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Snarling, Mobei jun tosses the demoness's head toward her surviving comrades and watches their expressions morph into despair.
Normally, he would relish sensing their acrid fear in the back of his throat, picking them off one by one in their futile attempts at escape, but based on the hot, sticky weight of his robes, he has little time. The four demons still standing are quickly taken out with ice spears to the neck, and he spares only a moment to ensure their deaths before he clenches his fist, the shadows at his feet yawning open.
The utter frigidity of the space in-between, the non-existence that connects his shadow portals from one place to the next, is soothing on his skin, easing the burn of his injuries, but that demoness had managed a solid strike before he could end her, and he is growing light-headed even now from the blood loss.
He stumbles into Shang Qinghua's bedroom a split-second later, relieved when he hears a startled squeak from the other room. It is a very good thing the man is home; Mobei jun suspects that even he, with his body's rapid healing and strength, might struggle with this injury if it goes untreated for much longer.
"My king?" Mobei jun hears, then the door is thrown open, a disheveled Shang Qinghua blinking into the dark, an ink smear on his cheek and his hair falling from its bun. "I wasn't expecting you—"
A lantern flares to life with a spark of Shang Qinghua's qi, and the man's eyes widen, locked on Mobei jun's torso. "Oh fuck," he whimpers, rushing over, and Mobei jun allows his eyes to slide closed.
Shang Qinghua is here. He will handle it. The man's fingers flutter over Mobei jun's torn garments and the bloody gash across his right flank, speaking so quickly Mobei jun cannot understand the words, but he permits Shang Qinghua to lead him to the bed.
"My king, here, rest here a moment, I need to retrieve my…" Shang Qinghua dashes from the room before he finishes. Mobei jun shucks his robes from his shoulders and breathes through the pain in his side as he lies down.
"...always showing up in the middle of the night bleeding everywhere— My king!" Shang Qinghua cries as he skids to a stop, once more at Mobei jun's side. "Here, drink this tea, it will dull the pain and prevent infection, and I'm going to have to sew that up, I apologize in advance for the unpleasantness—"
"Shang Qinghua," Mobei jun forces out, his voice a rasp. "It is fine. Give me the tea."
Hiking himself up on an elbow, hissing at the excruciating flare in his side, he downs the tea in one swallow. It burns his throat, but he's already had that argument with Shang Qinghua and lost. Apparently, human medicine is more effective when delivered warm.
Mobei jun's interruption has managed to still Shang Qinghua's incessant babbling for a moment, and Mobei jun studies him through his lashes as Shang Qinghua kneels on the floor and paws through his supplies, features twisted in concern.
"Ah, there we go," Shang Qinghua mumbles as he pulls a rolled pack of needles from the box, along with a length of thread. With the dam broken once more, the patter of Shang Qinghua's never-ending nonsense washes over Mobei jun. Closing his eyes, Mobei jun wonders when even this, the sound of his servant yammering non-stop, became a comfort to him.
"If you'll excuse me, my king," Mobei jun hears from what feels like a li away, and a cool, soothing salve is smoothed over his wound.
"All right?" Shang Qinghua asks, voice tight with worry.
"Mn," Mobei jun says, a wooly thickness slowing his thoughts. "My thoughts are fuzzy," he adds, uncharacteristically, then blinks his eyes open in surprise. Shang Qinghua chuckles, nodding.
"The tea is probably making you sleepy. It always makes me feel like I'm a bit drunk."
Humming, Mobei jun relaxes back into the bed, sighing at the warm feeling of Shang Qinghua's qi as he sterilizes the needle. "So, what happened, my king?"
"Ambush," Mobei jun says, strangely detached. "In the southwest grasslands." He clenches his teeth at the first pinch of the needle. "Lead by that demoness you call 'Fivehead'."
Shang Qinghua huffs, continuing to stitch. "She would have had to catch you by surprise; she knows damned well she could never match you in a fair fight." Mobei jun is well aware of his own strength, but Shang Qinghua's faith in his abilities is pleasing all the same. "I assume she's dead, now?"
Mobei jun nods. "Along with the fools she convinced to join her."
"Any reason to think your brother or your uncle were involved?"
Mobei jun shakes his head, then nods, then gives up. His mind is syrupy slow; if there is yet another plot to untangle within his family, it is going to have to wait until he is recovered.
