifting so he’s facing Mobei-Jun in bed. Even in the dark, his demon mark glows a faint blue, making it possible for him to stare at the handsome features.

“Hm?”

“You asked me.”

“Oh, of course,” he answers, not knowing if he should ask more. The silence and the dark, they make Shang Qinghua think before speaking. Or, maybe it’s the way he’s feeling too comfortable, or, how he can’t stop looking at Mobei-Jun and whatever could come out of his mouth would be inappropriate. Probably.

In the faint blue light, Mobei-Jun closes his eyes and shifts, getting closer to Shang Qinghua. Still not touching (they never touch, not in bed, not like that).

“Right where the ice meets the sea,” he says, sounding sleepy, dreamy.

“What – what were you doing so far away, my king?”

Shang Qinghua never wrote much about the northern regions, but in some way, the System created villages, cities, fortresses. A whole culture with beliefs and rituals. It filled up all the empty spaces Airplane left behind. That’s how this place — the ice meeting the sea — was created. If you travel north forever, you will arrive there, with only ice and a sea that should be frozen, but it’s not. There are only a few ice demons that venture to live in such a place. Shang Qinghua would have never known about it if it wasn’t for a letter he had received from some of those demons, seeking help from their king.

Shang Qinghua never imagined that Mobei-Jun would go there personally.

“There had been reports about lights in the sky. I was curious, it could be a curse.”

He feels himself frown. Lights in the sky? As he remembers, the letter only mentioned a shortage of food.

“Did you find it?”

Mobei-Jun opens his eyes, the blue in them shining.

“Yes,” he answers. “It wasn’t a curse.” A pause, a raise of eyebrows. “Tomorrow we talk.”

And then Mobei-Jun does the unexpected, encircling Shang Qinghua with his arms and nudging him close, so close, Shang Qinghua doesn’t have any other option other than to rest his head on Mobei-Jun’s chest.

There’s a heart in there, real, alive, beating steadily.

“Rest.” Mobei-Jun repeats.

Shang Qinghua can only try to comply.

✧

It could all be a dream, but Shang Qinghua wakes on Mobei-Jun’s bed, entangled in the many bedsheets. He’s alone, of course, as expected. Morning cuddles were never their thing, mainly because there wasn’t anything going on between them. But even then… Mobei-Jun’s scent still covers the sheets, and it’s so… it calms Shang Qinghua, it makes him remember that he’s here, that this is real and not a very well-crafted never-ending dream.

And Mobei-Jun, he is—

He steps into the room, bearing a look of indifference to his still dripping body and hair. He probably just got out of the bath, and if he forgot Shang Qinghua was here or not, it doesn’t even matter. Shang Qinghua is used to see his king half-naked like this.

Not that Shang Qinghua doesn’t get embarrassed and horny every time. Still.

Mobei-Jun is perfect and so, so.

Mobei-Jun is flawed.

The thought appears in his mind like a white light, blinding everything.

He stares at the man with his eyes half-open.

Shang Qinghua had crafted Mobei-Jun to his ideal image of a man, yes, and he should be (he is). But. Mobei-Jun walks through the room, damping the floor, making a mess of it while apparently looking for something. He’s always very pristine and organized, however, on the intimacy of his bedchambers, Mobei-Jun can let that mask out. Shang Qinghua knows, had seen it countless times, how his king would scowl and (almost) pout at a lost object (a comb, a piece of jewelry, a piece of paper, sometimes even Shang Qinghua). Mobei-Jun loses things with a certain frequency, which is why Shang Qinghua took as his personal job to catalog and keep safe everything the Northern Palace has and holds.

Mobei-Jun is flawed, in a way only real things are.

Yes, he’s perfect, his face is the most gorgeous view Shang Qinghua had ever seen, his body could be compared to the gods. And that’s only half of what Airplane had written so long ago.

It’s not in looks that Mobei-Jun is flawed.

