Chapter Text
The first time that Mobei Jun ever hurt Shang Qinghua, he had been so surprised he didn’t even notice his own tears.
It had terrified him — shocked him into complete silence, during which he stared up with wide, startled eyes. As the silence stretched on, the king began to look increasingly emotive; a strange mid between befuddled sheepishness and faint annoyance.
“Shang Qinghua—”
“You hurt me,” Shang Qinghua breathes out, staring at where Mobei Jun still has one hand wrapped tightly around his wrist. It twinges with sharp pain under the unrelenting grip, and he can feel his eyes stinging.
He’s not sure when he’d gotten to the point where he’d stopped expecting something like this to happen. He’d grown complacent. His place in this world is one of canon fodder, how could he have managed to forget that?
He tugs uselessly at his arm. His breath hitches when it barely makes a difference beyond bringing his attention to the heavy bolts of pain that travel down the appendage in response.
Mobei Jun frowns down at him, tightening his grip. The earlier cracking sound is repeated, less localized and more spread out like — like bubblewrap or something, and —
Shang Qinghua cries out, pressing his free hand over his mouth in a belated attempt to smother the sound. He’s too late, but thankfully Mobei Jun has already released his wrist and is now staring down at it with slightly widened eyes, as if he’s just realizing what’s happened.
Gingerly, the cultivator draws his arm toward his chests and holds it, fingers wrapping around his forearm a few inches away from where his bone has clearly shattered. He tries not to look at it, knowing that if he does it will only increase his panic and make him act out of terror instead of think rationally (an important ability, when surrounded by demons within demonic territory). However, his eyes catch on the red swelling, the awkward way that his wrist is unnaturally twisted despite his best efforts, and Shang Qinghua can feel his lungs begin to tighten painfully.
He jerks his eyes away from the injury and turns them on Mobei Jun, who has taken a step away from him now, but still stares, like he’s judging Shang Qinghua, and —
“You hurt me,” Shang Qinghua presses out, accusingly, and even to his ears it still sounds pitiful and shell shocked. He’s not even sure why he’s surprised, anymore.
Seriously, what did he expect?
He has to admit, if only to himself, that he’d obviously gotten too comfortable. This, this is the price for that.
Shang Qinghua won’t make that mistake again. He swears it.
He’s… He’s suppose to be smarter than this.
“Shang Qinghua,” Mobei Jun starts, standing a few feet away from him with his hands clenched into fists at his side? Is Shang Qinghua further delusional, or is that the color of regret in his king’s voice?
No, he’s definitely delusional. He has to keep himself from hearing things that aren’t actually there. It’s what got him in this mess in the first place.
“This one — I — ” Mobei Jun actually stumbles over his words, which is uncharacteristic of him. The prince’s eyebrows draw together in a rather severe look.
He looks pissed.
Shang Qinghua ducks his head down. His breaths are coming too quickly, and he’s started trembling all over. He must look truly pathetic.
“I - I need to,” he licks his lips, nerves alight with reawakened fear, “I need to return to An Ding, my king, b-before someone, um, notices I am not where I’m suppose to be.”
No one ever would. No one ever does. Shang Qinghua and Mobei Jun are both aware of that. Thankfully, his king does not comment on it.
“... Yes.” He says, and holds out his arm, elbow cocked at an angle. He’s not even looking at him, gaze directed flatly away and to the side. “This one will return you to your sect.”
Shang Qinghua notices how he doesn’t exactly say peak. He hopes desperately that Mobei Jun isn’t going to drop him off in the middle of Bai Zhan instead, as another joke or whatever it was, and leave him to the tender mercies of the Cang Qiong jock squad again.
Seriously, how had he let himself be so blind…
Shakily, Shang Qinghua inches forward, eyeing his king like a prey animal might a predator. Mobei Jun remains completely still, not looking in his direction at all. His arm is still held out in invitation, though, and he doesn’t look like he’s about to rescind the offer, so Shang Qinghua reaches forward with his uninjured hand and slips it hesitantly into the crook of the demon’s arm. He keeps his broken wrist tucked securely to his chest and angled away from the demon, just... just in case.
Mobei Jun pauses, gaze affixed to the ground. The line of his shoulders is tense, and Shang Qinghua can vaguely feel the muscles of his arm strain beneath his hand. He trembles, wanting to let go and stumble backwards, but then Mobei Jun is already stepping into the teleportation, and Shang Qinghua knows better than anyone how that goes if one doesn’t keep a good grip for the duration of the trip.
His feet slam into the wooden floor of his leisure house, and Shang Qinghua nearly falls to his knees in relief. It’s not home — he hasn’t called a place home in years, and that doesn’t even account for this current life — but it’s also not the demon realm, full of unknown and unpredicted dangers.
No, the dangers in Cang Qiong are well known to Shang Qinghua, and he can navigate them if he needs to. That’s what’s important.
But first, he needs to pay Qian Cao a visit. Hopefully they’ll take him seriously just this once, and Shang Qinghua’s wrist will not be sentenced to weeks of searing pain and rough, unprofessional DIY splints. His heart sinks a little at the very real possibility.
Then, it stutters. Because Mobei Jun still stands behind him when he turns around, and Shang Qinghua realizes he’d let himself relax far too soon.
He breathes carefully, in and out, through the fear. It’s almost like reuniting with an old acquaintance that you hadn’t realized you’d forgotten until seeing their face again.
He doesn’t like it.
Mobei Jun stands there, like an unmoving statue in the middle of Shang Qinghua’s Leisure House. It’s not an uncommon scene, really. But, for the first time in a long time, Mobei Jun’s presence here makes Shang Qinghua afraid.
He feels adrift, like he’s lost something important. Shang Qinghua is so stupid, for assuming anything in the first place. He should know better by now, shouldn't he?
But it’s been so long, and he’d let himself think….
He’s so fucking stupid.
“M… My king….”
The ice demon’s countenance seems to darken further, scowl becoming something fierce. He reaches a hand out toward Shang Qinghua’s face, and the cultivator flinches back in sheer reflex, eyes widening in the increasing panic that he’s desperately attempting to keep a lid on. Mobei Jun is making it so difficult to, however.
The demon’s hand pauses just before it touches him, in the wake of his reaction. Something sour twists at Mobei Jun’s expression, and he withdraws his hand, taking another step away.
“... Will return in a month for your report,” the demon prince murmurs, scowling across the room at the door of the house.
With barely a whisper, he turns on his heel and vanishes into a teleport.
Something unravels in Shang Qinghua shoulders and spine, and he falls into a crouch, staring unseeingly at his floor as he attempts to catch his breath.
He spends a few minutes like this, focusing on his own breathing, and the way that his lungs still only allow entry for a very limited amount of oxygen. There’s an uncomfortable pressure in his chest, and he realizes that there are lines of burning warmth that cut down his face. Did he scratch himself?
Shakily, Shang Qinghua reaches up his uninjured hand. Oh.
He’s crying.