"Ah," Shang Qinghua says, soft and amused. "Rest, my king. We can speak in the morning."
Nodding, Mobei jun drifts through his bizarre mental fog for another two ke, barely noticing the prick of the needle or Shang Qinghua's muttered complaining. The entire home smells of Shang Qinghua, but his scent is heaviest here in his bed, and Mobei jun turns his head to press his nose into the strange, fluffy pillow Shang Qinghua uses to sleep.
With a small, self-satisfied hum, Shang Qinghua ties off the knot, and Mobei jun hears him settle to his heels. "Gods, what I wouldn't give for some tape," Shang Qinghua grumbles, incomprehensible, then speaks louder. "My king, my apologies, but I'm going to have to sit you up to bandage you."
Mobei jun isn't certain he is still inhabiting his body at this point, but despite his addled mind, he is determined not to miss a moment of this.
"This is my favorite part," Mobei jun hears himself say as Shang Qinghua heaves him into a sitting position. Shang Qinghua snorts.
"The bandaging?"
"Mn," Mobei jun replies. "Your hands on me."
Shang Qinghua freezes, jaw slack, but Mobei jun's horror is a more slow-creeping thing, curling in his gut before swelling upward into his lungs, his throat.
"M-my king?" Shang Qinghua says, high-pitched. It is a question, but Mobei jun has no answer for him, and isn't sure he could speak even if he did. A sharp, nervous giggle erupts from Shang Qinghua's chest. "That tea sure is something, isn't it?"
With brisk, efficient movements, Shang Qinghua begins wrapping the bandage around Mobei jun's torso. Unlike the previous times he has done this for Mobei jun, he is completely silent, and any touches are perfunctory and accidental. Clenching his jaw, Mobei jun swallows down his fury; it is not Shang Qinghua he is angry with, after all.
Shang Qinghua says nothing as he tucks the trailing end of the bandage in, says nothing as he scurries from the bed. Mobei jun blinks at the wash basin Shang Qinghua uses to scrub his hands, wondering when Shang Qinghua had brought it in.
"Are you able to stand, my king?" Shang Qinghua asks, his voice shrill with false cheer. "If so, I should change those sheets, there's quite a bit of blood…" Trailing off, he meets Mobei jun's gaze before looking away. "Probably not, huh. No matter, I'll handle it in the morning, once you've rested; that will be fine. Perfectly fine."
Typically, Mobei jun would interrupt his rambling with a pointed 'Shang Qinghua', but with mortification still clogging his throat and the foreign lassitude brought on by the medicine, he can't speak.
"I wouldn't be surprised if this is another of your uncle's hare-brained schemes," Shang Qinghua continues, carefully cleaning up his supplies. "Heavens forbid that man find something to do other than making your life a misery! I'll contact my people in the southern realms tomorrow, see if we can't find a money trail, or some merchant who chanced into a suspicious windfall—"
His eyes dart to Mobei jun. "Ah, that is! If my king requires my help at all! Of course you are fully capable of handling such things yourself—"
Mobei jun growls, because he is exhausted and embarrassed and just wants Shang Qinghua to shut up, to come back to the bed, to put his hands on Mobei jun as if he can't keep himself from doing it. Instead, Shang Qinghua scoops the medical box into his arms. "Do, do you need help to lie back down?" he asks, then grimaces at his supplies. "Let me just— Or, I can set this down—"
With a long, shuddering sigh, Mobei jun flops back to the bed, holding in a groan at the burning tug of his wound. Shang Qinghua, blessedly, says nothing further, and Mobei jun closes his eyes, listening to Shang Qinghua's scuttling steps as he leaves the room.
*
There's a cool, damp cloth on Mobei jun's forehead when he wakes, the watery light of pre-dawn filtering through the paper-covered windows. Shang Qinghua must be elsewhere in the home; Mobei jun can sense his presence, but cannot hear him as he would if the man were in the same room.
The desire to keep Shang Qinghua close—closer, always closer—is nothing new, but Mobei jun aches with it, today. Sighing, he pulls the cloth down his face; he misstepped, last night. Egregiously. Mobei jun's success in positioning himself as the rightful heir to his father's throne belongs to Shang Qinghua, and Mobei jun knows this. The man's loyalty is a singular, invaluable gift. He cannot jeopardize his life's goal for a dubious chance at love. He must not chase Shang Qinghua away.