It’s in the way he’s spoiled to the point of avoiding court meetings if he feels like not going, or how he tends to misinterpret everything going around until a poor soul — Shang Qinghua — has to save the day. It’s how sometimes, rarely nowadays, he treats Shang Qinghua roughly because that’s the only way he knows how to show some emotion, or the way he closes on himself when he feels sad.

Mobei-Jun feels sad a lot of times, and Shang Qinghua knows. Mobei-Jun feels lonely, Shang Qinghua can sense it.

They never talk about it, and they never talk about them.

Flawed, both of them.

Shang Qinghua’s ideal man would never hurt him, and yet.

Shang Qinghua’s ideal man would talk things out, would tenderly hold his hands and kiss his knuckles, would have apologized, would have said something after a terrible night of terrible sex.

And yet.

A firm hand nudges his shoulder.

“I know you’re awake,” Mobei-Jun says, with a hint of playfulness in his usual stoic tone.

It’s different, flawed, not what Mobei-Jun written by Airplane would say.

Shang Qinghua grins at him.

“Ah, my king, but your bed is so comfortable.”

Mobei-Jun hums in answer, and by Shang Qinghua’s position, he can’t quite see what expression he’s making. Shang Qinghua can only hope he’s grinning (in his own way) too.

After a few minutes of silence, Shang Qinghua decides he should be getting ready too. His schedule for the day is still uncertain, and he needs to get back to his own quarters to change and get presentable and then—

As he motions to get out of the bed, Mobei-Jun pins him with a stare.

“You’re coming with me today.”

Shang Qinghua has half a mind to not answer his king with yes, but before that, I need to tend to my own responsibilities, as, you know, all the affairs of this whole palace.

“Hmmm, sure, my king. Where?” He answers, instead.

Mobei-Jun only glares at him, as if saying you damn well know. And sure, after a few heartbeats, Shang Qinghua remembers their late-night talk. The lights.

“Oh? Are we going up north today? Like, really up north?”

There’s excitement, and fear, with a mix of curiosity, rising in Shang Qinghua.

How would it feel to travel to a place so far away, so out of context, that wasn’t even written in the original world?

Well, Shang Qinghua was about to find out, it seems.

“Dress warmly,” Mobei-Jun says, ending their conversation and quickly leaving the room.

Shang Qinghua doesn’t know how long he had stayed overthinking things for Mobei-Jun to get up and get ready so fast. But then again, it was a common occurrence.

With high-spirits — because of a well-rested night, because of the new things he will see, because of Mobei-Jun — Shang Qinghua picks up his stuff from the ground and strolls to his rooms to change.

✧

Shang Qinghua drapes himself in the thickest robes he owns, finishing his outfit with the one fur cloak Mobei-Jun had given him last winter. It’s a precious thing, made of such a soft, white fur, Shang Qinghua can’t even imagine what the beast looked like (he could, of course he could, he created it, the same way he created everything in this world), and it does its job properly, it makes Shang Qinghua feel cozy and warm and almost… lovable. It’s odd, but it’s what he feels. It helps that when Mobei-Jun comes to fetch him, the man (demon) quirks his eyebrows, a gesture that signals he’s happy with something. Shang Qinghua hopes it’s him.

But there’s no time to think about hopes and whatnots; they have a place to go and a mystery to solve. Shang Qinghua can only thank himself for writing Mobei-Jun with the ability to create portals, really, it’s such an effortless way to go through places. It would take weeks for them to travel to their destination.

And when the blackness of the void encircles Shang Qinghua, there’s only Mobei-Jun’s hands keeping him steady. He should be used to the portals by now, and he is. The only thing is that in the few seconds that it takes for Mobei-Jun to go from the Northern Palace to the faraway village, there’s just… nothingness. It takes less than a blink, but sometimes, Shang Qinghua feels like it takes an eternity, with only him and Mobei-Jun and the fracture in space and time. It makes him think of weird things, it makes him question what would happen if they never got out of it. But Mobei-Jun… he knows what he’s doing, and he holds Shang Qinghua close — always did.

