Chapter Text
Shen Qingqiu is hungry, basically.
Mu Qingfang's mouth narrows into a thin line. "Yes, Shixiong," he says. "That is to be expected."
Shen Qingqiu lays his hand on his stomach. He's almost nauseous with the feeling. Bitterly familiar. He almost laughs.
"This condition is little understood," he says. "Most information on it is indistinguishable from folklore."
"Mm," Shen Qingqiu replies, barely holding his tongue.
"There are some symptoms that are to be expected. You may find you are averse to sunlight, and you may find that although you are hungry, food and drink may be…" he trails off.
"Thank you, Shixiong," Shen Qingqiu interrupts. "I believe I may have read the same treatises you have."
Not likely, Shen Qingqiu thinks to himself, unhelpfully. He might like Dracula, though.
Mu Qingfang nods. "As your physician, I would be able to personally provide you with—"
"Absolutely not," Shen Qingqiu interrupts. "I'm not—" He swallows.
"I can also discuss procuring goats with An Ding," Mu Qingfang answers, voice low.
"I just need a couple of days," Shen Qingqiu answers. "It's like a flare up. I just need a couple of days to get my bearings."
Mu Qingfang sighs, just barely. There are cracks in the facade, sometimes. Shen Qingqiu could feel bad about it, if he wanted to. "Without-a-Cure is a complicating factor in all of this, shixiong," he murmurs. "You are vulnerable to the effects of the bite and you are unable to partake in the only common cure because of Without-a-Cure. And now, any weakness caused from neglecting this condition will make that condition worse."
Comorbid, Shen Qingqiu remembers, venom in his heart.
"Bluntly, Shen-shixiong, your disciples tell me you aren't eating," Mu Qingfang continues, going in for the kill. "Now your diet is more limited, but it is all the more critical."
"I'm glad to learn my disciples' habit of gossiping was useful to you. I'm sure the frightened mob that overhears Yingying discussing her master's diet will agree, it's critical assistance in identifying the monster," Shen Qingqiu spits.
"You're worried about discretion," Mu Qingfang says.
Shen Qingqiu sighs.
The wind blows through the bamboo; the sound of it is a low crash. Shen Qingqiu closes his eyes. He's so tired.
"I agree with you," Mu Qingfang says abruptly. "Bedrest may be a wise idea."
"I'm not an invalid," Shen Qingqiu hisses.
Mu Qingfang's face is carefully, totally blank. It's comforting, in a way, to watch his own tantrum slide off the surface. This is when Shen Qingqiu realizes he's panicking. "Shen-shixiong was correct that rest may help manage symptoms, especially so early," Mu Qingfang says.
"Thanking Shixiong for recognizing this one's wisdom," he interrupts.
Mu Qingfang takes a deep breath. His shoulders settle. "I will also need some time to develop and plan your care." He says, eventually. "We can make arrangements to ensure your privacy, but they will take time."
Mu Qingfang's gaze is steady. "You are not an invalid. You are not a monster. You are my martial brother," he says, tone nearly stern, "and you are in my care. No one is intending to abandon you, least of all for an injury."
Shadows fall through the window. The crash of the bamboo, leaves rasping against each other. Sunlight, yellow-green of early summer.
"I'm so tired," Shen Qingqiu murmurs.
Mu Qingfang nods. "I will return in two days, with more information at the very least," he says. "I will inform your disciples you are resting and any meals and tea should be left at your door," he says.
Shen Qingqiu slides beneath the blankets. He curls around himself. He sleeps but does not dream. He hungers.
"I read the report from—"
"Shen-shixiong has requested my discretion in this matter," Mu Qingfang interrupts.
Yue Qingyuan visibly deflates in front of him. He takes a breath. "I read the report, Shidi," he says.
Mu Qingfang looks up from the scroll. "Shen-shixiong is injured. I am providing his care. He is on strict bedrest, with no visitors for the remainder of the week," he says.
Yue Qingyuan is very still for a moment, as if consciously tensing every part of himself.
"You read the report," Mu Qingfang says.
What he doesn't say: if you know what happened, you know what's happening. No, you cannot go bother Shen Qingqiu.
Yue Qingyuan nods, eventually. "Thank you, Shidi," he says. He leaves the room.
Mu Qingfang sighs and leans back in his chair. He pinches the bridge of his nose.
It was a long day (there's a bad well in a village not far; he's been going for days now, compounding medicine to treat the effects of the parasite; then, Shen-shixiong) and it is a long night ahead of him.