Sighing, he tosses the wet cloth to the nightstand and yanks the light blanket from his body.
Beneath it, his torso is bare, his robes puddled around his waist where they have caught on his belt. His bandages are still white, which is encouraging, but his head hurts, his injury burns, and he's starving.
Making his way from the bed, he slides open the door, and his eyes immediately catch on Shang Qinghua, curled into a ball beneath a cloak on a large, well-cushioned chair. For a moment, Mobei jun listens, pleased at the slow, regular pace of his breathing, the calm pulse of his heart.
He imagines feeling Shang Qinghua's breath speed in his ear, his heartbeat unruly against his skin.
"Shang Qinghua," he says, clenching his fists. Shang Qinghua startles under his makeshift blanket, then sits straight up, eyes wide. His hair is a mess. "This king is hungry."
"Ah, my king!" Shang Qinghua attempts to say, his voice a croak. Clearing his throat, Shang Qinghua scrambles from the chair, nearly over-balancing. "Good morning! Yes, of course, of course, breakfast, I'll just…"
A yawn cracks his jaw, and Shang Qinghua flashes Mobei jun a sheepish smile. "Perhaps some tea first, my king?"
Mobei jun wants food, not drink, but there is something strangely endearing about Shang Qinghua's bleary expression. He scowls, seating himself at the end of the low table. "If you must," he allows, warmth stirring in his gut when Shang Qinghua grins.
"So generous, my king!" he gushes, then proceeds to stumble two different times on his way to the kitchen. Mobei jun turns his head to hide the way his cheeks tug up, an eyebrow quirking at the inventive cursing abruptly emanating from the other room.
"The only black tea I have is this earthy-smelling shit Cuc— uh, Shen shixiong brought by the other day," Shang Qinghua informs him. Mobei jun could not care less; tea is tea, and, in Mobei jun's opinion, a complete waste of time.
"Hmm," Mobei jun offers, content to bask in the easy way Shang Qinghua makes space for him, as if, perhaps, Shang Qinghua also finds comfort in their time spent together.
"Oh well," Shang Qinghua mutters under his breath. "Needs must. If I don't get some caffeine in me, I'm gonna be dead on my feet all day." Mobei jun's eyes narrow when Shang Qinghua leans his head back, exposing the soft line of his neck and the knot of his throat to the morning's gentle light. "I'd fucking kill for a cup of coffee."
More nonsense. Mobei jun has offered, in the past, to track down and bring this 'coffee' to Shang Qinghua before, but had been told—after the man laughed so hard he cried—that coffee could not be hunted and killed. Apparently, it is much like tea, which means Mobei jun has decided it is beneath his notice.
Despite his complaining, soon enough Shang Qinghua returns with a tray, teapot and two cups placed neatly beside it. Mobei jun's lip curls as Shang Qinghua pours him a serving.
"I know, I know," Shang Qinghua laughs, pouring his own. "You don't have to drink it, my king. But it would be unconscionably rude for me to not offer!"
Huffing, Mobei jun pulls the little cup closer, cooling it with a trickle of his energy. Shang Qinghua stares at him, an eyebrow twitching and his lips pressed flat.
What? Mobei jun is thirsty. Shang Qinghua can take his patronizing amusement elsewhere. The drink is vile, obviously, soothing to his throat and nicely aromatic, and Mobei jun waits several moments before pouring himself more.
"Do you actually like this?" Shang Qinghua murmurs, watching him. A tiny smile curves his lips.
Mobei jun has certainly had worse tea, but to say so out loud would feel like losing an argument. "Why do teas often taste like flowers?"
Laughing, Shang Qinghua shrugs. "I have no idea."
"They should not."
"Tea shouldn't taste like flowers? Or people shouldn't make tea that tastes like flowers?"
Mobei jun nods, taking another sip, and Shang Qinghua guffaws, startling himself. "Ah, my king, it always catches me off-guard when you are funny."
Mobei jun, as is typical, stifles a smirk behind his cup and does not respond. Everyone in his life assumes he is as frigid on the inside as he is on the out, and if Shang Qinghua discovers that Mobei jun deliberately tries to make him laugh, cherishes the honest, musical sound of it, is captivated by the sparkle in his eyes and the way his cheeks dimple—
"What would my king wish for tea to taste like, then, hm? The blood of his enemies?"