Does that even mean anything?

Does it have to mean something?

There’s no time, no time to think because soon Shang Qinghua sees himself at the place where the ice meets the sea and—

They’re in the middle of a small village, covered in ice and snow, all white. It’s nothing much, it shouldn’t even be called a village, with only a few buildings here and there, made of white stones. There’s no street, too, just ice and ice. The few demons that see them all bow to Mobei-Jun, as they should, and Shang Qinghua is delighted to see their appearance. It’s different from everything he had ever imagined (written). The demons all bear an almost alien look, with a skin so pale it holds a blue tone to it; their hair, too, is as white as the snow they step in. And the horns! Apparently, it’s a custom of these demons to paint their horns in different colors — maybe depending on their status? — and so, beyond all the whiteness, there are drops of colors here and there, greens, reds, blues, and oranges.

If he wasn’t on a mission, and if Mobei-Jun wasn’t dragging him to one of the buildings, Shang Qinghua would stop to analyze all the little details of these demons.

But no time, no time.

A demon dressed in dark pelts and horns painted black greets them, his face is wrinkled, his eyes white, blind. His hands shake, and he touches Mobei-Jun on the face before humming and turning to Shang Qinghua.

What a surprise it is to see Mobei-Jun being okay with this.

And what a surprise it is when the demon touches Shang Qinghua, and he feels a spark.

They’re then guided to a room with a low table and jars of some kind of liquor. The old demon grins and tells them it’s because of the cold, they only drink this kind of stuff. No tea for the people of the icy sea, the old demon says.

At this point, Shang Qinghua understands that this demon is probably the head of the village. Still, everything feels off, not in the way this is a trap off, but more like I don’t have a single idea of what’s going on off.

The old demon talks, and his voice carries in the room like the waves from the sea. He says his people had lived in these lands for such a long time, they had never seen the strange appearances in the sky; he says it’s a message from the gods, that they need to listen to it, that the sounds it makes are holy. However, it does seem that none of the villagers were able to decipher the supposed ‘message’.

Throughout the talk, Shang Qinghua’s mind works. He asks some questions, receiving minimal answers in return, and he sees how Mobei-Jun seems half distressed and half proud of him.

It’s disconcerting.

Especially because he’s completely lost in here. What on earth could create such a thing? He doesn’t have any idea, mainly because he never wrote about such things. Would the System create threats of its own now that the main plot had ended? Was this the end of this story?

No, it couldn’t be.

Not when he hadn’t had the time to do all the things he so desperately still want to do.

Not when he’s still trying to figure out what he feels towards Mobei-Jun (but it’s love, isn’t it? A twisted, sick love that will never be returned.)

“They appear by night,” the old demon says. “So it’s best for you to head out soon.”

And they do. Mobei-Jun is kind enough to push Shang Qinghua up and divert him from all of his doomed thoughts.

✧

Night falls fast when you’re at the end of the world, Shang Qinghua notices.

He and Mobei-Jun stand at a cliff, with only the ice, the cold winds, and the raging sea below as their company.

Waiting and waiting.

And the darkness of the night, falling gently around them; Mobei-Jun’s mark, glowing, casting blue shades on his face.

And the wind, picking up.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Mobei-Jun speaks, turning to face Shang Qinghua.

He’s beautiful, perfect, his posture showing no trace of anxiety or worry, even in the face of the unknown.

“I – hm. I’m thinking, my king.”

Mobei-Jun huffs, “You always talk when thinking.”

Even in the harsh cold, Shang Qinghua feels himself blush. His cheeks heat up, and he turns his head to stare at the horizon, at the darkness.