Shen Shixiong was already delicate, before all of this. Before all of this; plagued by something, some horror in his past that left his cultivation unstable. And then the deviation, and then—
And now—
Mu Qingfang looks over his notes— cattle in the village were dessicated, dry on the inside, with indicative puncture wounds at major arteries. Two human corpses found this way, by the time Shen Qingqiu and Liu Qingge arrived to the village. A strange grave, a black wolf in the woods. A strange bat, which bit Shen Qingqiu in the neck. When they killed it, it turned into a man, who hissed and spat, until Shen Qingqiu drove a wooden chair leg through its chest. No corpse left, just ashes. And then Shen Qingqiu had fainted, and Liu Qingge flew him home.
Liu Qingge. He rubs at his eyes. What a mess.
"Hells," he murmurs. Mu Qingfang rises instantly, draws his sword, flies away.
The bamboo house is silent and dark. No one is around to open the door or shoo Liu Qingge away. He wonders for a moment, stepping into the front room, if anyone is there.
If Shen Qingqiu isn't here, he must be on Qian Cao. Despite Liu Qingge's own best efforts, despite his training, despite discussion, Shen Qingqiu got hurt in the field.
His body had been so light and thin in Liu Qingge's arms. He had been so pale.
Liu Qingge turns to leave when he hears—
"Shen Qingqiu?" He inquires, voice low.
He steps deeper into the house, into the bedroom and—
"Liu-shidi," Shen Qingqiu murmurs from the bed.
He looks like a dark gem there, like a ruby set against black velvet, suspended in shadow. He's laying on the bed, leaning against the headboard. His dark hair is undone, clinging to his sweaty brow. His robes are loose.
"You aren't well," Liu Qingqiu says, as a matter of fact.
Shen Qingqiu shakes his head. "No," he whispers.
Liu Qingge slips into the bedroom. "You need tea," he murmurs, drifting closer to the bed.
Shen Qingqiu shakes his head. He leans away as best he can, straining against the headboard.
Liu Qingge pours water from the still-warm kettle into the cup by the bed. He moves to press it to Shen Qingqiu's mouth (he looks pale, feverish) when suddenly—
Liu Qingge is not on the bedside anymore; almost instantaneously, he is on the floor. The cup is out of his hand, his wrist locked into Shen Qingqiu's grasp. Shen Qingqiu is on top of him, his right knee pinning Liu Qingge's other hand and Shen Qingqiu's other hand— this is on his throat. Crushing him. He can't breathe. Shen Qingqiu is leaning over him, into his space. His hair has fallen over his face, over his shoulders, casting Liu Qingge into shadow. Shen Qingqiu's mouth is open. He is panting. Liu Qingge can't breathe. Shen Qingqiu's mouth is open, and his mouth is wet and his teeth look sharp and his is on top of him like a cage of iron, like binding cables like—-
"Shen-shixiong," Mu Qingfang says, and suddenly Liu Qingge is on the floor and Shen Qingqiu is pressed against the opposite wall from him, still sweating, eyes manic, mouth open.
Liu Qingge gasps for breath on the floor. Tries to get his bearings.
"Hungry," Shen Qingqiu says. His tone is strange. "Hhha— leave. Hungry."
"Liu-shixiong should leave," Mu Qingfang says, not taking his eyes off of Shen Qingqiu. "Shen-shixiong, I apologize, I have to take an emergency measure."
Liu Qingge picks himself up from the floor. He backs away, carefully, giving space, but not leaving. Something is happening. Something has happened. He can't leave Shen Qingqiu alone with Mu Qingfang.
Shen Qingqiu doesn't relax, but the tension in him shifts. "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry. Please—" He pants. His teeth are huge in his mouth— fangs, Liu Qingge realizes. They drip, wetly. Shining. Shen Qingqiu swallows, manouevering around his tongue. "Please just be quick."
Mu Qingfang quickly works his sleeve open, revealing his forearm. He pulls something from his person, Liu Qingge realizes its a small knife just as Shen Qingqiu shouts, "No!"
Suddenly, Shen Qingqiu is not against the wall. He is fixed to Mu Qingfang's arm.
Liu Qingge looks at him. Looks up at Mu Qingfang, who is still standing, with Shen Qingqiu kneeling. Mu Qingfang looks uncomfortable. Woozy.
"Liu-shixiong," Mu Qingfang says, "Shen-shixiong was injured while on sect business, as I'm sure you recall. He is receiving experimental care. Please be advised, he is on bedrest and is not receiving visitors at this time."
Liu Qingge watches for a moment. Shen Qingqiu moves a little, and Mu Qingfang's blood smears across his face.
"Ah—" Mu Qingfang gasps.
Liu Qingge shakes his head. "You need help," he says.
Mu Qingfang's mouth thins in a line. "I had hoped to have secured a different arrangement before it came to this," he murmurs, gesturing with his head to his arm. "I suspect Shen-shixiong may be distressed by this development."
Liu Qingge nods.
He thinks about Shen Qingqiu's hand on his throat.
He waits with Mu Qingfang for him to regain lucidity.