Mobei jun blinks out of his thoughts, ashamed. They should be discussing last night's assassination attempt. Planning a retaliatory blow to the demoness's tribe. Determining whether one of his family members set the plan in motion. Petulantly, however, Mobei jun does not wish to disturb the moment. He and Shang Qinghua so rarely interact in this manner, speaking simply for the pleasure of it.
Brow furrowing, Mobei jun decides to give Shang Qinghua's question some thought. "That is foolish," he says at last. "If I wish to taste the blood of my enemies, I will drink it directly from their bodies."
Shang Qinghua chokes, spraying the table with his mess. "Ah," he rasps, wiping his face with his sleeve. "Quite true, my king."
"I am still hungry," Mobei jun points out. He may be enjoying their conversation, but that is no excuse to ignore the needs of his body.
Shang Qinghua's head thumps gently to the table, his shoulders shaking with laughter. "My king," he giggles, "Either you are absolutely hilarious this morning, or I am slap-happy from only getting a shichen of sleep."
Mobei jun nods. "Shang Qinghua's hair is an embarrassment."
With an affronted sound, Shang Qinghua jerks his head up. "My king! You woke me from a dead sleep! I didn't see you offering to comb it for me, eh?"
They both go still, Shang Qinghua's hand clenching on his teacup. "Ah, my king, I apologize—"
"Shang Qinghua wishes for this king to comb his hair?" Mobei jun asks, careful to keep his expression blank. Suddenly, he has never wanted anything more than to drag his fingers through those wild, soft-looking tangles.
"My king, no, please forgive me, it would be utterly beneath you to—"
Mobei jun holds out his hand. "Bring me your comb."
A tea-kettle sound wheezes from Shang Qinghua's throat. "You don't have to—"
"Shang Qinghua," Mobei jun snaps, sending Shang Qinghua scrambling to his feet.
"Yes, of course, my king!" He launches himself toward his bedroom, his laughter tinged with hysteria. "I mean, why not, right? Makes perfect sense!"
Holding in a sigh, Mobei jun scoots back from the table to make room, then considers the placement of his legs. Should he remain kneeling? Should he sit in the chair? Before he can decide, Shang Qinghua returns.
"Are you certain?" he asks, soft, and passes Mobei jun his comb. His hands, now empty, wring nervously together.
"Mn," Mobei jun replies, pushing down his own nerves. It is nothing but hair. The future King of the Northern Desert does not get… flustered… over something so trivial. He looks up, meeting Shang Qinghua's eyes.
"Right," Shang Qinghua whispers, then flops to the floor, cross-legged, and turns until his back is to Mobei jun. Hardly daring to breathe, Mobei jun removes the leather cord securing Shang Qinghua's bun, watching hungrily as hair tumbles down over Shang Qinghua's shoulders.
He does not want to comb it. He wants to sink a fist into it and pull.
Frowning, he gathers the ends of Shang Qinghua's hair and begins untangling. Shang Qinghua, for his part, seems frozen, like a rabbit with a fox.
"Shang Qinghua," Mobei jun says, irritated. With himself and with Shang Qinghua. "Breathe."
Shang Qinghua laughs, quiet and reedy. "Yes, my king."
The tension is maddening, but Mobei jun cannot lie to himself about its cause. He should… say something.
"Last night," he begins, uncertain, and Shang Qinghua's shoulders tighten. Mobei jun stifles a grimace.
"So we're gonna talk about it, huh."
Closing his eyes briefly, Mobei jun pulls in a slow breath. He had held onto the smallest hope that Shang Qinghua would forget, or blame it entirely on the medicine. Thinking, he scowls down at the comb. "The tea."
It's a side-step, a misdirection, and he wouldn't even attempt it if they were facing each other. Mobei jun is not a skilled liar, and Shang Qinghua has always been able to see through him.
A breath huffs from Shang Qinghua's chest. It could be a laugh—or a sigh, perhaps. Either way, it feels exasperated. Suddenly, Mobei jun feels like a child again, being scolded by his mother for carelessly breaking her favorite hairpin.