He hears the crunch of snow, he senses Mobei-Jun approaching until their shoulders touch. It’s a small contact, but it’s something. It’s not like Shang Qinghua is afraid, on the contrary, he’s curious, anxious, worried. But never afraid, not for a long time now.

Nevertheless, he shivers. It’s the cold, of course. Not even his nice fur cloak can deter the low temperatures, and it’s fine, welcoming, in a twisted way. The cold always made Shang Qinghua relax (not much, but a little bit). Maybe that’s the reason he wrote Mobei-Jun as an ice demon? It couldn’t be… could it?

However, all his trembling is noticed by Mobei-Jun, who leans close and moves his hand to touch Shang Qinghua.

He dodges it.

“My king, no.”

“What?”

In the darkness, Shang Qinghua can barely see the frown, the angry glare, but he knows they are there all the same.

“I don’t want your spiritual energy, my king. I want to feel it, the cold, you know?”

If this is how it ends, I want to feel everything, he abstains from voicing out.

Hands touch him all the same, cold fingers tracing his cheeks, his jaw.

“Don’t be afraid,” Mobei-Jun says. “This Mobei-Jun will protect you.”

And oh, that’s really — that’s really not it. Shang Qinghua holds his breath so as to not spill all the nonsense he has been thinking lately. Mobei-Jun shouldn’t be this sweet to him, so caring, it wasn’t planned for him to be like that. And Shang Qinghua shouldn’t cherish everything Mobei-Jun says like that, no. His heart can beat as fast as it wants, he won’t succumb to feelings that were doomed from the start.

He shakes his head, stray strands of hair falling from his messy bun (it’s the wind, only the wind and not how Shang Qinghua is always a mess, and he shouldn’t be because this world is his and—)

There’s noise; it could be the wind, but it isn’t. He instantly grabs Mobei-Jun’s hand out of instinct; some kind of light reflecting on the sea below catches his attention, and he firstly looks at it, and then he gazes at the sky.

Shang Qinghua can’t help but blink a few times. Mobei-Jun doesn’t let go of him, instead, he whispers:

“Do you know what it is?”

How could Shang Qinghua answer him?

In front of his eyes, right in the black skies, he sees bright green and white lights dancing, moving, it seems more like columns of light, a fire, green fire in the skies, and it’s easy to see how this could fright anyone who had never seen it.

But it’s so beautiful, the beams of light flow around, turning white into green into purple, like liquid fire, like rivers in the sky.

Shang Qinghua’s mind gets a little confused about what is supposed to do — laugh or cry — and decides it’s best to do both.

He starts to laugh, hysterically, tears dropping from his eyes and blurring his vision, but he doesn’t want that, he wants to keep marveling at the beautiful view.

It takes seconds for Mobei-Jun to push him close and glare at him with that silly face filled with worry.

Ha, seriously… this is just too much for old Shang Qinghua.

He laughs some more.

Until Mobei-Jun is fed up with him and pinches his cheeks (lightly, always with caution ever since…)

“What’s wrong?” He asks.

And Shang Qinghua laughs, gazing back at the skies.

A message from the gods? This looks more like a message for the god.

Shang Qinghua had never written about northern lights, he had never seen them in person, knew the barely minimum because who didn’t know about those things?

What a surprise it is to see them appearing on his world, that maybe wasn’t his after all.

Never was.

It is a message, surely, it must be.

The green lights, the static noise. Mobei-jun still holding him, his blue eyes, searching.

A message, for this tired old god to rest.

“My king,” he says, grinning like an idiot, tears still streaming down on his face. “Nothing is wrong, this – this isn’t anything bad.”

“Do you know what they are?”

“I do, my king, of course I do.”

Who would Shang Qinghua be if he didn’t know?

“What—”

“They’re called northern lights, my king, totally harmless, beautiful to look at, as you can hm, probably see! Ha, anyway,” he begins taking a step back from Mobei-Jun. “It’s odd that they didn’t appear before, but no one needs to worry, they’re a natural phenomena, like, like… hmm, like rainbows! You know rainbows, right? Or… like clouds? They are part of nature, that’s it. I don’t really know how they are formed, though, something about the sun and this world’s magnetic fields? But then again… this kind of stuff isn’t my forte you know and—”

Mobei-Jun raises a hand for him to stop, and as a good servant (friend, family, lover, maker, god), he does.

“Those lights, they’re not a threat?”

“No, my king, as I was saying…”

“I heard it.”

Shang Qinghua raises one eyebrow at that but decides to stay quiet for the time being.

There are northern lights in the sky, and the world suddenly turned much simpler than it was.

There’s silence too, in between, around, inside them—the silence of many unspoken words.

But the world, and the way Mobei-Jun approaches him again, slowly holding his hand.

They stare at the northern lights for a long while, until all of Shang Qinghua’s tears dry on his face, until the cold becomes warm (because Mobei-Jun is stubborn like that). Until Shang Qinghua doesn’t know where he ends and where Mobei-Jun begins, connected, by only their hands but so much more.

Instead of looking at the lights in the sky, Shang Qinghua turns to gaze at the blue light emanating from Mobei-Jun’s mark.

He always thought he and Mobei-Jun were opposites. If Mobei-Jun was his ideal man, then he could only be better, stronger, prettier. If Shang Qinghua is small and frightened all the time, Mobei-Jun is tall and fierce. If Shang Qinghua always threw his own values and morals out of the window to stay alive, Mobei-Jun kept his loyalty and composure. Shang Qinghua is a servant (god); Mobei-Jun is a king (creation).

They should be opposites, even now, with Shang Qinghua wearing white and Mobei-Jun wearing midnight-blue.

But those aren’t opposites at all.

Never were.

In fact, it could be said they’re just mirrors of each other.

Shang Qinghua created Mobei-Jun — yes, with the intent to make the perfect man. However, perfection depends on the one who seeks it. Shang Qinghua created the perfect (flawed) man, who, in the end, was just like him.

And the thing is, the Mobei-Jun he created never met Shang Qinghua (the god), never experienced the tangled devotion Shang Qinghua poured to his king every day. The Mobei-Jun he wrote never saw the northern lights, and he never held Shang Qinghua’s hands.

That should mean something.

(everything)

“What are you looking at,” Mobei-Jun speaks, deep voice and glare and all.

“You,” he simply answers, grinning, probably grinning like crazy.

And Mobei-Jun shouldn’t look as shocked as he does, shouldn’t lean closer, shouldn’t—

“Qinghua, I—”

Their foreheads touch, and it’s warm (it shouldn’t but it is).

Closing his eyes, Shang Qinghua holds his breath.

The northern lights keep dancing, the wind keeps turning; the sea, raging.

But nothing happens, and the contact is soon lost.

“We should head back, my king, I still need to explain to the demons what the northern lights are,” Shang Qinghua says, breaking the moment.

There’s nothing left to be said, so they depart, leaving the cliff, the ocean, and the lights behind.

✧

It’s hard to explain to demons what the lights in the sky truly are, especially because he isn’t sure about the physics, astrophysics, chemistry, or whatever. He ends up telling a tale (another one, he’s the best at them, a god) of gods coming to this world to take a look at their creation, and that the lights are just a trail of their spiritual energy. They all believe him and bow, thanking him for his incredible, outstanding knowledge.

If Mobei-Jun seems to be holding a small smile of amusement, Shang Qinghua doesn’t comment.

He also doesn’t speak until they return to the Northern Palace and part ways on the corridor of their bedchambers.

There, Shang Qinghua stops and turns, only to look at Mobei-Jun doing the same.

They stare at each other for a few seconds, until:

“My king, I hope you have a goodnight.”

Mobei-Jun only nods in response, seemingly… disappointed.

Yeah, Shang Qinghua feels that too.