"My king," Shang Qinghua says, carefully emotionless. "While the medicine may loosen one's tongue, it does not generally make people want things they otherwise wouldn't."
Apprehension coils in Mobei jun's chest, making it difficult to breathe. He returns to combing Shang Qinghua's hair, determined to memorize how it feels in his hands before Shang Qinghua takes it away, takes himself away from Mobei jun.
"That is odd, then," he finally forces out, and decides a distraction is in order. "You mentioned you believe my uncle had a hand in last night's attack?"
"Gods," Shang Qinghua hisses to himself. "Stubborn brute, always making me do the work—"
Before Mobei jun can reprimand him for his impudence, Shang Qinghua whirls around, eyes narrowed and locked on Mobei jun's face. "My king," he says. "Why did you agree to comb my hair?"
"Shang Qinghua," Mobei jun growls, panicking. If Shang Qinghua knows, he will leave. "My uncle—"
"Why did you want my hands on you, last night?" Shang Qinghua interrupts, and the sheer surprise of it blows Mobei jun's eyes wide.
"That's not—"
"Tell me," Shang Qinghua breathes, leaning forward on his hands. He's so close, Mobei jun can count his freckles, can smell the jasmine oil he uses in his hair. "Tell me what this is really about."
"Shang Qinghua," Mobei jun tries again, but his voice comes out strained. Obvious. His arms are shaking with the desire to pull Shang Qinghua closer.
"Surely my king knows," Shang Qinghua whispers, his eyes bright, his expression painfully hopeful, "that I would give him anything he asked."
Mobei jun was born to be a king; he is impatient, imperious, and greedy. And he has been waiting so, so long.
But this… He does not want to grasp this unless it is freely offered. "And if this king wants Shang Qinghua?"
Shang Qinghua, the beautiful, frustrating man, rolls his eyes. "Can my king be more specific? Because to be completely honest, I am terrified I am reading this wrong, and you are about to separate my head from my body, and my king, believe me, I am a man of many talents, but I don't think even I could figure out how to finish my paperwork without a head—"
The last, thin thread of Mobei jun's restraint snaps, and he surges forward, growling as his lips crash into Shang Qinghua's. It feels like a feast for a starving man. It feels like home, and Mobei jun never wants to stop.
"Ow!" Shang Qinghua yelps, slapping a hand to Mobei jun's shoulder and shoving. "My king, your fangs!"
Blinking, Mobei jun sees a thin trail of blood drip from the corner of Shang Qinghua's mouth.
"I'm not like, fragile, my king, but I am not as hardy as you; take it easy."
"I have been waiting," Mobei jun snaps, hating how petulant he sounds, but Shang Qinghua only smiles, bright and sincere.
"Then let's try again," he says, his hand coming to rest on Mobei jun's jaw. "Here, like this…"
The man is right, Mobei jun realizes, now able to take note of the softness of Shang Qinghua's mouth, the warmth of him, basking in the low noise of contentment vibrating in Shang Qinghua's chest.
Shang Qinghua's lips move so gently, his touch so reverent as he sweeps his thumb along Mobei jun's cheekbone. It is everything Mobei jun never knew to want.
"Better, right?" Shang Qinghua giggles, and rather than offering a response, Mobei jun drags Shang Qinghua into his lap. Ah, his cheeks are lovely when he blushes.
"We truly do need to discuss the ambush," Shang Qinghua says, though he does not try to get up, nor does he remove his hands from Mobei jun.
"Mn." On instinct, because he wants to, because he can, Mobei jun tucks a lock of hair behind Shang Qinghua's ear. "We can do so later."
Grinning, Shang Qinghua pokes his cheek. "And you still need breakfast."
"I am no longer hungry for food," Mobei jun responds, pleased when Shang Qinghua laughs.
"So spoiled, my king."
Mobei jun leans in, but Shang Qinghua turns his face away. Huffing, Mobei jun instead slides his mouth along Shang Qinghua's jaw, nosing behind his ear. "Ah," Shang Qinghua sighs, fingers tightening on Mobei jun's shoulder. "Perhaps just a little bit longer…"
"Mn," Mobei jun hums, dragging his hands down Shang Qinghua's back to rest on his ass.
"Mn," Shang Qinghua echoes, his breath hot against Mobei jun's temple, and, notably, does not find another excuse to complain until it is time for lunch.