But beyond the frustration, he feels elated.

When he rests his head on the soft pillow of his bed, there are only images of northern lights and mirrors in his mind, and a dream of finally being free.

✧

Life keeps happening, as it always does.

Shang Qinghua is tired, as he always is.

And the Northern Palace is there, in its organized chaos, just like An Ding Peak.

There are meetings, court sessions, letters and scrolls, dinners, and candlelight. Ice and ice, and the cold. Robes made only for him, a hand patting his head from time to time.

There’s Mobei-Jun, always, constantly.

Shang Qinghua knows they should do something about this mess of a (nonexistent) relationship, but he can’t.

There’s love, timeless, unbound love. Precious and delicate, sick love.

A love that came from two lifetimes.

People used to say that love happens when you see yourself on the other. Some other people used to say love has no explanation.

If love just happens, then how Shang Qinghua can explain the sudden appearance of blue flowers on his nightstand every morning?

Blue flowers, frosted, to never wither.

With the blue flowers comes the memory of the ghost of a kiss that never happened, and the memory of a sky bearing a message and a piece of advice.

It’s hard to let go, but Shang Qinghua finally feels the possibility of doing so.

Mobei-Jun looks at him with those blue eyes of his, with a spark of something more. Mobei-Jun holds his hands sometimes, and he’s softly rough on other moments. He glares and growls and frowns, but takes Shang Qinghua to a frozen lake in one afternoon, and feeds him sundried fruits as if it was normal.

And Shang Qinghua… well.

Shang Qinghua thinks about blue flowers and blue eyes (and a kiss that never happened).

The freedom comes when he looks into the mirror and sees himself, not his appearance, which was always average, but him. Shang Qinghua. He’s not Airplane, and he’s not god, he’s nothing, actually.

He’s only Shang Qinghua, and the only thing he creates is a more functional world for his king and his peak.

(he does write sometimes, but that’s different)

Shang Qinghua is only Shang Qinghua, and it’s enough.

(it’s everything)

With freedom, boldness appears.

One night — uneventful, boring, normal night — Shang Qinghua decides to change courses. Instead of heading to his own rooms, he knocks on Mobei-Jun’s door and waits. The blue flowers held tightly on his hands.

Mobei-Jun opens it only a few seconds later, stoic face and all, but when he sees the bundle of flowers, his eyes widen.

“My king, can I enter?”

Mobei-Jun lets him, of course, silent and wary.

Settling down on the many pillows near the hearth of the room — when did Mobei-Jun install a fireplace in here? — Shang Qinghua stares at his king (his love).

“My king,” he begins, smiling softly at the way Mobei-Jun opts to sit beside him, the shadows of the flames dancing on his face. “Are you the one who’s delivering these flowers to me?”

In answer, Mobei-Jun only gazes at the frosted petals.

And Shang Qinghua thinks that this will be it, there’s no salvation, no talk.

But the flowers and the lights.

And all the imperfections of this perfect man.

“Yes.”

“Ah,” Shang Qinghua sighs. “Why?”

One of the biggest flaws of Mobei-Jun was the inability to speak, but Shang Qinghua always spoke for the two of them anyway.

“It’s alright, my king,” Shang Qinghua says, setting the flowers on the ground, just near the magical fires, so they can melt away the frost. “Do you think we can try again?”

A shift on the pillows, Mobei-Jun comes closer to him, their foreheads barely touching, a (flawed) mirror of another night.

“My king?”

“Yes,” he answers.

Shang Qinghua closes his eyes, smiling softly at whatever this is.

He feels it first on the side of his cheek, it’s cold, cold lips, touching him (kissing, kissing!) softly, tenderly. Then the lips travel to his forehead, his nose, and stay inches away from his mouth.

With boldness, freedom, melted frost, and shattered mirrors, Shang Qinghua closes the distance and kisses his love, with all the want and need and undying devotion he feels in his heart.